A perfectly real question – what a woman wore underneath – started to prey on him, not sparing even the mothers he met at school when he fetched the children. With a new proficiency, he divided the women into categories so as not to bother eyeing those in tracksuits, those who dressed sensibly, or those who were too tall or plump.
Showiness ceased to offend him. If a woman emphasized something with what she wore – or didn’t wear – she must obviously have something to show. He rejected Megi’s comments – with which he had until recently agreed – that an attitude like that was crude and followed the line of least resistance. He was now a turned-on teenager and a self-confident man. To his satisfaction, there was no woman who didn’t feel this – even through layers of winter clothing.
When he walked down the street with Stefan, their heads now turned in rhythm: a woman – turn of the neck – another – a fawning glance – a chick in boots – aaah! The last remnants of embarrassment dissolved, and Jonathan rode the wave of spring that overtook the winter and set itself free from the shell of ice in a stream of smiles, glances and flutterings, until he felt a whirlpool of heat within.
“What is it?” he asked his friend once when they’d popped into a bar for a beer after the gym.
Stefan followed his bright eyes.
“An umbrella stand,” he explained.
“I wasn’t thinking about that. Are you having something?” Jonathan broke off because the waiter they called the Lion King, due to his mane of hair, stood beside them.
“All that exercise has made me hungry, I think I’ll have a croque monsieur.” Stefan flicked through the menu, undecided. “Or no, I’ll have a croque madame. Pour moi, le croque madame, s’il vous plaît.”
Instead of listening to Stefan who was telling him all about Przemek’s maneuvers to settle into a government position in the future, Jonathan immersed himself in recollections of the previous evening.
The lights on the sound system glimmered, music seeped slowly, the sound of horses’ hooves came from the window.
“Mounted police,” whispered Andrea and huddled up closer in the crook of his arm.
“They won’t find us.” He smiled in the half-light and kissed her hair.
The squeaking of trams and the distant wail of a fire engine woke him at dawn. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. He stared at the colorful stripes of the sheets, the books piled up by the wall, the navy-blue alarm clock, children’s drawings. He peered over his shoulder – next to him lay Megi.
He curled up into a pretzel. He was in his apartment – this was his home. He called this period in time home because during it there was room for his family, Megi, and Andrea. His home was large, sunny, and full of love…
The waiter placed a plate with a hot sandwich covered with minced meat in tomato sauce and melted cheese on the table. Jonathan, with difficulty, shook the recollections aside.
“…the option of going back to Poland.” He heard Stefan’s voice. “And then he might propose that Megi should carry on working for him. What do you think about it?”
“About what?” Jonathan drank a little of his beer, the pleasant coolness tickling his throat.
“Going back to Poland.”
Jonathan looked at Stefan as if he were intending to lip-read from now on.
“It probably won’t come to it, they’re only rumors.” Stefan patted him on the shoulder and bit into his croque.
“Based on what?”
Yellow ribbons of cheese stretched from Stefan’s mouth. The thought of cutting it from the croque flashed through Jonathan’s mind.
“To Poland?” He half stated, half asked.
“Mhm.” Stefan shook his head in all directions.
“Impossible.” Jonathan leaned forcefully back in his chair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Stefan nodded enthusiastically.
“Anywhere,” repeated Jonathan.
“Of course.” Barely concealed compassion appeared on Stefan’s face.
Jonathan leaned forward then back, and forward again – he rocked like someone autistic. Stefan pushed the plate aside and put his arm on Jonathan’s shoulder, but Jonathan brushed it away.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Megi thinks she’s running out of eye cream, Tomaszek’s voice is hoarse, the emails are piling up, and she doesn’t know where to buy the small celery she needs for a stock. Oh yes! And the dry-cleaners – she has to drop off their spring jackets. And buy some pretty underwear to surprise Jonathan.
The sun is shining over Brussels like a light bulb over the chaos of a bedroom, laying bare tricks of make-up and worming its way beneath warm clothes, making people rub their eyes and untie their scarves.
Megi enters Exki and picks up a sandwich labelled “Romeo et Juliette.” As she makes her way to the check-out she hears someone calling her. The trainee is waving to her from a table; next to her sits a long-haired girl. The girl turns and Megi sees it’s Andrea.
Something skips in Megi; her sandwiches grow sweaty in her grip. She doesn’t know if she should go up to them; in the end, she forces herself, even manages to say something. Andrea reaches for a serviette; her nails are painted a cherry brown, a color Jonathan associates with old hands. Megi has short nails with a touch of natural varnish. She sees now that they lack expression.
They leave together and bid each other goodbye beside a window displaying underwear. The trainee says something about the Spaniard. “Jacinto” – the name rasps on her lips with its foreign sound; Megi’s nervousness explodes in a torrent of hysterical giggles. She muffles them; it’s ignoble to laugh like that and she stops her mouth. She’s made a fool of herself; the trainee looks meaningfully at Andrea.
But suddenly Megi sees that Andrea’s lips are quivering. Or maybe she’s imagining it; maybe Andrea wants to yawn or say something. The laughter dies in Megi. The trainee walks away and, a moment later, Andrea also says goodbye. And Megi struggles with herself. She’s itching to call after her, to look into her face.
Jonathan felt guilty that he was sparing with sex with Megi so as to have more to give to Andrea. So for several days he fumed, waiting for Simon to get himself off to England, while Megi, in the meantime, was making it increasingly clear that he wasn’t devoting enough time to her. Initially, she was nice to him, cuddled up, and even paid him compliments – which surprised him because he’d thought that that stage in their relationship had passed irrevocably – and, although he was still blinded by his desire for Andrea, Megi’s fawning behavior had an effect. This led to a frightening emotional complication – he felt guilty for being tempted to fuck his own wife; in his eyes this equalled a betrayal of his lover.
Yet Andrea kept calling off their meetings. She wrote about an overload of professional duties that required her attention; her emails became rarer and rarer. Jonathan justified this by saying she was busy, but one night he woke up, needled by the thought that he’d jumped to her every beck and call, regardless of professional deadlines.
Again he was in the grip of jealousy and suffered like an old man riddled with arthritis. Lack of sexual fulfilment added to his tension. How he missed the feeling of satisfaction in his body, the delicious pain in his groin that came from screwing Andrea. Didn’t she miss it, too? The image of his beloved woman in someone else’s arms extinguished his joy in life.
He recalled their last meetings, searched for a place, a situation in which he might have offended her, said or done something untoward. He blundered on – for her sake. Waiting for stupid messages, suffering so much pain, uncertainty, imagining a younger, more attractive, better dressed, more successful… oh!