CHAPTER 5

Jacqueline

I pushed open the heavy door of the Drug Opera—a café near the Grand’Place—and scanned the room. Nothing but the usual crowd of ladies feasting on tea, coffee, and pastries. When I first set eyes on the name, my reaction was “Wow! Mozart on mushrooms!” As it turned out, the café was as close to a stately British tearoom as you could get this side of the Channel. The name came from a truncated version of drugstore—the Belgians had been infatuated with American movies from the fifties with drugstores selling milkshakes and ice-cream sundaes abounded—and since it was located on a street adjacent to the Place de l’Opéra, thus the name Drug Opera.

I stepped aside for a couple leaving the café. She was wearing a loose white blouse over jeans, buttoning a hip-length blue sweater as she walked. He was in a turtleneck, with a baby strapped to his chest. The baby was still in the blob phase. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy or a girl, and since Europeans had long ago abandoned the pink-for-girls blue-for-boys that, according to Gali, still prevailed in the States, I got no clue from the baby’s clothing. As I stood and watched, the woman placed a bright blue woolen hat appliquéd with an orange elephant on her child’s head. They both looked down on the little thing with pure adoration. My heart stuck in my throat. The father caught my eye and smiled. “Look what we made,” his smile seemed to say. I smiled back. He put his arm around his wife and they left.

“I just hate overt public displays of affection,” a voice behind me said. “Those three ought to get a room.”

“David,” I giggled. “Shh. They might speak English, you know. Most people do these days.”

“It’s becoming impossible to be snide in public. Saps the fun out of life.” He always managed to look hip and urban despite his shoestring budget. Though he probably spent more than the average woman at the hair salon for the upkeep of his precision cut.

We grabbed the table just vacated by the young family, a choice spot by one of the mullioned windows, which at one time probably looked out on aristocrats in horse-drawn carriages clopping by on the cobblestones. I wondered if my parents had ever come here when they were dating.

He pulled out his cigarettes.

“David.” I pointed to the NO SMOKING sign.

He sighed. “You know the old joke though, don’t you? Why did the smoker cross the road? Because the nonsmoker told him not to.”

“Tell it to the Belgian government. That is, if we have one right now. Do we?” I picked up a menu.

“Not sure. Pretty soon, it’s going to be as bad here for smokers as it is in America. I might as well go back.”

“You’d hate it there. Men don’t dress.” Shoshanna, my best friend and tenant, was standing beside our table, removing her coat.

“Why straight American males have an aversion to dressing well is beyond me,” he said.

“There is that whole metrosexual trend that might work for you,” I said.

“I hate that word. Makes it sound like you only have sex in subways.”

Shoshanna slid in next to me. “Soon it’ll be no more booths for me.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to give birth to the Incredible Hulk.” She was wearing a soft, midnight blue tunic over gray leggings, the fabric stretched across her belly. Her frizzy hair surrounded her round face like a halo. “I’ve been craving croque-monsieur for days. With a side of frites. And mayo.”

“Sho, what would the rabbi say?” I nudged her.

“The rabbi would long ago have dropped dead from the shock. I’m about as Jewish as Grey Poupon mustard is French. Let’s order, I’m starving.” She scanned the room.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson and this is the last one,” said David. “Some women bloom when they’re pregnant, you on the other hand, wilt.”

“Nope, I’m just gonna keep poppin’ them out as long as it keeps working.” She caught the eye of a waiter and lifted her hand.

“You’re kidding. You’re not even Catholic,” said David.

“Yeah, I am exaggerating a bit. We’re thinking one more. Even numbers. If I survive this one.”

“Makes sense,” I said. I straightened the menus into a neat stack.

The waiter came over for our orders. Shoshanna’s choice didn’t even make him blink. I ordered the tomates-crevettes.

“Filet américain,” said David.

“You only order that because you enjoy saying it,” I said.

“Filet of American, what’s not to like? Same reason I come here, it’s all about the name.”

“You realize you have the emotional maturity of a preadolescent boy,” said Shoshanna.

“At least I don’t dress like one. Shoshanna, when you have four, isn’t it going to get a bit crowded in that apartment?”

“Oh, yeah. About that.” She put a hand on my forearm.

I looked at her pretty red nails. “Let’s not have this conversation.”

“Jacqueline, please?”

I’d known this day would come. Shoshanna and her husband, Josh, had been my tenants since we moved in. With two kids, it was already a bit tight. Though my head told me it wasn’t viable for her to keep living there, my heart was stubborn.

“We won’t go far.”

“Has one of the houses next door gone up for sale?” I made a tidy pile out of the cardboard coasters and set them to the side.

“It’s not as if we were back to the States.”

Both David and I looked at her, horrified.

“Bite your tongue,” he said.

“It sounds as if you already have a plan.” Please, not outside the city.

“We found a small house with a garden in a great neighborhood.” She waved her hands as if she could conjure up a vision to show us.

“In Brussels? Sounds like it could only be Boisfort.” Clear across the city.

She shook her curls and mumbled something.

“I didn’t quite catch that,” I said.

She cleared her throat. “Rixensart.”

Rixensart was a charming village complete with castle, about twenty minutes from the outskirts.

“We haven’t seen the notaire yet. But it’s a perfect house for us.” Her cheeks were pink, whether with emotion, excitement, or hormones, I didn’t know.

Our lunches arrived. I focused on the tomatoes stuffed with tiny shrimp. They didn’t taste as fresh and briny as usual. But I ate every morsel. I reached for my glass of sparkling water. A warm hand stopped me.

“This is hard for me, too. I don’t know how I’m going to survive without you.” There were tears in her voice.

“I know.” My voice was thick. Then the actress in me took over. “This is a colossal mistake you know.”

She sighed. “Josh really wants this for the kids. Fresh air, great schools—”

“—snobby neighbors, no culture, nothing to do in the evening, no me,” I finished.

Her face crumpled. What was I doing? Upsetting my pregnant best friend. Lovely. I should receive an award for outstanding strides in the field of empathy. I forced a smile. “I get it. But mark my words, you’ll be back. Let’s order dessert. I’m in the mood for a dame blanche.” I picked up the dessert menu.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this hungry,” said David.

I smiled, feeling like a cat that found a leak in a vat of cream.

Shoshanna’s eyes widened. “Unless . . .”

I giggled.

“Oh my God,” she squealed.

“Don’t squeal, darling. It’s unbecoming,” said David. He looked at Shoshanna, then at me. A slow grin spread across his features. “I want first dibs on godfather. Or at the very least, eccentric uncle.”

“This would be the perfect time for David to move in.” Shoshanna’s eyes were dancing.

“I don’t think David is the change-the-poopy-diaper type. It would cramp his style.” I wasn’t even sure I was the change-the-poopy-diaper type.

“You underestimate me. Story of my life.” He raised his glass of Perrier.

 

After purchasing some early Christmas presents for my nieces, I went home and focused on preparing the weekly meal for my family.

I laid a freshly pressed light gold tablecloth over the surface protector on my dining-room table, set out the good dishes and russet-colored cloth napkins, followed by three glasses per person: one for water, sparkling and still; one for white wine; and one for red, though we wouldn’t open the Bourgogne until the cheese.

Mamy Elise and my aunt and uncle were getting older. They deserved to be pampered.

By the time Laurent arrived with my grandmother, I was ready. I was wearing a simple wraparound knit dress and the gold earrings Laurent had given me for my birthday.

Mamy came in looking splendid as usual and smelling lightly of Chanel No. 5.

“Bonjour petite,” said my grandmother. I kissed her cheek, marveling as usual at the softness of her skin. She was elegant in a soft blue suit that brought out her eyes. She removed the hat from her head and readjusted her scarf. Her hair was freshly washed and set, her lipstick fresh. Just like my mother, Mamy Elise was the personification of coquette.

“Tu es belle en robe,” she said. My grandmother liked women to wear dresses, to look like women. Couldn’t abide slopping around in shapeless pants and wasn’t too crazy about jeans either. Here stood a woman who had survived a major world war and the occupation of her country, had lost her husband to the Nazis, raised her three girls on her own, and made sure they stayed in school.

And through it all, the poverty and the ease that came after when the government gave generous pensions to the widows of slain political prisoners as “réparation,” she had never let herself go, kept her house sparkling clean, and had always kept food—good food—on the table. If Maman had begun my education as a woman, Mamy taught me what it was to be a strong one. Grad school for life.

I was happy to spoil her once a week.

“It smells delicious.” Her gaze swept over my immaculate living room.

Laurent came down in jeans and a gray shirt. “I’ll get the apéritif. Porto?” he asked my grandmother. She beamed at him.

I followed him to the kitchen. “She’s still absolutely in love with you.”

“And right she is to be.” He left the kitchen with the glass-and-bottle-laden tray I’d prepared.

The doorbell signaled the arrival of my aunt and uncle.

The dinner was a copy of our weekly Monday meal. My uncle, Gérard, kept us laughing with his usual batch of off-color jokes and we shared stories of the past week, eating the food I’d prepared, embraced in the soft candlelight.

My aunt, a sparrow of a woman, loved to talk about the past.

“Your mother and father,” she said, “were fearless, full of life. Always looking for a new adventure. He owned a beautiful car, but here in the city, they spent their time dashing around on their little Vespa, even after the accident. Nothing could stop your mother. Everyone wanted to be them.”

“That’s how they ended up in America,” said my uncle. He shook his silver head. “They tried to convince us to follow them, but . . .”

“It wasn’t for us. We belong here.” She looked fondly at Mamy Elise.

“At least one of my daughters stayed with me,” said my grandmother. Tante Solange and her husband, André, had emigrated about a year after my parents. He and my father started the antique business. They’d made a good team. He was the businessman and my father, the connoisseur. Uncle André, a bon vivant, had grown fatter and fatter as their business prospered and his wife devoted herself exclusively to their only son, neglecting her husband. He died of a massive coronary six years ago.

“I was always surprised that Tante Sola never returned,” I said. I was so happy here, it felt so safe, I couldn’t understand why my aunt stayed on in America.

“It became her home. And Vincent is there,” said Tante Charlotte. “Children are the most important thing.”

I drained my glass of water.

After dessert and coffee—the pears were fabulous, not too grainy and just the right degree of sweet—my grandmother rose.

I helped her into her coat and accompanied her to the door. My aunt and uncle were also leaving.

In a flurry of “À la semaine prochaine!”; “It was a wonderful meal”; “Merci”; and kisses all around, they slipped into the night, Laurent accompanying Mamy Elise.

I finished clearing the table, had the dishwasher running, scrubbed the baking dish, and hand-washed and dried the glasses. I was putting the tablecloth and dish towels into the washing machine when Laurent popped his head into the kitchen.

“Leave it,” he said.

“I can’t. Besides, it’s done.” I gave the counter a final wipe and wrung out the cloth, hanging it up to dry. “I want to show you something.” I led him to the counter and unwrapped the plastic stick I’d hidden in a paper towel.

His face lit up. He lifted me and swung me around, kissing me hard.

“Careful. I’m bearing life here.”

“So you shouldn’t overexert yourself.” He scooped me up and carried me into the bedroom, like a bride in a movie, and set me down on the bed as gently as if I’d been carved from eggshells.

I giggled. “I’m not an invalid.”

“We’re going to be careful this time.” He sat next to me.

“You’re one to talk, with the swinging me around.” I bolted off the bed. “Why should I keep calm? This is exciting. It’s more than exciting. It’s stupendous.”

“Of course. But . . .” He nodded three times, a habit he had that made him look like an earnest little boy. I usually found it endearing, but right now, I was annoyed. There were no buts.

“But?” I was veering close to dropping over the edge. “We said we wouldn’t talk about it. Ever. We said we’d never think about it, even. And now you’re bringing it up.”

“I haven’t said anything.” He stood and began to undress.

“No, but you’re thinking it.”

“Okay. Sorry. I don’t think I could stand to go through it a third time. If we stay calm . . .” He went to the bathroom. I could hear him brushing his teeth. I got up and undressed, hanging up my dress in the closet. I put my shoes on the shoe rack and my earrings back in the jewelry box on the vanity.

Laurent slid into bed. I put on a silk robe and sat down beside him.

“By we you mean me,” I said, picking up the thread of our discussion.

He stroked my back, his hand going up and down my spine. It felt great.

“It’s our turn, Laurent. It just feels different this time.”

“Let’s just not tell anyone yet, okay?” He kissed me.

“If it will make you happy. But we could. Because it will work, you’ll see.” I didn’t tell him that Sho and David already knew. Technically, I hadn’t told them.

In the bathroom, I stared hard at myself. “Maman, I know you are there. Please let this one be born.” I turned away from the mirror, switched off the light, and headed for bed. I let my robe fall to the floor and pressed my naked body to my husband’s.

The next morning, I was at the piano doing warm-ups. Joy, like a warm wave, lapped at my skin, until my father called.

And my wave of happiness sank into the sand, leaving it cold and wet.

Daddy rarely called. Or e-mailed for that matter. And when he did it was always curt. I looked at the clock. “What time is it for you? It’s the middle of the night. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just been experiencing trouble sleeping.”

That was new. A change from him passing out in his armchair at ten-thirty and staggering fully clothed to his bed sometime during the night.

“You’re not sick?” I rearranged the candlesticks on the mantel, then put them back the way they’d been.

“Of course not.” He said this as if sickness would take one look at him and slink away in terror. “I wanted to tell you I won’t be coming for Thanksgiving this year.”

I felt I should make some sort of protest or at least a heartfelt inquiry. I sat down on the piano bench, my back to the keys.

“There are things that I must take care of here at that moment.” More bizarre by the second. I stood and plucked two flowers that looked as if they were on the verge of wilting out of the vase in the center of the table and dropped them in the garbage pail.

“Well, I . . . we’ll miss you.” It’s what one said, wasn’t it? Even if it didn’t come from the heart? What kind of monster didn’t want to see her own father? One that wanted a bit of serenity, perhaps?

“I’m sorry. I know this has come as a surprise to you.”

“Yes.” A welcome surprise. Say something . . . think, think, think. “I’m having a hard time believing it, that’s all. It is tradition. It won’t be the same without you.” That, at least, was the truth.

“But I will see you at Christmas. Maggie told you.”

“She did.”

“It’s settled.” Now he was sounding more like his old self. Just when I was growing fond of his new self. “I shall leave you to your work. It was good to hear your voice.”

After clicking off, I returned to the piano but suddenly felt too restless to sit there. A few seconds later, I was retching into the toilet. Just a coincidence.

I loved my job. I loved putting on supple black clothes, preparing my bag, getting on the metro, emerging from the underbelly of Brussels to the Place de la Monnaie and seeing the theater. And knowing that here was where I belonged. I felt keyed up, buoyant, like a cork in a bubbling brook, a little buzz in my brain. I was like this before every performance. Not something I took for granted.

I’d reached the stage door and sighed. I hated going to America. Another bout of nausea hit me and I ran to the WC without even saying hello to Thierry, the stage manager.

Stop it! I mentally told the baby inside. I brushed my teeth then ate some salty crackers I’d brought and washed them down with a slug of Perrier.

In my dressing room I grabbed a wilting bouquet of flowers from the vase by the makeup mirror and dropped them in the trash before heading out to the house for notes and warm-ups. Our director, François, felt that the company was a family and we all had to meet onstage before each performance. Not only the singers and musicians, but the stagehands, the costume crew, the stylists, and accessoiristes. In short, everyone who had a part to play in the success of the show.

Today there would be rejoicing at the great review we’d gotten and I couldn’t help glowing from the rave I’d received.

Most of the cast and crew were already there. I joined the melee. The lights were up in the house, making the stage appear dim in comparison, like dawn preceding the bright daylight of the show.

“Are you okay?” asked François. “Thierry . . .” He trailed off, waving his arm in the direction of the stage manager.

“I’m fine.” I was getting tired of saying this. “Just something I ate.”

Just then, another bout of nausea swelled and, despite the smile that I wanted to be reassuring, I must have gone pale.

“Come sit.” He sat down next to me.

“Jacqueline, since you’ve been with this company, have you ever missed a performance?”

“Never. And I don’t intend to start.” Except maybe when I have the baby, but that would be paid maternity leave.

He put his hand on my forehead. “No fever. When you are a parent, no need for a thermometer.”

I smiled weakly, battling queasiness. A few more crackers and some Perrier and I’d be fine. Fine.

“You are a professional, but it is clear you are not well. Go home.”

“But—” I rose.

He put a hand on my arm, guiding me back down to the seat.

“But the review.” I was shaking.

“Ah yes! It was wonderful! And so much thanks to you. You must be careful. Take care of yourself. Not overextend.”

“I can sing. I’m ready.” I forced myself to take a deep, calming breath.

This was all Daddy’s fault. His call and the ensuing stress triggered this avalanche of nausea. Babies hated stress. It was a known fact. “Really, François. I can do this.”

“I know. But should you? Go home. Rest. Look, you are trembling. What if you are starting a bug? It could infect the entire cast.”

“But I’m not sick. Your expert parental hand has verified that. I would never risk—”

“I know. But I want you to do as I say.” His tone was gentle. “The body needs to rest sometimes. And the voice is part of the body. Go home. I will see you tomorrow.”

There was really nothing left to say. I was banished. I felt everyone’s eyes on me as I made my way backstage to collect my things. I glanced at my understudy, who was glowing. Young, beautiful, a native Italian . . . was he sleeping with her? I shook my head to dislodge the thought. This wasn’t All About Eve.

The daylight was losing ground to the creeping darkness as I crossed the Place de la Monnaie. The cafés were overflowing with people savoring a beer after work before heading home. I was never at loose ends this time of day. I could head over to Cora Kemperman’s boutique for some retail therapy. I could get on with Christmas shopping.

Instead, I crossed the street and stood staring at the window of a children’s clothes shop. I shouldn’t go in, really not. Maybe missing my show was the universe’s way of telling me to concentrate on my impending motherhood.

I went in. Despite my good resolutions, I bought a tiny white cotton onesie, soft as a cloud, that sported a duckling delicately sewn in navy thread. I also bought two sweater-scarf woolen hat combos for my nieces. No pink to be found, though I knew Charlotte lived in and for that hue. I found a soft pearl gray for her that would set off any one of her pink ensembles. Perfect for Christmas.

My nausea had subsided, but too late to do me any good. I let myself get swallowed by the entrance to the metro.

It occurred to me that I still hadn’t told Laurent about Christmas.