Free Illegal Liaisons by Grazyna Plebanek Page A

course but again he was distracted by the recollection of how they’d fucked on the leather sofa in Andrea’s apartment. She hadn’t wanted to make love tohim in the bedroom and he hadn’t insisted – the smell of Simon might have had an adverse effect on his erection.
    When she returned from the airport, Megi sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the bedspread.
    “You know, my grandmother used to treat the marital bed with great respect?”
    “Your grandmother?” Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “That somehow doesn’t fit with her. She was no traditionalist.”
    “I told her once that a friend of mine from school was having an affair with a married man and they met at his place. And Granny replied, “In the same bed as the other woman?” And I said, “Granny. She’s having an affair with a married man. Do you understand?” To which Granny responded, “Yes, she is. But in the marital bed! Can’t they do it somewhere else?” ’
    Jonathan put his notes aside. Megi had started unfastening her blouse seductively – she must have seen the cock promisingly stiff in his trousers. She slipped her bra straps down but the more naked she was, the further he retreated into himself. He came, finally, despairingly, with his face hidden in her bust.

11
    T HE APPLES stood in a black bowl, their red skins gleaming. The richness of their color came from the rays of the setting September sun, which peeped into the room where Jonathan held his course. The stripes on the bowl spiralled to infinity and were as effective as a professional hypnotist. With difficulty, Jonathan tore his eyes away from them and looked at the seated group.
    Their international character reflected the variety of Brussels’s inhabitants. Of different races, cultures, descent, they all came from somewhere else; most of them were still en route. They had stopped here for a year or twenty; time would show whether they’d be able to give up further wandering and decide to set down roots.
    Jonathan pushed the list aside; he knew their names by heart.
    “Geert,” he turned to the gray-haired man dressed in a jacket with beige patches at the elbows. “I wonder why you write.”
    Geert blinked and adjusted himself on the chair; his wire-framed glasses made him appear concerned.
    “Why do I write?” he repeated like a child wanting to gain time. “Ehhh … That’s a difficult question.”
    “A bit like asking, ‘What’s your favorite book?’ ” The black British woman, Kitty, joined in. She was plump, her tight black curls swirled beneath a colorful headscarf; the green eyes set in a dark face were surprising. “I never know what to say.”
    “Nor do I,” agreed Ariane, an attractive German of over fifty. “Almost as bad as, ‘What’s your favorite color?”
    “Black,” muttered Geert. “Why do I write … Because there’s a story I want to write. Have to.”
    “It’s important for you, is it?” asked Jonathan.
    “Yes. Very … For me, that is, because I don’t know what …”
    “Why is it important?”
    “I don’t know. It’s hard to say in a couple of words.” Geert now spoke faster. “It’s important because in a way it’s there … That is, somehow I keep dwelling on it.” He looked helplessly around at the gathered group. “It’s the base on which I built the rest.”
    “The rest? Other stories?”
    “My life.”
    A steady tapping could be heard in the silence – a fat autumn fly bounced against the window. Thirty-year-old Jean-Pierre, sitting on the other side of the tables, sprawled out on his chair, frowned in concentration. The fly took off and collided with his bald pate.
    Geert sat with lowered head. Jonathan opened his mouth but Ariane was there before him.
    “I can understand that perfectly well,” she told Geert, who raised his worried eyes to her. “My story’s also got layers that I want to write down. My daughters say I’ve lived through a lot and am very good at talking about it.