You are on page 1of 6

The Character

of a
Pregnancy
and the spell
of
Possessions

Brussels 1994
From a lovers' lair I watched the
picturesque first light across the
pitched roof tiles sagged under the
weathered of the wedging street
below. Silhouetted a jagged skyline
wall of backyard rows of
townhouse. Bearing little concerned for the peering gleam of two story brickwork
punched out windows at acute angles. The morning light filtered through the deep
folded curtain nets into the bedroom and waved over the inert and bulging lies of the
bed covers. Then, with a big cat leap for pray, Martine rises, and turns around facing me
saying, Do you love the name Louis?
While the ghost of a dead brother haunted me, the name Louis seizing me by surprise.
Recollecting in my childhood the native Garden Boy along the black lava sand graded
suburban streets, all arms and legs. Monkeyed in passing pointing to the Somers' house
while in Swahili calling out, Your grandmother, your grandfather! and unrelenting
headed on for downtown.
I arrived at the entrance door, and let myself in clearing by either side a sizable bare
gleaming ceramic tiled floor uninterrupted underneath skimpy wooden furniture.
Turning away from the dining area, at the caller of a door ajar across the lounge.
Entering the bed room, I lay sight on grandmother seated at the foot of the bed, bend
over sunk into a deep silent grief. Dreary arms resting on her lap, bearing a secrete wish
flowing to her cupped hands in convoluted fingers, her cheeks rolling a few tears.

You are My Sunshine


Grandmother faced the large window reveal, picturing in the daylight of a falling
indicator to the floor. Caught by sight alongside the bed corner the soles of a pair of
lopsided shoes. Trousers cuffs pulled back by a sudden bounce, exposed the ankle Socks.
Imagining grandfather lying stretched out in the blind aisle, by the grasp of the fatality, I
withdrew from the doorway.
Roaming by with a playing imagination attempting at recreating the unimaginable death.
Trickled through the front door in and after mother made her appearance in her parent's
home. As none of the family and friends took leave, the living room crowded. Until the
doctor arrived, he disappeared for a moment, returned to be seated. the instant I passed
by and coughed, His hand slapped me in the face, and awoke in me Goma's colonial
brutes.
What would you do, if it's not a boy? I asked Martine, skeptic of the thought, To anchor
an unbeknown spirit of the death, from a long contagious living, onto a new born, is cruel.
Martine replicate, I know it will be a boy. I know! I feel it's a boy...
Would you be deceived, if it is a girl, I asked?

The smell of paint lingered the floor-through apartment filtering daylight through
French doors, which by weather change mingles to various degree with artificial lighting
a constant at the core of our home. Such routine settled in after a year of renovation
work that turned back a derelict refreshed of an historic brilliant gas lighting fixtures of
the Belle-Epoque. A style befitting Martine, sprightly and breezy, saying, I'll take your
car.
Alerted by the door whispering
Martine's impulsive grip.
Irresistible hinging a
destabilizing still air, which
cringed to mind her emotive
move onto the landing. I
resized myself, closed the lid of
my laptop standing up. Rushing
in after whatever guided her,
fumbling keys in my trousers
pocket. Shouting in mind, Wait,
and through the lobby out onto
the sidewalk. Caught up with
her, by the metallic silver-gray
Audi along the curb.
On a rough ride through leading arteries through rows of between two world war
townhouses crossing into the adjacent community. In view of the woods ending Winston

You are My Sunshine


Churchill Avenue, I said, It's OK here. She drove in a hop across the traffic lights to an
abrupt halt. Shaken up, I promised, This is the last time I'm letting you drive. Stepped
on the paving, with an instant clearing of the closing door from my grip. Left me
flabbergasted, the enigmatic driving her man full throttle, as I gazed at the tail of the
Audi graciously disappearing through the desert one way lane.
Stepping on across the way, my sight hurt the slender idiotic geometric architecture
planted on the corner that once had been a city front yard. Retrieved sight to the
tramway at my feet. Glancing left and right through the barrel vault of lined trunks
bearing a swell of foliage, attenuating my distraught feelings. Entered my line of duty
across the traffic lanes in the other direction, not before the off side number 208 affixed
on a driveway stone pillar. Awe inspiring the ghosting surgeon's carriage coming to halt
along a front yard filled with green shrubs. In front immense tall wrought iron gates to
the classic mansion, under the weight of pushing shadows the gate leaves eased open.
The coachman whips the air, pulls off and advances to disappear, while my gradual
approaching, clearing the deep majestic porte-cochre, from a routine redesign and
drafting a construction financial report.
A premonitory century
old polluted derelict,
inheriting by possession
the impregnated spells--If
only one. The imitation
white marble in
prolongation through the
building toward the rear
stable house. In the
surgeon's tracks, I
stepped off right, and up
two white elongated
marble steps. Through
the dark wood glazed
double door portal that
replicated across the stairwell. I stood my ideas exhausted in front of the wood paneling
disguising secrete servant doors. High above the hall, a translucent leaded glass mural,
which hand of daylight rested on the descending impressive balustrade, while in the
empty space a day is waking.
The door button buzzed in a corner above me, surprised, I seizing myself and headed
back to the shadow of two figures at the gates. Unlatched and pulled the weight
resisting leaf. To my 10:30 appointment, I said, You must be Mr and I'm Mrs. Hack Will
you follow?
Leading the couple toward the mirror portal, annihilated in the doctor's front room our

You are My Sunshine


entry through a single door. There, high street windows filtering daylight fading the
spectrum of the equipped surgical suite absorbed at our feet and dying in the dark
parquet flooring to a gleam. We moved on across the specter of the small pane folding
doors inter-leading to the doctor's retrieve, ghosting an angled desk, wall display storing
medicine and medical books. Guided the couple a way through the scullery to emerge in
the hall.
The woman's curiosity leads up the stairway. Under the dithering husband behind on to
the first floor landing. The wife rushed a shifting eye from wall to the next. Stepping up
to touch an ancient built-in features of the doctor's apartments. Neither preoccupied
with the colored copy of a blueprint handed earlier.
The husband stretched his escape, and tie by an imaginary elastic to his wife bounced
back time and again. Until objecting out loud, he said, This wouldn't suit us...
With a dab of humiliation, in the rear room, I spared a moment intoxicated by the sound
of a distant orchestrated Blue Danube Waltz, and watching my ghost dancing in the
middle of this ballroom, dreaming my days and nights away. After a peered from the
doorway, they moved along to the final tailored project of integrated luxurious
apartments. In the attic people before them turned heels and walked away from the
servants quarters with a daylight filtering few garret-windows. In silence descending the
narrow winding servant stairway out and into the street.
I stared up the cleared driveway, where the couple's dark Golf had backed out to
disappear in the street, wondering as ice spikes rose up my heels penetrating my ankles
to muscles catching the back of my legs. Had Martine forgotten me, lingered in mind, Is
she going to show up at all?
Confused, checking my wristwatch with the long arm of the dial in a full circle, I walked
off. A few street blocks further, I pushed the corner door clearing a way into the
restaurant. At the bar ordered, and drank a hot chocolate appeasing the value I attached
to time, warranting a brief assuring return.
By quarter to twelve I walked along Winston Churchill toward a distant junction out of
view, carrying a feeling by a fragmented renovation project furthering away from
wrapping up, accentuated by a loss without my vehicular tool. Churning in mind along
the way, She's probably decided to go home Or forgot that I am waiting? I turned off at
the major intersection. Along the other leg I carried my deficient skill at heart,
unsurmountable and unable to retrieve. I continued walking focused on the distant
Albert Square. Seeing in my imagination Martine with a drink at a terrace table with a
friend or the other. Her absence in the passing breaking down the norms, which I carried
in mind a way further from the Brasserie. Cheated, turning off the stippled paved
sidewalks, for the flirting golden path that sweeps through the flowing green lawns. at
the bottom of Forest Park, I veered, stepped down the curb, and crossed over the
sweeping Avenue home.

You are My Sunshine


As I moved up on the wooden framed 'Whiplash' style entrance with glazed insets. Sight
fixation on an apparent flowing out into the street of the gleaming white marble
interior. There, I stepped across the air lock. From the threshold of French doors up a
wide cascade of marble steps. When, on the landing of the stairwell, with a sleuth's eye
hurt by our proper doorway. The glitters across the leaded-glass had died. The
translucent colors by an artificial lighting of the transom basket pilled with fruit that
either sidelights trails ivy leaves. Instead, by the door a derelict obscure cold exuded
with a grip on my chest, from the door that opened, and by the prolonged absence, the
living spirit of home had escaped, streaky and stretching, bouncing to grip whichever
body of its making. Downhearted, I kept wondering over the mysterious intruder, as I
picked the lock. Entering, to return behind my laptop where I left off earlier.
In my wake, I heard Martine by her restless lock picking. Her unlatching door, and
breezed through calling out, Come and see your Loulou! in an unrelenting rehearsal, at
hand waving a video cassette, and instantaneous spurring on her spirit occupying and
refurbishing the apartment.
In an attempt at wedging in a brief question, Why didn't you turn up to pick me up?
repeated at every opportunity without being heard. Each instance dropped my glance to
the screen of my laptop, fragmenting my concentration. Prompted me swearing in mind,
a mounting inner volcanic eruption, out of an unappeasable smoldering anger.
While nothing can break the wooden block of that clumsy hunter, Martine's Tiger of her
birth sing in the Chinese calendar, urging me to dash to attention, before being ready.
Head strong annihilating my interfering, while girlish insisting, ...This is fantastic.
Against a daylight over the ancient park trees, filtering through the French doors into
the living room. Martine knelled down by the white marble mantelpiece. Fiddling with
the faceplate controls, the screen filled with a snow flurry, turning sky-blue, as random
pointing fingers pat across, to exasperation. She exclaimed, It's not working Do
something. What is wrong. This doesn't work!
By an entangling sensation, swearing in my silence. I pleaded, Can it wait a little I'll be
with you right now Maybe the tape needs rewinding? Catching a glimpse of Martine's
magic, at bringing out of chaos the screen parasitic line across. Leaving to think, A bad
recording. Yet, no sooner the ultrasound image appeared. I said, OK! I'm there with
you.
Martine approached a finger to the screen, displaying such as satellite black and white
weather rolling images, clouds convoluted swirls. She reported seeing a little creature,
and found a distinct fetus. Pointing, she said, There is his little head. Unlike staring at
still images, capturing a movement in the said womb. She said, There is his little arm.
Of a limb coming to light. The little leg. Of kicking monkey feet striving to climb.
Glowing a gracious deep amazement, viewing for the umpteenth time from rewinds,
Martine rose from the floor to her feet. Eyes sparkling, she lifted her maternity dress

You are My Sunshine


showing her white panties under the green stockings she wore, and said, Martine! The
little baby is here. You see here. There he is. Her finger drew across. He is fourteen
centimeters. She took hold of my hand, rubbing her bulging stomach, said with
insistence, Feel Here it is. She went on guiding her finger horizontally above her
pelvic hairs, and said. At three months He is long the doctor said.