“Are we a couple of scout leaders or something?” moaned Megi the day before going back to Brussels. That evening her mother had taken the children to the theater, giving them unexpected freedom that they didn’t know how to enjoy. “We rush around dealing with everything, look after the kids, and fake a smile. What’s happened to wallowing in bed, eating mandarins, reading, making love?”
When they returned to Brussels, Megi ordained a real Christmas, as she called it. When he got back from the gym, Jonathan drew with Antosia and played with Lego with Tomaszek; in the evenings he and Megi listened to music or watched films.
“See how good this is? See?” Megi sat on the sofa, cracking nuts and radiating pride. She didn’t put it into words but Jonathan suspected she was finding it hard not to say, “See? It’s me who brought you here!” The theme of the New Year’s ball was decadence. Jonathan pushed the information out of his memory and on the morning of the last day of December bore the brunt of his wife’s anger as she claimed she had reminded him numerous times. Jonathan was shaving when Megi knocked and walked into the bathroom; and was still naked with only the white shaving foam on his face when she blew up.
“I told you, reminded you, called, warned…” Megi yelled. Jonathan didn’t say anything, just took sharper and sharper turns of the razor across his face until he exploded.
“You should have written me a note!”
“And what am I, some sort of mute that I’ve got to communicate with you in writing?”
Megi’s face reflected in the mirror was crooked, and Jonathan thought that this was not a good morning.
“You know writing gets to me quicker,” he tried to justify himself.
Megi threw her arms up and with a flourish rested them on her hips.
“Then it’s just like work! So maybe you can go there instead of me, eh? People send each other notes in the Commission, didn’t you know? So what sort of document am I to send you, white paper, yellow paper?”
“Best a non-paper,” he growled and leaned over the sink to rinse the white mask off his face.
Megi fell silent, and Jonathan thought how uncomfortable he felt standing with his backside sticking out in front of an embittered woman. He was gripped by an irrational fear of being spanked.
“But you do realize,” she said more calmly, “that something like that really does exist?”
He turned to her, water dripping from his face.
“What? Non-papers?”
“A non-paper is also a document.” Megi tightened the cord of her dressing gown. “Even nondocuments are about something. So, since I told you a hundred times to hire a costume…”
Jonathan watched her lips moving at great speed and thought that this was a battle he’d lost even before starting. Not only had he forgotten about the fucking fancy dress but he was standing here stark naked. On top of that there was nothing at hand with which he could defend himself. Even his cudgel was useless – hanging there pitifully, reflected in the mirror, as crooked as his wife’s face.
Andrea’s red dress perfectly summed up the theme of the ball and her derisive eyes were the best counterpoint to it. Following her with his gaze, Jonathan subconsciously noted the number of men doing the same and the vigilant presence of Simon, who had his arm around his woman’s waist. He looked tired and Jonathan almost felt sorry for him, but the redness of Andrea’s dress was the stronger force.
The sight and smell of his lover made him dizzy and he lost his guard; he got carried away talking to her, brought her wine, followed her when she went to talk to someone, or stood and watched as she danced. Her hips moved in the same lazy way when she danced as they had so recently when she’d sat on him. She danced and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight; he saw nobody else, only those swaying hips of hers and her twinkling smile. And even though he knew that she was smiling to herself as she always did when she immersed herself in making love or dancing, in his eyes the entire room revolved around Andrea.
At one moment, she stretched her arms out to him, placed his hands on her hips and they twirled, lost in each others eyes – Simon, Megi, and all others had fallen from the red orbit.
The redness of the dress washed away the contours but didn’t blur the picture. Martyna, her weasel-like eyes sparkling behind a carnival mask, drew on a cigarette as she peered into the room through the windows of the terrace.
“Have you seen Jonathan and Andrea?” she asked Monika. “What’s going on between them?” Przemek, wearing the costume of a Turkish pasha, nudged Rafal who was busy fishing out a piece of carp from the platter.
“Poor Megi,” lamented Martyna, passing Monika the cigarette lighter. “Maybe it’s only a passing fancy,” muttered Monika. Her corset kept slipping down so she had to grip the contraption and hoist it up.
The trainee who dreamt of opening a retro clothes shop stood in the kitchen doorway wearing the costume of an undressed pussycat. She attracted men’s attention but only until Andrea, dancing with Jonathan now, appeared.
“Has she gone mad, she’s got Simon!” The girl shook her head. “Perhaps she’s drunk?”
“Who’s drunk?” asked the Spaniard dressed as Zorro, struggling with a corkscrew.
“Pity poor old Simon,” mumbled Rafal, carefully turning the sliver of carp around in his mouth. He wasn’t dressed formally, having thought people weren’t really going to dress up. “She was always like that, remember?” The eastern ornaments clattered as Przemek shrugged his shoulders and scrutinized the table, annoyed that he’d tried everything.
“But who is this guy to make Andrea want to dance with him like that?” The trainee touched her eyelashes to make sure they hadn’t come unstuck. “He’s only some writer, Megi’s husband.”
“We’re going after the toast. I’ve got a flight tomorrow. I promised my wife I’d spend the weekend with them.” The cork squeaked in the Spaniard’s hands as he sweated beneath his cape.
“What a slut,” stated Martyna, stamping the cigarette butt out on the terrace tiles. “She hasn’t got any children so she’s making the most of life.” Monika blew smoke mixed with vapor toward the sky. The cork popped from the bottle and the Spaniard smiled roguishly beneath his moustache.
“A lot of guys have had her…” Przemek stretched out his ring-covered hand for a pickled mushroom.
“You too?” asked Rafal placing a carp bone on his plate. Przemekpasha laughed. “I don’t like furniture from flea-markets or women past their prime.”
“What are you staring at?” asked Stefan.
He’d just left the bathroom where he’d spent some time fishing out his monocle, which had fallen into the toilet bowl. He hadn’t noticed that he’d accidentally opened the door when leaning over the toilet bowl and now looked around hoping nobody had witnessed this nineteenth-century dandy’s humiliation.
“Sparks are flying between them!” Rafal put down his plate with what remained of the aspic.
“Sparks?” Stefan looked around.
The couple on the dance floor moved in an off hand manner that to them must have seemed smooth and graceful but to observers might have appeared obvious, blatant. Stefan carefully scanned the dancers and observers.
“They’re drunk, that’s all,” he snorted disdainfully, wondering whether to insert the monocle back into his eye socket, but unable to bring himself to do so.