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further than a centimeter away in his thoughts.

10
    A FTER FOUR DAYS of her cousin and husband staying with them, Jonathan realized Megi felt like biting someone. It was not that she disliked Adelka. They were more or less the same age, the children got on somehow – especially ten-year-old Paula and the slightly younger Antosia – while the husband was what was called a nice guy. But when they’d announced their arrival, Megi – who in the past would have been pleased that her relatives had forgiven them for “leaving their homeland,” proof of which were the emissaries – was on edge and close to being rude.
    “It’s understandable,” Jonathan reassured her as, locked in their room, they ignored the morning bustle as their guests prepared to go sightseeing. “This is your daily life, work, family. You get up at six every morning while they’ve just come to laze around.”
    “But she’s my cousin. What’s suddenly made me like this,” said Megi, wrapping the duvet around her.
    “Calm down, they’re leaving in two days.”
    “Oh God, two more days!”
    Jonathan laughed, then immediately turned serious. Megi really was heated up. Hardly surprising: the move, a new job, new colleagues, stacks of migration documents to fill in and formalities to sort out, all this in at least two languages – and now guests!
    “As it is, I admire you,” he said. “I’ve always admired you. You’ve got so much patience with people.”
    “Even with Aunt Barbara!”
    Jonathan nodded. He’d observed Megi struggling with herself for years. He didn’t really know how to help because he didn’t like analyzing other people’s personalities or individual behavior. Even in his stories he adhered to a behaviorist view. He didn’t make notes about his characters’ traits; if a hare or elephant got mixed up in something, it came from the story.
    Jonathan preferred to think in images about people around him, which is why a scene from ten years ago now appeared in front of his eyes: Megi – tall, slim, running about carrying plates, unaware of the sexy sway of her hips. It had been a couple of weeks after their wedding, and Megi – brought up without a father, according to her relatives – had insisted on making dinner for them.
    Jonathan couldn’t tear his eyes away from her and finally grabbed her in the kitchen, slipping his hand beneath her blouse. She scolded him and he looked at her, astounded. He’d fallen in love with a great girl brought up by strong, wise women, and here was this little bourgeoise, worried that Aunt Barbara was grumbling about the veal!
    For a while Megi had scrupulously remembered the name days of her uncles and aunts, and even her mother, whom the family had crossed off because she’d dared to get a divorce. They’d been prepared to accept her now – until Aunt Barbara tried to introduce her to her daughter’s mother-in-law as a widow. “I’m a divorcee,” Megi’s mother had corrected her. What was worse, when asked when she was going to marry her fiancé, she’d asked, “Which one?”
    Jonathan, who was also “stranded” – his mother had married again and his father was living with another woman – adored his mother-in-law and wouldn’t let himself be carried away by his wife’s romantic visions of the supportive clan. He’d decided to wait out the period of heightened socialising that the wedding had brought down on Megi. To expect a group of people tied by blood always to stand like a wall behind them was, he believed, childish. He was right. A wall did quickly spring up but between them and her relatives. Jonathan’s and Megi’s absence at a cousin’s wedding, belated greetings, an inappropriate present, not calling back or calling at the wrong moment – and the rubbish already began to stack up.
    He now stroked Megi’s fair hair. He’d fallen in love with her because she was beautiful and had the makings of an individual, not a cog in a mixer, blending family