Mercedes at the Airport

BONNIE STANARD

Zelda has just sold her set of Villeroy & Boch wine glasses to Bouquinerie Armand for a fraction of their value. If her French had been better, she might have negotiated a higher price. In any case, it’s better than she’d get at the Jeu de Balle.

The last time she used the glasses was Christmas when Ray brought home Moet champagne. He gave her a chain necklace with diamond pendant. Little did she know it was her good-bye present. He gave their son Kirk an Omega watch with, “Pay attention to time. It’s a wolf in sheep’s clothes.”

She walks through the Grand Place toward the parking garage. On moving to Brussels she often visited the square of steepled buildings in the center of the city. The cobblestone streets and ancient buildings show a people’s pride in age. Even today a broad sweep of soot from ancient fires sheets the city and remains untouched.

The square looks inward from gothic towers, each ornate panel a unique rendering by architects living in the Middle Ages. Statues of patricians stand as sentinels, men who constructed a wall with eight gates and fought against invaders from Flanders and France. On any given day now, doves perch above a melee of tourists.

At the parking garage, Zelda drives the spiral driveway from an underground dungeon that reminds her of stone prisons.

In the duplex Ray rented for them, the china cupboard with the empty shelf depresses her. Is it possible to be more disappointed in losing your wine glasses than in losing your husband? As husbands go, and hers has gone, Ray had been anything but predictable. But that had been a part of his appeal.

He had proposed to her after three dates, an obvious clue that he was governed by instinct and compulsion, traits that require and generate excitement. When she puts aside her resentment, she has to admit that life with him had never been boring. And his instincts about business had earned him promotions and an offer of an international

management position. Does she have herself to blame? Perhaps she didn’t keep the marriage exciting enough. Had she settled into a routine? Is she boring? Too conventional? Zelda realizes that at some point, and perhaps she’s at that point, exhilaration becomes fatiguing. She decides to do something normal, common, and mundane. She takes the tram to the Bascule for coffee and speculoos. The tram rattles along the electric line through tree-lined streets and mid-level condos dating back to WWII. A dog sits in the seat next to her. The café at the Bascule has two-seater tables, empty seats or full, cigarette smoke, half-drunk glasses of beer, an older man sipping espresso, and two women talking. She sits and watches the pedestrian traffic. The Neuhaus chocolatier, who is within view, is placing bonbons into a box for a customer. What she wouldn’t give for just one piece of Neuhaus chocolate! It’s a matter of money. Rather, a lack of money. She has a Mercedes but can hardly afford to buy the gas.

The last drop of coffee is just as strong as the first. A teaspoon of sugar makes drinking it possible. Time to return to the tram stop. She rises and walks along pebbly streets and rough sidewalks. Old buildings made of solid blocks of ancient soil have been guarded from the shifty eagerness of changing generations.

A multitude of voices but none to recognize. Continual air of a language that excludes her. French words surround her and come together like jazz notes. Windows with lace curtains or fragile cloth, flower boxes with last blooms of salvia. Flower shop with geraniums on the street, every inch of doorway packed with aster, lilies, and daisies. The electric tram vibrates to a stop and she gets on.

At home, Zelda stares at the official letter with a government seal stamped in red at the bottom. The fax machine hums and scrolls out seven pages of data from Ray’s lawyer.

Zelda’s understanding of French is elementary in spite of lessons. Affiche, disjoindre, se resouder, prononce le divorce de...The paper represents a translation more difficult than the language.

Zelda sighs. It isn’t like the letter is unexpected, but why didn’t Ray’s lawyer send an English translation? Perhaps she always expected too much of Ray. Only in the aftermath of his departure does she figure out his extended business trips had actually been excuses to live with a lover. #

Zelda parks the Mercedes in the bus lane at the International School and waits for Kirk. With an advanced vocabulary of dispassionate words, the BBC news reader speaks of starvation in Africa and the government’s inadequate condemnation of a drug that proved fatal to a boy in Hampsteadshire. There’s no mention of the American president Ronald Reagan, not that Zelda misses it.

Kirk sees her waiting but he continues to talk in a group including older students, one who lights a cigarette. A car, unable to pass in the congestion, comes to a stop behind the Mercedes. Zelda watches the driver in her rearview mirror. If Kirk doesn’t end his socializing and get into the car, she will have to circle around and come back. Kirk is laughing. He sneaks a drag from the older boy’s cigarette. She had accepted his explanation for smelling of cigarettes. What will she do next? She doesn’t want to deal with this.

The driver behind her honks ever so slightly, and Zelda punches the off button to shut up the BBC minister’s perfectly grammatical analysis of delays in rail service.

As Zelda watches Kirk, she shifts into low gear. She hasn’t missed the automatic gears of American cars. She has gradually become a Belgian driver, that is to say, one who considers an expressway a stock car race track and driving a national sport.

The car slowly moves forward. Her son extracts himself from his friends, holds up his palm to her in a “wait” motion but instead of running to the car, he returns to the building. Zelda pulls ahead, circles the common, and returns to the portico. Kirk is nowhere in sight.

In the twenty minutes, it takes Kirk to come to the car, Zelda’s head fills with a fog that is her future. If she doesn’t figure out how to get the money to move back to the States, she can no longer afford to keep Kirk in the international school.

Her brother comes to mind. He will help her. Or will he? She can’t remember when they last spoke.

Kirk climbs into the car and they head out the gate.

Zelda says, “Is that the first time you took a drag on a cigarette?” If he lies to her, she has more of a problem than just a cigarette.

“It was nothing.”

“If it was nothing, why did you do it?” Zelda’s eyes are glued to Chaussee de Waterloo. It’s a two-lane road, but impatient drivers create a passing lane in the middle. Once she was side-swiped by an oncoming car that was passing slower cars.

“Cause everybody does.”

Zelda could say Don’t be like everybody, but Kirk is a seventh grader, and he really does have to be like everybody or he’ll be bullied or ridiculed or shunned. “It’s okay to do what everybody does as long as you don’t harm yourself. Cigarettes are harmful.”

He looks out the window at a passing épicerie.

“Promise you won’t smoke anymore.” Is she asking too much? “If you have to, pretend to smoke but don’t inhale.”

Kirk shifts in the seat.

“It’s much easier to never start than to get hooked and try to quit.”

He says, “Had a call from Dad.”

Ray...why isn’t he here? He’d know what to say to Kirk to keep him from smoking. “What did he say?”

“He said I could come live with him and Cosette.”

Zelda blinks, hits the gas pedal, and mumbles “Cockroach!” Everybody in the office knew about Ray and Cosette but nobody told her. She found out when he moved out. “Did he say where he’s living?”

“No.” Kirk leans the seat back as far as it will go.

“Call him back and ask for his address.”

“I don’t want his address. Don’t want to live with Cosette.”

“Just ask for his address.”

“Don’t want to talk to him.”

“If he’s still in Belgium I may have a chance to appeal the divorce.”

“You want him to come home?”

She didn’t know the answer to that question. “What I want at the moment is to get the money for us to live on.”

“I’m not going to talk to him.”

Zelda calls her younger brother in Ohio. Since she married Ray, she has hardly spoken to him. When Kirk was a toddler, he called to say their mother was sick. Given their mother’s hypochondria, not to mention her never-ending trips to doctors, how was she supposed to know she was actually sick? Anyway, Zelda had responsibilities. Ray traveled most of the time. How could she leave Kirk alone?

“Could be better,” Zelda answers when he asks.

“What does that mean?”

She gulps vodka tamed with orange juice, a palliative for icy skin and shallow hopes. “Well…Ray has left me, I’m afraid.”

“Sorry to hear that. Where are you?”

“In Brussels.”

“Oh.”

“I’d like to come back to the States.” Zelda takes another drink.

“That makes sense, I guess. Kirk is with you?”

“Yes, but I want him to finish seventh grade here.”

“Yeah, well, too bad about Ray.”

“Yeah.” Zelda’s throat is burning and her head hurts but she has to hunker down and get on with what she has to say. “I was wondering if you could make me a loan? Just until I get back to the States and get a job.”

“Get a job?” Doing what?”

Regret is a stifling emotion, but sometimes it overtakes rationality. Why had she been so careless as to get pregnant? Why did she drop out of college to marry Ray? Why didn’t she return to finish her degree? And that’s not half the recriminations. Her glass is empty. At times like these, cyanide and orange juice makes a better drink.

“Let’s put it this way, my chances of getting a job here in Brussels range from zero to nil. At least I don’t need a green card in the States. I’ll find something.”

“Yeah, well Ray’s always been the man with the big bank account. And the two of you live a lifestyle way beyond anything I’ve ever seen.”

Zelda interrupts. “But I don’t have access to the bank account. I can’t even sell the car because it’s in Ray’s name. Please… if you could just send me enough so I could get back to the States.”

“Where you going when you get here?”

Zelda sighs. She had hoped to stay with him but the tone of his voice is saying no way. “I have a friend in Atlanta.” And Zelda regrets not having made a friend when they lived there.

“I’m sorry about all this, Zelda, but this is between you and Ray. Your husband is a vice president fo…”

“My ex-husband! He’s not my husband,” says Zelda.

“Okay, okay. But the man’s loaded. He makes three times what I do. I have my own family to look after.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

“I can’t handle this, Zelda. This is Ray’s responsibility not mine. Call him.”

“I can’t call him! He’s transferred and his office won’t tell me where!” she says in frustration.

The phone has gone dead.

She throws her glass against the wall and a shard flies back and pierces the corner of her eye but it doesn’t stop her from slamming a vase on the floor. She reins in the anger. She needed that vase. It could have been sold at Jeu de Balle.

As the mailman hands over the mail, he smiles. “Bonjour.” Zelda takes off her gardening gloves to accept the letters. “Il fait beau aujord’hui.” In Belgium, the appearance of sunshine is a cause for celebration. Treetops stand out, slate roofs fire up the sky, street signs come into focus, and windows glint.

She takes the letters but doesn’t bother opening the invoice from the International School or the ones from BelgiCom, Mazout, or the credit cards Ray cancelled.

Zelda puts the roots of the last rose bush into a garbage bag and tightens the plastic sheet to form a firm base of dirt. Leaning it against the garage wall, she calculates the bushes could bring 500 francs.

The letter from l’avocat means another official notification. Cette maison, the house, vendu, for sale. Signed and sealed by lawyers, court-ordered character assassins.

Zelda’s alternatives have narrowed again. The sale of dishes, vases, and linens at Jeu de Balle is keeping them in food, electricity, and water. Though she has haggled like a Morrocan, she hasn’t squeezed out enough francs to buy an airline ticket for herself and Kirk to Dayton.

After the sign “a Vendu,” is removed from the front yard, an agent speaking flawless English rings the bell. ‘The owner has

accepted a contract to sell the duplex and you must move.”

“I have nowhere to go.”

“I’m sorry, but the lease was terminated months ago, and although the owner has allowed you to stay, you haven’t been paying the rent.” The woman’s red lips purse on every word.

Zelda slams the door on her foot and screeches. “Send Ray Benson here. I’ll get out when I see the coward!”

She has to sell Ray’s Mercedes. On the black market. To somebody who won’t quibble over ownership papers. She places an ad in an English language weekly. “For sale to nondiscriminating buyer, 1987 Mercedes. Good condition.”

After calls from several poor prospects, a man speaking English with an accent that’s neither French nor Flemish makes an appointment to see the car. His beard, thick eyebrows, and hard stare unnerve Zelda until he speaks.

“Why you sell this beautiful car?” he says with parted lips. A mischievous glint in his eye.

Zelda admits the Mercedes is in Ray’s name, but she says he is probably dead. Disappeared while on a trip in Colombia. A business trip, but she doesn’t know anything about cartels. The man’s dark eyes are playful. The ascot around his neck is Turnbull quality. He buys the car. Pays full price.

Once Zelda is back in Ohio, she comes across an international news article which reports that American businessman Ray Benson is being held by the Paris police. He is in custody and suspected of drug smuggling. His Mercedes was found at Orly Airport with ten pounds of cocaine stashed in the spare tire.

Bonnie Stanard is an award-winning author who draws on her rural background and an interest in history to write novels, short stories, and poems with credits in publications such as The American Journal of Poetry, Wisconsin Review, and Harpur Palate. She has edited periodicals where she has lived, including Atlanta, Richmond, Lexington, SC, and Belgium. Her seven historical fi ction novels and three children’s books are available at various online venues. Main Street Rag published her poetry chapbook in 2020. She lives in Lexington, SC.