The Belgian ended the story of how his wife had dismissed him. How he had returned from Berlin to Brussels to discover his wife and her lover sharing coffee and toast at the little square table they had purchased in their first, happy year of marriage. We must talk, the lover had suggested and then added, Please, have coffee with us, and without delay everything was decided.
- You hate to find out that way, the Belgian told us.
- He rested his hands on our table and said again, You really hate to find out that way.
- By now he was drunk and all but one of his porters had retired to the quarters to sleep. The hour was indeed late and we were all very tired. The hike up from Berithani had nearly finished us. Though the country had been beautiful. And we tried to talk about those things. The terraced hills, the peaks, the Rhodo-dendrons, the people. Many things. But the Belgian was not through. He spoke more about his wife and about leaving her. He spoke until he couldn't stand it anymore and we, too disappointed too embarrassed to listen, left our places at the table.
