It was thanks to their conversations that Jonathan realized that, just as half of him dwelled in England and France, so his childhood was only here, in Poland. And Andrea had clearly understood that boy’s soul because she leaned over him before leaving, looked him in the eyes, and said, “Oh!”
After she left, Jonathan spent the entire day without leaving the divan. Images surrounded him like mock-ups; when he dozed off they became more tangible. From time to time, he picked himself up and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea but he couldn’t eat; not a mouthful would pass his throat, not a word.
That day he didn’t send her a text. She, too, didn’t write yet. He wasn’t in the least worried. Was it possible to exchange more than they already had over the past day and night? They were a joint, consummated dyad – mutual owners of each other’s interior lives.
The following day he got down to some writing but his thoughts were still tangled around their bodies. He tried to shift them on to the track of the Pavlov Dogs but they came back; light and fluttering, they flew above his dark head, over her raised thighs.
He didn’t phone home until three days later, when Megi sent him a message, worried whether everything was all right, whether he was eating, whether he was inspired, and whether he missed them a little. Jonathan felt a pain as though someone were forcing an extracted tooth back into his gum. He put his phone aside and, after a moment’s hesitation, phoned the children.
From then on, he talked to them every day until their voices ceased to sound alien. Finally, he started missing his routine – putting Tomaszek and Antosia to bed, reading them stories – and went back.
6
IN THE MORNING, Jonathan felt himself to be part of the Brussels landscape. He joined the flow of fathers and mothers and proudly led his two children, asking them about their day, smoothing down their hair, and gently pulling them along by the hand, weaving in and out between rushing pedestrians. Fluorescent waistcoats flashed along the cycling paths; with a briefcase in their front pannier, a toddler in the seat behind, parents hurried to nurseries and work.
Motorcycle headlights reflected in cars; someone was walking their dog; the warm September wind tore at tricolored flags suspended from windows. The people opposite waved to him. The older man, already in a suit, was finishing his coffee; the younger, in jeans and a pale T-shirt, was starting work later that day. Holding on to Antosia’s backpack as it slipped off her shoulder, Jonathan greeted various neighbors.
He rarely thought about Megi now. And when he did it was to find fault in her and blame her for the routine that he considered was causing their infrequent and poor sex of the past few weeks. He grew stiff when with her – not from desire as before, but from alienation. He was repelled by her naturalness, her fluids, secretions – everything that he adored in Andrea. He avoided his marital duty, angry at the world for having delegated it to him. “People are divided into those who are sexual and those who are asexual, and the latter rule the world. Or those who want to be taken as such,” he bridled. “They’re the ones who demand sex be kept out of sight, and when it shows shout, “Pervert! Whore!” ’
In the meantime, the Pavlov Dogs changed into a pack of unruly mongrels. A new element had crept into their territorial wars – the fight over bitches. Jonathan had planned to describe the laws governing dog gangs with greater insight, to sketch more clearly the characters of the dogs who survived by using the intelligence of tamed animals and awakened ancestral instincts. He wanted to describe how efficiently they terrorized the city but the only thing he thought about of late was making love; which is why the tale veered off course and Jonathan, happily enchanted by love, ceased to envy Andersen his ability to change personal failures into the sad stories of his fairy tales. The Pavlov Dogs leapt at each other’s eyes, while a certain supple bitch, that looked like an Alsatian, stood on the side, beneath a tree, and gave herself to as many dogs as managed to cover her.
Stefan pressed drinks into the hands of new arrivals, chatted, and turned lame phrases into jokes, marking his path with spontaneous outbursts of laughter. People were drawn to him, forming a buzzing crowd while he, the good host, kept appearing at the door to welcome more guests.
Jonathan had lost Megi in the crowd a long time ago and headed toward Andrea. As usual, the men had formed a circle around her, from which they emerged – capering knights – more confident, defterm and wittier than usual. Had Jonathan been himself, he would have stood at the side and watched but, when it came to Andrea, he had long ceased to be an observer, which was why he squeezed in between Przemek and Rafal and stared at his lover.
She smiled at him as she did at the others. She shared her attentions fairly with those to whom she spoke, thanks to which they blossomed like northerners under antidepressant light bulbs. Simon’s appearance disturbed the balance. In his brilliance, the brilliance of a bulb marked “authority,” the conversations grew heavier and bristled with facts. Those gathered in a circle now weighed their words, wrapped them in the cotton wool of phrases such as “I don’t know what you think but…”
When Stefan’s son, Franek, sent by Monika with a tray of canapés, stood next to them, an apparatchik with a strong French accent came to life: “Do you like the Teletubbies?” he asked the boy.
Franek looked at him, confused. He was too old for stories aimed at two-year-olds.
“Are you also in favor of censoring the program?” A journalist from a British newspaper turned to the Poles in the circle.
Przemek made an effort to laugh.
“We’re in favor of censoring what some of those in government say.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s an excellent publicity stunt, electing twins for the highest positions in the state,” jibed Simon.
“Isn’t one of them gay?” asked the journalist.
The smile on Franek’s face kept appearing and disappearing. He didn’t understand what was going on but tried to guess by the way the men spoke.
“Wasn’t he the one who detected homosexual undertones in kiddies’ Nightie Night?” the bureaucrat with a French accent enquired.
“Hello, Dr Freud!” The journalist raised his hands.
Everybody laughed. Jonathan gently pushed Franek toward some other guests.
“Interesting,” he mumbled. “My friends from Poland heard about all this from the BBC. There was practically nothing about it in Poland. The statement was treated like political folklore.”
“I bet your friends don’t read Polish newspapers.”
“Why shouldn’t they? They’re Polish.”
The journalist waved it disdainfully aside.
“So, how many Polish friends have you got? Two?”
“I’m Polish.”
The journalist burst out laughing.
“You are? So where did you learn to speak English like that? Oxford?”
Jonathan held the silence a second longer than was fitting then said politely, “In Poland.”
“You mean to say,” the bureaucrat with a French accent joined in, “that nobody there has heard about the proposal to take off the kiddies’ TV show because of hidden homosexual undertones?”
“Only those who read a tiny item stuck in the middle of the most trivial news from Poland,” retorted Jonathan.
“It’s not such a small issue since the whole world is talking about it.”
“Depends what the world wants to talk about.”
“But we’re not just making it up,” said Simon.