Mona in Three Acts

by Griet Op de Beeck

  I hugged her, there in the arrivals hall. Perhaps because everyone does that there, perhaps because it was so odd, her suddenly standing there, in the flesh, perhaps because I wanted to show her how much I’d missed her. She was the first to let go.

  In the car she was relatively quiet. When Anne-Sophie was little, her mouth never stopped moving. She was always asking questions and telling me things, and when she wasn’t, she’d have a song ready to sing. Sometimes I thought she was trying to keep one step ahead to prevent anyone else from saying something awful, or having a fight, or doggedly refusing to talk. She became quieter in her adolescent years. Perhaps the trend simply continued, or the years of relative solitude have truly changed her. She was continually meeting people, she wrote in her sporadic emails—but does that cure loneliness, I always wondered, that fleeting coming together of people in transit? Perhaps her Dutch has grown rusty, she probably hasn’t spoken it for four years.

  “Are you coming in with me?” She smiles almost shyly.

  “If you want me to.”

  She nods, then presses the door handle and goes into Dad’s room.

  He knew she was coming. When I told him, his first question was, “What did Marie say?” and his second, “So she does want to see me?” And when I only said yes, he continued, very calmly: “Because she thinks I’m dying?” In all this time, that word hasn’t been spoken yet. I just sat there, but it was like I fell and kept on falling, like everything underneath me fell away, crumbled, unraveled. I told him never to say stuff like that. His reply was, “Just when I thought I could say practically anything to you.” Then he gave me a teasing tap on the nose.

  Dad is sitting there ready; there’s something ceremonious about it. Anne-Sophie goes over and gives him a kiss. If she’s shocked by the way he looks, she hides it well.

  Dad smiles and says, “There you are,” and his eyes become even smaller than they already are.

  “Yes.” She takes a chair and moves it closer.

  “You’ve gotten even prettier.”

  Anne-Sophie smiles.

  “Four years is a long time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you happy?” he asks.

  “Happier than I used to be.”

  Dad takes Anne-Sophie’s hand in his own, she squeezes it, then he lays it back down on the sheet. “But tell me, how are you doing now?”

  It’s strange for me to be here too, so I say, “I’ll just head downstairs.”

  “No, Mona, grab a chair and stay. I haven’t seen you for so long.”

  There isn’t a question but a request. Big sisters always remain big sisters, and this makes me happy, I realize.

  They talk a lot, mainly about all the things she’s seen and done. Everything that might potentially be problematic is politely sidestepped. Dad does ask a lot of questions, and I see that Anne-Sophie is pleasantly surprised.

  A good half an hour later, she hasn’t been here any longer than that, the door opens without anyone knocking. It’s Marie. She’s put on her new skirt, the brown one that almost reaches her ankles, bought with her cousin Gilda. Her white blouse is neatly tucked in, and the broach her mother gave her two Christmases ago is pinned just above her right breast. It even looks like she’s been to the hairdresser’s. She walks behind me to Dad, kisses his cheek, mumbles something by way of a greeting, and then sits down in the armchair at the head of his bed. Dad looks at me, glassily, as though he no longer dares to look at Anne-Sophie. No one says anything; the air is deadweight.

  “Hello, daughter.”

  “Yes.” As though that word is her lifeboat.

  “You’re back.”

  “For a little while, yes.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you’d like to stay at home, I can—”

  “No, I’m staying at Peter’s. He’s got a spare room and it’s not so far from here.”

  “Oh right, that’s good, yes.”

  After each reply, there’s a new silence, more painful than the previous one. Marie rests a hand on my father’s shoulder, something I’ve never seen her do before.

  Then Dad says, “Anne-Sophie’s had a really interesting time over there, haven’t you, Anne-Sophie?”

  “I’m sure.” Marie coughs, a fake cough from a throat that doesn’t need clearing. “And were you planning to give your mother a dressing-down along the way?” Something in her voice trembles. She must have resolved not to say this, not like that, and certainly not at once, but now there’s no escape from herself. She bites her lip as though she wishes she could take back the words. With the cervical collar, she effuses a new kind of helplessness.

  “I’ve come for Dad, not to argue.”

  “Fine, so I can breathe again, can I?” An awkward giggle follows.

  “It’s always all about you, isn’t it?” Anne-Sophie keeps stroking her hand with two fingers, she looks at Dad and then at me, a face that refuses to betray anything.

  Marie scoots her chair even closer to Dad, fiddles with her broach, moves Dad’s drip to one side. A large group of people, chattering noisily, walks past in the hallway. “What on earth happened? For you to become like this?”

  Anne-Sophie looks at her, and says curtly, “You. You happened to me.”

  Marie’s bottom lip begins to quiver. She gets up, looks as though she’ll say something for a moment, but then leaves the room.

  Dad’s face is frozen. The door closes on its latch. I look at him and go after Marie.

  I find her smoking on the bench where she always sits when it’s not raining. I look at the red glow between the V formed by her fingers. When the cigarette is finished, she uses the stub to light another one, her cheeks all sucked in, which makes her eyes larger. She has crossed her legs one over the other, the higher foot bounces up and down; if you didn’t know better, you might think she’d gotten carried away by some up-tempo music. Once the new cigarette’s lit, she feels around in her handbag for something.

  “Are you all right?”

  “No, not really.” The smoke circles her head.

  “Of course I don’t really know what’s going on between the two of you but—”

  “Lies,” she snaps at me. “I don’t know where she gets these things from. But well, apparently I deserve this punishment, apparently I do everything wrong.” I hear rattling in her handbag, God knows what she carries around in there. “No one cares about me, that’s the truth. I should just learn to accept it, right?”

  “But Mom.”

  “No, don’t ‘but Mom’ me. Do you really think I’m stupid?”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Oh. You don’t get it? ‘You can’t go in, there’s a nurse in with him.’” Marie imitates me. “A nurse.” She looks at me. “Do you think I really didn’t know who she is?”

  I almost die of shock. She looks away again, at two little girls wearing matching dresses chasing each other in circles. She gets out a handkerchief, gives me her cigarette to hold as she blows her nose. I grip it between my thumb and index finger, the bit where the ash isn’t burning and where her mouth hasn’t been.

  “Does Dad know?”

  “Oh, Dad, of course. It’s only ever about Daddy. No, I haven’t said anything. What would be the point?” She takes a third cigarette from the pack, sees the burning cigarette in my hand, and throws the new one over her shoulder. A black dog with a square head comes sniffing over to her, trots past the bench, and presses its nose to her leg. “Hey, boy, where’s your owner? Shouldn’t you be on a leash?” She strokes its ears and it looks grateful. “Sweet dog, you like that, don’t you, me taking care of you, you like that, don’t you?” A man whistles twice, the animal reacts at once and walks off without looking back. “You should go back up and let me know when Anne-Sophie’s done. Then I can sit with Daddy for a while,” she says.

  “I’m sorry about—”

  “Yes, yes,” Marie says.

  30

&nbs
p; He smells of Calvados and cigars at four in the afternoon. He’s sitting on our deck, staring into the distance. A Louis not doing anything, that’s a sight I rarely get to see. I give him a kiss.

  “Everything OK here?”

  “No.” He stares listlessly at the plant with the incredibly complicated flowers, a gift from Marie.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Writing. I think I’m going to have to throw away the entire manuscript, it’s so bad.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  He shrugs.

  “You’re a major writer, it’s just a dip.”

  “It’s not,” Louis says, suddenly decisive.

  “Want me to read it?”

  “No, I’m too embarrassed.”

  “But—”

  Louis shakes his head. “Sometimes I think I’ve lost it, or it’s run out, or something.”

  There’s a silence. I look at him.

  “I wish you could see yourself the way I do. I love reading your writing, always. Honestly.”

  “Yes, but you like me.”

  “Sometimes I do.” I smile. “I thought you were a great writer before I met you, so. That’s even one of the things that attracted me to you, I think.”

  “You’re sweet.” He makes it sound almost pitying.

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “Me too,” he says then. In his gaze: black sheep, plumes of smoke, and screaming. This isn’t the Louis I know, the man who’s always able to deflect all self-doubt. The way he’s sitting there now, so lost, really affects me.

  “I believe in you, totally and completely. Does that help?” He just smiles weakly, but I persist. “Shall we go out? Do something fun? A change of scenery might change your state of mind.”

  He shakes his head. “Let me sit here a while. It’ll be all right. I hope.”

  I look at him. I fetch the bottle of Calvados and an extra glass, top his up, and then pour one for myself. I see us sitting there, both doubting our own capabilities, worrying about what to do, even though his concerns are unjustified. Heads are closed spaces, I’m afraid.

  31

  Then Louis puts down his knife and fork and simply asks her, “What exactly happened between you and Marie?” Anne-Sophie is all eyes and hair behind her large glass of red wine. “Do it for literature, for this poor man who has to create worlds in isolation while, in real life, things happen that he would never be able to invent.” Classic Louis, this. The whole evening we’ve been talking about all kinds of stuff, everyone has been trying to put Anne-Sophie at ease, and then he does this. Louis, a master of elusiveness, the man who in the same situation would employ his entire arsenal of words in order not to have to answer. Anne-Sophie looks at him. “A good story and my belief in my writing career may remain intact if you do your good deed for the week. Here’s your chance.” Louis grins.

  “If Anne-Sophie would rather not talk about it, that’s her right.” Charlie licks her knife.

  “But you can tell us everything if you feel the need, I hope you know that,” Alexander adds.

  Anne-Sophie folds in her lips until it looks like she doesn’t have a mouth. Her large eyes are just slightly too far apart to be really beautiful, but it makes her gaze all the more piercing.

  “I think . . .” Her voice rises, then pauses.

  Let it come, I think. It will do you good.

  Then the waiter arrives to clear away our plates; he’s neither fast nor dexterous. Anne-Sophie falls silent. I look around: two people sitting opposite each other in silence, a man helping a woman into her coat, the drawer of the cash register pops open, someone behind the bar has five glasses in one hand, the man in that group of six looks like he’s been out of it for quite some time. And then the sauce of sounds on top of everything, in stark contrast with the silence at our table. When the waiter finally disappears with his hands full of plates, we all turn toward her.

  “It’s—I don’t want—” Then she stands up and goes toward the bathroom, serenely, without drama, not a tear to be seen.

  “Well done,” I say to Louis.

  “What do you mean? I only asked what everyone’s wanted to know for the past four years.”

  “Should we go after her?”

  “I’d leave her,” Alexander replies.

  My sister is so different from the enthusiastic, chatterbox infant I carried all around the house. I hope that it helps her, all that hiding, and I hope even more that she doesn’t have to put on her suit of armor in that far-off country.

  Ten minutes later she sits back down. She looks at her plate and says very collectedly, “I can’t talk about it, or I don’t want to, I can’t really tell which. Maybe I will later, at some point.”

  “Of course,” Charlie says.

  “Please tell me about your lives. I’ve got so much catching up to do.”

  What a shame, I see Louis thinking—for all the wrong reasons, I’m sure.

  32

  “Ouch,” Louis says at the weak applause, “and for an opening night.” He adopts his calamitous face.

  The actors wave and gesture to Marcus to come forward, as though he might need an invitation. He walks over, hugs them, and takes a deep bow, hand on his heart, as though wild applause has broken out. It’s a bit painful to watch, but people begin to clap a little louder. Two girls come up with flowers; he kisses the one who hands him a bouquet, full on the lips. They’re all able to come back onstage just one more time, then the applause dies out. The polite minimum on an opening night like this is three.

  We shuffle toward the foyer. We press forward in the throng moving slowly toward the free drinks. The concentrated smell of all that life imposes itself. Thirsty, I think. I look around for the first time in ages at this beautiful theater of old, the place I love so much, and now I’m lost here. I considered not coming, like Nathan, but I’m still the company’s dramaturge, and there are other productions I am working on, so.

  Louis cranes his neck to see how much farther we have to shuffle along. “You were completely right, it was a hopeless play. And there was that strange bit about twenty minutes in.”

  “They must have cut a large chunk out there after I left.”

  “That’s why it’s impossible to know what the hell’s going on. Proof of how important the dramaturge is, right?” Louis smiles at me. “Red or white?” He points at the glasses standing ready.

  “Red. The white here’s undrinkable.”

  Louis takes two glasses from the high table and installs himself at a spot by the bar that just about everyone will have to walk past.

  “Can’t we stand more to the side?”

  “Why?”

  “Louis.”

  “It was stupid of you to make such a fuss about a dead horse, I still think that, but that’s no reason to hide away as if you embezzled production money to buy expensive shoes or something, huh? You had a difference of artistic opinion with the director, you two can solve that, you’re adults.” Life is simple for Louis.

  “Just do it for me,” I say, but now Fred, a film director Louis knows well, has come up to us. Louis turns to him immediately and says something that makes Fred laugh. His night has begun now. That’s the way it always goes with us: him on one side of the room, me on the other. At some point, we decided that was normal.

  The cast will arrive in a minute too, after a toast backstage. It’s the first time I’m not with them. Out of all of them, Frank’s the only one who has told me it was a shame I wasn’t there anymore. Frank’s a sweet kid. Nathan hasn’t heard from anyone, he told me on the phone. He sounded weak when he said that.

  I see a lot of people I know; I try to figure out whether they’re looking at me differently, maybe the story of my incompetence and Marcus’s grandiose speech about the emptiness of my dramaturgical existence has already made the rounds, but no one looks at me. As the thoughts wheel around my head, I feel a sudden tap on my shoulder. Marcus, in a smart suit, sunglasses in his breast pocket, giving me a
challenging look.

  “Well? What did you think?”

  I want to walk away, blow away, fade away. I shrug and smile apologetically.

  “I’ve heard some great responses from people with brains and good taste. Wait until the general public sees this, they’re going to go crazy.”

  “I’m glad you’re so confident, Marcus.” I try not to make it sound cynical.

  “Say, Mona. I want to talk to you. Can you be in Tamar’s office around midday tomorrow?”

  Tamar is the HR manager, you don’t have informal chats in her presence.

  “Are you firing me?”

  Marcus loses his countenance for a moment, or perhaps I just hope that. “I wanted to deal with it the right way, take the time, but fine, if you’re asking to know now, if right now is necessary for you. Do you know what your problem is, Mona? You’re not an original thinker, you don’t have a big personality. You’re like a chameleon and chameleons can never be artists. And it’s simple, I realized it over the past few days. I want to work with artists, even those in a questionable role like that of dramaturge.”

  It’s like a pickup truck is dumping a few tons of sand on top of me. “And you’ve only just discovered this? After all these years?”

  “You’re a sweet girl, Mona, but we’re not a charity, are we? I want people around me who inspire me, drive me on, make me wild, challenge me. You get that, right?”

  I stand there staring at him without moving. I’m a cloud of dust in the distance, a blind bend, a rut in the road.

  “So, just let it sink in. Tamar will be expecting you tomorrow.” He stands there as though waiting for meaningful last words. All I can think is: I’d rather he’d launched into one of his unreasonable tirades, made a scene, fired me right away in rehearsal. He plucks a glass from a tray and takes a few sips. I don’t want to cry, not with this man, here, at this launch party where everyone is looking their best. “How is your father, by the way?”

  “Ah, you know,” is all I say.

  “I’m not thrilled that the decision had to be made now. I know the timing isn’t great for you, but hey.”