It was a scene. One of those rooms made up of mismatched pieces of furniture that had been found on the side of the street; some of the chairs were impossible to sit on, having been rescued only for their aesthetic. The cabinet where they stored their china was of a Greek blue that stood out among all the other Belgian browns and grays. An old, ostentatious chandelier hung above the clutter, no doubt the sole décor belonging to the house. A makeshift bookshelf that stored volumes about architecture and urbanism contained a fish tank with algae at its bottom. The dark wooden table, too big for the room, was littered with correspondence, books, used cups, half-rotten fruit, and empty liquor bottles. She hadn’t seen it clean once.

      The rest of the house lived under a perpetual mess of a similar degree. It was enchanting rather than enervating. Its charming inhabitants were responsible for this, by overflowing the place with plants, books, and the not-so-rare piano practice. It was the sort of place you can’t live in but also can’t leave, as it intrigues you so to walk up and down its carpeted stairs never knowing what you will encounter next. You might walk downstairs for breakfast one morning and find that one of them has invited his theatre crew to rehearse in the dining room ahead of their show. And all day you are left wondering where they stored the enormous dining table.

      That night they all met for dinner to discuss the ground rules for shared spaces, which they maintained for a mere week afterwards. Walking into any room already occupied by another person felt like invasion. Her very presence, the awareness of her existence in that house, inconvenienced them and produced constant speculation. Sitting down for the meeting consisted, thus, of the act of occupying territory that wasn’t hers. She paid rent, you see, without a signed contract, so she was cordially invited to exist there, so long as her breathing was too loud. They whispered about the easiness with which she paid such a steep price for a mattress on the floor by a desk and chair, while brushing aside the knowledge of who set such price.

      The meeting was short, held in Dutch, and translated into English for her sake, for none of them admitted to speaking her native tongue. Even to passively listen, she remained a burden, an effort to those around her. They were all fluent in English but not too keen on speaking it, just like the French, it turned out.