BIJOU AT BAY
ALM No.95, November 2026
SHORT STORIES
Just before noon, when Bijou met Mona in front of one of the lion sculptures at the entrance of the Schönbrunn Palace, located in Heitzing, the 3th district of Vienna, she seemed a little distraught. Her body was leaned against the stoned beast and her face was knotted in a state of confusion. Flashing a superficial smile, which made her average-looking face look painted like the joker on a deck of cards, Mona flared her hands while she argued at Bijou.
“ I thought we'd had plans to get an early start today. I've been waiting here now for an hour.”
Bijou laughed hard, taking in deep puffs of air in his broad chest then letting them out again. “Relax Mona. You have fourteen more days in this lazy city.”
“You promised to take me to the Sigmund Freud Museum, the Toulouse-Lautrec's lithographs and posters exhibition at the Leopold Museum, and the underground sewers in Karlsplatz. Now, we will be late. I live my life on time,” she said, frowning.
It was a lovely day in August 2003, and after wandering around the city of Vienna, Mona realized that it had nothing African, not an art museum or a music festival, dedicated to the continent. The country only housed the Africans as refugees, making them feel as if they were doing them a favor, ignoring their contributions being dragged into Europe's two major wars. Mona had gotten used to the fact that Austria had nothing displayed that made Africa look proud, not like in America nor the Caribbean. Africa had more than a slave history in the New World. It had evolved into a merging culture, influenced by many histories and revolving doors.
That day, when she met Bijou at the Schönbrunn Palace, Mona was simply dressed in black and white, the understated tints of Vienna-hidden away from the loudness of the world. From outside, the city did not demand one's attention; she did. The city was conjured up with a classic eye. The Africans and Asiatics stood out amid its subdued tones, not as members of Vienna's former “Human Zoos,” but as foreigners who had come to the city out of sheer curiosity. At least, that was Mona's personal story.
She had come to Vienna as a tourist, not as a refugee. She was invited by a Moroccan friend who had summered in New York many years before. The friend went to Turkey with her Austrian boyfriend, leaving Mona all alone to house sit. Everything about the city looked too good to be true. But when Mona leaned against the statue, demanding that Bijou should remember to put the time and effort in their daily meetings--if he wanted to be seduced, she compared the slow pace of Vienna with the brisk atmosphere of New York City.
“You have to be patient, Mona. I get off at work at 4: 30 am, parking cars at the Vienna Marriott Hotel on the Ringstrasse. ”
“Remember, the deal was that you show me around Vienna to keep my company-- and if you are a good boy, Bijou, w-e-l-l-- we’ll have a jolly good time!” said Mona, closing in on Bijou, flinging up her arms to his broad chests and strong shoulders, before standing on her toes, pushing her face into his.
Mona was a pretty woman in her early thirties who had gone on vacation to the classically elegant city, when she first encountered Bijou two days prior. It was a drab noonday in early August. Bijou had spotted her standing at Erste Bank, waiting to exchange her American traveler's checks. He stopped and stared at her, without him grabbing her attention.
“You must be from Ethiopia,” he said to Mona, stopping to stare her up and down, with his microscopic eyes penetrating the outer layer. “It's your facial features,”
“My facial features? What about them?” she asked him rather quizzically, with her eyes cast upward and the crumpling of her nose into contortive curiosity.
“You look mixed like the people from Ethiopia, Somalia or Eritrea.”
Mona understood what Bijou meant. She had gotten that comment many times before. She recalled the time when she stood in the Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur, India, looking at a collection of princely silver howdahs. There, a man of East Indian stock who asked her if she was from the “West Indies.” He must have seen the blending of his people and several other nations in her appearance.
“It's so funny how we can appear to be from some place else other than where people think we came,” she said to Bijou. “I'm Mona, born and bred in Kingston, Jamaica.”
“I'm from The Gambia. Just looking at you, I thought you were from that part of the world,” reinforced Bijou.
Wanting to change the conversation, Mona asked Bijou if the bank changed travelers checks.
“Yes, it does. Are they American?”
“Yes, they are,” answered Mona.
She could him widening his eyes that took on a glare of adventure using her American dollars to take her around the city. She didn't mind paying her way because it meant that Bijou couldn't make love to her. Mona did not pay for the services of males; if they won over her heart, they would have pay to have a good time with her-- if she permitted them. That was her rule—her law of life.
“What are you doing in Vienna?” Bijou asked.
“I am house-sitting while my friend and her husband visit Turkey,” answered Mona.
“For how long?” Bijou asked.
“Does it really matter for how long?” replied Mona, using a question to answer a question.
Bijou got the clear message and averted the course of their conversation to the city of Vienna.
Like most Africans she met on vacations, Bijou had made himself known by striking up a conversation. Sometimes, Mona would encounter Africans on the streets of Nice, France or at Sliema Ferries Terminal in Malta. They would use the familiarity of blackness to strike up a conversation, basking in the opportunity to ask her to pay for a train ride, a boat or bus ride. She had always jumped to assist their needs, knowing that Europe is a cold place for any African--even herself. She did not release herself from that category, but still, her American dollars protected her self-respect.
Mona thought it usual for African men to initiate a conversation more than the women. She would spot the women, exposing their dark legs and long limbs in bikinis on the waterfront of Sliema, speaking in their uncommon language. Mona would try to get close to the women on the beach by introducing herself, but they all drew their Masai-like limbs together and formed a tight impenetrable circle. They refused to let her in.
It was difficult to relate to African women because they were especially hermetical in their ways. They stuck together with their own kind, eliminating any possible outside threat or disturbance. The familiarity of their heightened and distinct African odor had become a natural scent to her nostril: pungent and raw, yet intrinsically human.
“Bijou, I can't tell you how nice it feels to have someone take me around this lonely city. Please I beg you, don't mess up again,” Mona told him.
He shook his head and laughed at her presumptuous demand. “Just like an American,” he told her.
“Bijou, I live in America. I'm not American-born. There's a difference you know,” retorted Mona.
She understood Bijou's perceptions of Americans. The Iraqi invasion was in the news. In fact, the previous day, Mona had gone to the Kunsthistorisches Museum Wien, and had met an Iraqi named Ghassan who refused any further interaction with her because she was from America. It was funny, thought Mona, that when you migrate to a foreign nation, you have now taken on the identity of the country. It was not that Mona did not love her adopted country, but she was not involved in creating its foreign policies. She wished both men had seen her for who she was and not where she came from. But during such a sensitive time, it was virtually impossible.
Perhaps it was the reason that she did not understand that unforeseen circumstances do happen and that her brash way of handling the situation made her appear like an “Ugly American.” Now if that were the case, Mona knew that her subtlety mattered in maintaining her friendship with Bijou.
“I'm sorry Bijou—sorry for demanding so much of your time, not realizing that you're just a human being like myself,” she told him.
Bijou looked at her, his boyish smirk--as rare and valued as the giant narwhal's horn she spotted at the Hofburg's Palace--put her at ease. They were both now on the same page.
“Let's not make a fuss anymore and enter the palace. Perhaps it will bring you some contentment,” replied Bijou.
Even though he had made Austria his home now, it was apparent to Mona that Bijou did not like the environment. As a founding member of the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR), Austria must uphold its initial obligations to take in refugees. She knew that a European does not have to be white anymore, but the continent would not let go of its ideals. For reasons unknown to Mona, Bijou felt out of place. She figured that it was because there were no black faces clearly visible. Even when she first arrived, a couple of days before, there were no black people in sight. She was able to deal with it because her stay was temporary. But a person like Bijou must find it contemptible because he had to live with being African in a calloused atmosphere.
“Do you have the tickets?” Bijou asked Mona.
“Yes, I do,” she said, digging into her handbag, then producing them.
“So let's go in. There's nothing that is keeping us back!” commented Bijou.
Bijou's contentment was seeing the excitement on Mona's face as they entered the museum. It was her first time visiting Austria. He wondered about her Europhile mentality. Did she think that Europe was better than Africa? Did she know about the scramble for Africa by the Europeans, leaving it devastated, in underdevelopment stages, and at their own mercy? Did she know that after thousands of years in existence, was Africa still in an embryonic stage-- a continent not quite born?
Anyway, Bijou took the experience all in stride. He liked Mona but thought that she was still in a stage of development herself.
“Mona, would you like to meet my extended family? We all share an apartment and look out for each other,” he told her.
“Oh yes!” she told Bijou, without thinking, “In America Africans keep to themselves. I can hardly penetrate their world.”
But the world of European splendor that they were about to enter was in stark contrast to the immigrant's reality. After showing their tickets to the front desk clerk and securing audio guides, Mona and Bijou disappeared into the Hapsburg's gilded world of opulence. The palace's vast rooms with Chinoiserie designs with a backdrop of white wainscoting and an exaggerated flair, enabled Mona to escape into the Hapsburg's excessive mindset. Crystal mirrors and gold-plated chandeliers dangled from the ceilings.
“As you can see, Europe is a land of excess. You can only live in one room at a time, “ whispered Bijou.
“But to have so many pretty things is unbelievable!” whispered back Mona.
When Mona and Bijou reached the formal dining room-- named after Marie Antoinette, who became the Queen of France-- Mona pulled away from Bijou and began to encircle the setting, scrutinizing Viennese pieces of porcelain, crystal, and silverware. She noticed that in the crowd was a tall and very attractive blond couple. The woman,who was elegantly attired in beige and white linen and seed pearls, was at least six foot tall; she kept staring to and fro at Bijou and the portrait of Franz Joseph on the wall. She could see the tall blond man restraining the woman from looking at Bijou by nudging her shoulders. Bijou, who sensed her familiar glance, gave a quick turn of his head, then quickly focused back on Mona. He tapped his watch and shook his head. Mona, who sensed that Bijou wanted to go, nodded her head back to him. Both exited the room at the same time.
“Bijou, who is that blonde woman who was staring at you in the palace?” asked Mona when they reached outside.
“What woman? I didn't see or know anyone in the palace,” Bijou answered back.
Mona crumpled her forehead and shook her head.
“I swear that you're lying to me Bijou but it will catch up with you.”
There was still time to make it to the Sigmund Freud Museum located at Berggasse 19. But before they walked to the destination at Mona's insistence, Bijou stopped to use a nearby telephone booth. He wanted to end their day at the apartment he shared along with his two female cousins, Fanta and Adaeze. Mona could see him talking and laughing on the telephone before he placed it down. She felt happy for Bijou too.
“Can they accommodate me for an evening's meal? It will be a treat?” Mona asked excitedly.
“Yes, they can. They will be cooking dinner: Benachin, a one-pot meal that includes rice, fish or meat-- and it was decided that beef would be the meat of choice. Domoda with ground peanut stew, cooked with fish, rice and stew. Other friends and family members might be there. Mona, you will get your wish, surrounded by your people,” Bijou laughed.
When Bijou returned to Mona, he was in a delightful mood.
“Are you up for walking over an hour to get to the museum?” he asked Mona.
“Sure I am. It's about fitness and staying energized. I hardly have time to exercise in New York,” said Mona.
The slow pace of Vienna demanded that Mona slowed down, slackened her racing mind and moved through the streets without thinking. But she couldn't. When she reached a stop light and there was no traffic coming, she took a chance and ran across the street. Everyone waited for the stop light to give them a signal to go except for Mona. All eyes were on her. Everyone surmised that she was an American.
“You must be careful not to injure yourself over a stop light,” Bijou told her, “ Learn to take it easy in Vienna.”
“I know, Bijou, but I'm used to living life at a faster pace, slowing down seems odd. I'm just rushing to have a whole experience.”
Anyway, they both got to the Sigmund Freud Museum an hour and a half before it closed. Bijou was elated about the limited time they could spend. He did not wish to linger in the museum for long. Bijou had been to the museum many times before and it did not excite him; he thought the scenery played with his head. His head had never felt so burdened until he moved to Austria. If Sigmund Freud was the “father of modern psychology,” then he, Bijou, was the “brother of suppression” in order to survive. He thought about the few hours spent earlier that day at the Schönbrunn Palace where he spotted the Austrian couple, Gerda and Hermann Prameshuber, whose needs he met in bed, fulfilling their wildest fantasy. It was alright to bed-rump in private, but outward embraces in public were a no-no. They were the needs of other couples that he full-filled at wild parties--threw in honor of his manhood, where his member was worshiped, wrapped in pink or red bows. To them he was nothing but a rare and precious jewel, something not quite human. He dealt with the conscious mind, unlike Freud. He knew what he felt: humiliation, anger and a loss of self-worth. His Id, Ego and Superego were all rolled into one conscious experience that was alive and tangible. He could touch it-- and feel it too.
“Bijou, I found it rather interesting that Freud collected miniature Egyptian artifacts,” said Mona.
He had left Mona to wander around the little museum all by herself while he got lost in self-reflection. As she rushed towards Bijou to tell him of her discoveries, Bijou snapped out of his introspection.
“I'm happy that you are enjoying your time. Freud even played his mental game exploring those artifacts,” commented Bijou sarcastically. “Are you ready to go now?”
“Yes. I'm ready. If there's time, I'll try to return by myself,” Mona told him laughing. “Where do we go from here?”
“Well, as I mentioned before, I'm taking you home to meet the two most important women in my life,” Bijou told Mona.
“You mean Fanta and Adaeze, your two cousins?” asked Mona.
“Yes. They are preparing meals for us to eat together,” answered Bijou.
Bijou's apartment was situated on the third floor of an old building in the fifteenth district, called Rudoifsheim-Fümfhaus. It was sparsely furnished, with a worn royal blue sofa, a center table, a cabinet, and several chairs. The two bedroom doors were closed. It was neat and clean, and for the first time in Vienna, Mona felt the warmth of African hospitality. Bijou's two cousins were present. No one else was able to attend. When Mona entered the apartment, they greeted her as if they had known her all their lives. Adaeze was tall and plain and looked somewhat older than Fanta. She had a relaxing air, dressed in a flowing yellow and green, cotton kaftan with African print. Fanta was the artistic one. Her theatrical face, all caked with makeup: face power two tones lighter than her actual skin tone, brick-red lipstick, blue eye shadow, red rouge--with even more rouge.
“This is all a surprise,” said Adaeze, with her hands held up in the air. “ Bijou told us all about you.
Fanta stood aside, smiling, before coming forward to place a kiss on Mona's cheek.
Mona had always dreamed of finding Africa, but meeting Bijou's family made her feel as if she had never left the continent in chains and humiliation. Her ancestors did, and being the product of their loins, Mona felt the strains that have been passed down from their history. It was the history of longing and reconciliation born from a journey she had never known physically but spiritually. As all four of them sat on the floor to talk, eat and reminisce about their individual stories, Mona felt that her vacation had just begun.
The African dishes, Benachin and Domoda, were served one after the other on a large platter with no eating utensils. Bijou could see the crinkling of Mona's nose and the widening of her eyes when she realized that she must eat with her hands. Each of her hosts left their place on the floor to thoroughly scrub their hands. When they returned and it was Mona's turn to wash her hands, Bijou hesitated at her departure.
“I know you don't eat with your fingers, “ he said. Then he rose and got a knife and fork from the kitchen sink. “There you go. These will suit you better.”
His cousins smiled.
“Thank you for your understanding,” said Mona.
Mona ate with enthusiasm, rolling the rich flavor of the tomato sauce, spice-infused rice, and the beef, around her tongue. The warmth of a one-pot meal, braided into the fabric of cohesive family life, enabled Mona to live her country life in the Jamaican hills. Family warmth and kinship were the essence of her wealth.
“Your family is just like my family back in the Caribbean. Living in America-- which is a money-driven place, has changed my values. I remember when I was a child, we used to live like this,” Mona told them.
She could see the two women nodding their heads, but Mona noticed that Bijou remained calm—almost still, as if he were stuck in time. His neutral expression and the pensive lean of his good-looking head gave him an expression of purity in heart.
“Bijou, are you still among the living?” asked Mona.
The quick jerk of Bijou's body told her that he was living in the present again.
“I had forgotten what my life was like in The Gambia. I'd forgotten that I grew up rich in values but with no money. I used to survive holding my head up. But now, I walk with it held down,” commented Bijou.
All the women looked at Bijou quizzically. They did not understand the depth of his heart. He did. So they left him alone.
“Bijou, what did you and Mona do today?” asked Fanta, putting a piece of beef into her mouth.
“Well, we did tourist things like going to museums,” replied Bijou.
“Perhaps before she leaves, you could take her to Naschmarkt. It's where we get the best bargains for our home. We buy our food and clothes there also. Austrians get bored of their things so easily. We Africans use our things until we cannot use them anymore.”
“The same way it is in Jamaica,” said Mona. “We don't have the money to spend so we take care of our things. Americans waste things, but know how to use the government to get new ones.”
“Trust me. I know what you're saying. As Africans, we have to conserve everything. I work at a money transfer store and Fanta works in an old age home, cleaning up patients and mopping the floor. We would like to go back to school, so we are saving to do so,” said Adaeze.
“Yes, we want to learn new skills so we can start an import/export business-- something for ourselves and to help the other Africans connect with the continent,” said Bijou.
Africans are known to survive hardship, but to have a plan to overcome it was even better. Mona knew this quite well because in America, there was always a plan before she executed anything big. It got her further in life than most of her peers. It also made her better off, having to beat the odds while being black.
By the time the next dish, the Domoda arrived, Mona waved her hand into the air, dismissive of receiving a new set of eating utensils. The trio went into the bathroom and scrubbed their hands.
“Now I feel like a true Gambian,” said Mona , basking in the moment of risk-taking, casting off the rigidity of life to embrace freedom. “I cannot understand why the country is called 'The Gambia.' Could somebody explain it to me?”
“I think the British used to refer to the area as “The Gambia,” because the small piece of land runs parallel to “the Gambian River,” explained Adaeze.
“Gambia sounds similar to Zambia,” added Mona.
All three hosts went on to give Mona a geography lesson that she could not touch, could not feel, could not see, so she sat there quietly, making a vow that when she went back to New York, she would make sense of it all.
After putting a small bit of the Domoda into her mouth, Fanta rose to get the drink she had made and stored in the refrigerator for the occasion.
“Look, I've made some ginger beer for us all,” she said, holding out a glass jug into her hand. “I found some at an Indian market some days ago in Vienna. I was just looking for the right time to use it.”
“It looks darker than the one we make in Jamaica,” said Mona.
But only the taste mattered to Mona. She had begun to realize that so many ways and traditions from West Africa had been inculcated into Jamaican culture. They were brothers from the same tribe—separated by centuries of broken bonds caused by disruption, but they remained intrinsically linked like broken chains of oppression, joined back together by a dented link. Even the sensation of the food eaten with hands felt better. A disrupted life, brought back to a complete understanding over a simple meal, was all Mona needed to make her feel welcomed home.
“I'm happy being here-- being with you all. Bijou, it's been working out. It was my pleasure meeting you,” said Mona. She held up her glass of ginger beer and the others followed her. “Here's to you all, my good friends!”
They all drank in unison.
The quartet ate, drank and chatted non-stop that evening. Their conversation carried them back through time, centuries before they were born, to have arrived at the Middle Passage. It was at this stop that Mona and Bijou said goodbye to the women before they departed into the cool Viennese night air.
“Bijou, where do we go from here?” asked Mona
“We'll take the U-Bahn to get to Karlsplatz station, I can show you the underground channels from there, “ Bijou told Mona, while he held her in his arms.
While they were in the subway station, a picture of the former Ugandan President, Idi Amin, flashed across the screen.
“Bijou, what is the matter with him?” Mona asked.
“He's now dead!” Bijou replied.
A moment of silence covered them before Bijou pulled Mona in front of him and hugged her, squeezing her so hard that she could hardly breathe. It was his silent mourning or was it joyful? She could not tell. Mona could not read Bijou's mind at that moment, but she knew that it was not the time nor place to talk about politics. She let it go and basked in their moment of solidarity.
The Viennese night was neither too hot nor muggy as Mona and Bijou strolled arm in arm in the night light of the city. As they walked around the area, Mona could hear the different tongues spoken from South American students and other foreigners who walked past them.
“This is an area that is both sparse and solitary,” said Mona. “But where are you taking me?”
“I know of a club around here that lets in Africans. It is relatively safe. You have a lot of South American students from all over the continent,” said Bijou.
By that time, Mona felt safe with Bijou as a chaperone, allowing him to guide the way. They had now become a couple, and as they walked slowly, lovingly intertwined, Mona spotted the tall and blond, crisply-dressed couple they had seen earlier at the Schönbrunn Palace that same day. But now, they have come down to earth a little bit. The woman was dressed tawdrily in a black leather mini-dress and was wearing a black chain necklace. The man wore leather pants and a white T-shirt. He also wore a nose ring. Spotting them, Mona pointed them out to Bijou, wanting to cross the street but he refused, wanting to walk past them. Suddenly, the money he had been making being used by such couples did not matter anymore.
“Hold on to me tightly Mona, I need more confidence,” Bijou told her.
She gripped his muscled arm tightly and watched him puff out his broad chest, and then he inhaled deeply. She could see the couple now flashing a smile at Bijou but he held his head straight as an arrow, while Mona adjusted herself to the vigor of his African rhythm which no longer glided like the Austrian waltz. Bijou then walked past the couple as if they were strangers. When he was at a distance, Mona could feel a lapse of his body as he lowered his diaphragm.
“Bijou, who are those people and what do they mean to you?” asked Mona out of concern.
“You know, Mona, after that wonderful dinner we had together, suddenly the true meaning of life became clear to me,” Bijou told her.
It was the first time since arriving in Vienna, Mona began to see the true Bijou. He was an AFRICAN! Strong, proud and free in his own glory.
S. D. Brown is a postcolonial writer born in Kingston, Jamaica. She holds a B.A. from The New School for Social Research and an M.S. from Adelphi University. Her work has appeared in Anthurium, Sargasso, Two Thirds North, The Journal of Postcolonial Writing, Adelaide Literary Magazine, The Lemonwood Quarterly, and The Caribbean Writer. She is the author of The Roar of the River: Slave Stories Inspired by Thomas Thistlewood Diaries, 1750-1786 and Let me Hold Your Hand, both published on Amazon. Her short story collections The Day the Masquerade Came, Epitaph by Her Grave, The Soul Collector and The Forging of Stones: Tales of Decadence and Murder Behind the Walls of Jamaican Castles were her most recent publications. Her story, "Planter's Punch," was recently shortlisted for the 9th Adelaide Literary Award. More information can be found at:
postcolonialauthorsdbrown.com.
Subscribe to FREE digital flip copy of the Adelaide Magazine printed edition.