Psalm 82

They are visual artists, both of them. She has long flowy hair and sad eyes. He is bald and smiles when he is scared. She goes out and collects beautiful things, clothes, and furniture. She has a good eye for finding quality amidst junk and she can recognize a bargain. She decorates their spacious apartment in Antwerp tastefully, with plenty of natural light due to the high windows, so she can hold him like nobody else can, in exquisite surroundings. He captures movement and vulnerability with his camera. He notices when her vein pulses and depicts it as a river amidst fertile lands. He sees her like nobody else does.

Today they are busy. She has received an e-mail from social services. They will be paying a visit.

‘When?’ he asks.

‘Soon.’ No time to lose.

‘Why?’ he asks.

She looks up from her laptop for a moment into his puppy-dog eyes and smiles. ‘I’ll make us some tea.’

He smokes by the open window.

‘There is something I need to tell you,’ she says.

‘I thought as much.’ They warm their hands on their mugs of mountain tea.

‘I have deceived them,’ she admits truthfully.

‘Who did you deceive?’

‘Social services,’ she explains, ‘the council. I told them we are just co-housing, that we are not a couple.’ She shrugs.

‘But why?’ he asks.

‘Because of my benefits. If they know that we are together I would probably receive less because they would consider your income,’ she explains. ‘But I earn very little, surely that wouldn’t influence their decision on how much to give you, we can barely make ends meet,’ he objects.

‘I know,’ she says, ‘but do you trust them? Do you trust their legal decisions, do you trust they’ll understand our plight? Do you trust them to do justice to the poor and the helpless, to actually help the wretched to gain their rights?’ Her eyes flash as she continues: ‘Will they shield the needy and deliver them from evil?’

He looks at her in surprise, he knows the strength of her emotions, but he has never heard her speak like this. Her words sound almost biblical. She stares at him sipping her tea. He nods, more to comfort himself than anything else.

‘The answer is I don’t,’ she says calmly. ‘They don’t know, and they don’t understand. They stumble around in darkness while this city sinks, and the artists drown first.’ She smiles bitterly.

‘What do you propose?’

‘Will you help me lie to them, so they won’t cut down my benefits?’ She asks without missing a beat.

He is silent. He is aware of his own helplessness as a migrant who does not speak the language, as a man who loves her and depends on her. Does he even have a choice? His eyes glide over her collection of German vases from the beginning of the twentieth century, the fine light blue curtains she put up that frame the window so lovely, and then he looks at the mural. She made it, it is a self-portrait in a pastoral setting, the farm where she grew up is in the background, in front it shows her sitting by her donkey with an eternal tear gleaming in the corner of her eye.

‘I will deceive them,’ he says.

‘How?’

‘I will do whatever you ask of me, I will say whatever you tell me to say, I will deceive and prevail.’

They toast their teacups as if they are drinking ouzo instead of mountain tea. Then they get to work. It is a busy day.

He admires her thoroughness. Not only do they prepare the obvious: separate bedrooms, refrigerator sections and cups for their toothbrushes. She also pays attention to the background story, nonchalantly spreading pictures of her vacation with a female friend, only those where their heads are close together and even one of them kissing. She drills him on their new origin story: They met through a photography project; they share a creative spark. She has not travelled to meet his family in Greece, he went by himself, and she only went on trips with her friend, girlfriend, in this new reality.

The visit of the representatives of the council goes smoothly. She is excellent in setting a stage, and he is devoted to her. The council sends her a report afterwards in which they note the roommates have met each other through communal hobbies. She scoffs at this diminution of her passion. He strokes her hair. ‘You were right,’ he says. ‘Even though they are the council, and they seem to hold the power, they do not understand. They only see what is right in front of them. Like all other rulers they will fall, whereas you, your vision, your work, your creations are meaningful. Rise goddess, do Antwerp justice, for the people are awaiting you.’