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Cecilia Manguerra Brainard shares THE ONE-NIGHT STAND AT THE FRANKFURT BOOK FAIR, a work of fiction inspired by her visit to the Frankfurt Book Fair in 2024. This was first published by the Philippines Graphics Reader on May 2025.
Cecilia is the award-winning author of three novels: When the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Magdalena, and The Newspaper Widow. Her Selected Short Stories was awarded the 40th National Book Award. Her work has been translated into Greek, Turkish and Finnish. Her books have forthcoming translations in Portuguese, Japanese, and other languages. For more information, please visit her official website at https://ceciliabrainard.com
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MARIBEL GLANCED AT HER PLANE SEAT, grateful that she had the aisle seat and only one seat beside her. Her seat mate was a young woman who had her ear buds on. Maribel was grateful for that too; she didn’t have to chitchat with her. After making sure she had her passport, eyeglasses, and valuables in her small cross body bag, she tucked her backpack under the seat in front of her. She buckled herself, and settled into her seat, ready for the ten-hour journey from Los Angeles to Frankfurt.
While passengers and the airplane attendants bustled around her, she closed her eyes and tried to push away the sadness of the past few days. She had been in LA for the funeral of Lou, her school friend, partner in countless girlish escapades, and later, companion to more serious political marches. They were both writers and they had written their share of articles to try and right wrong (human rights, justice, gender equality, extra-judicial killings). Later, Maribel had found her voice in her political-yet-entertaining fiction. The two women had kept in touch even when Lou had migrated to the US and married an Irish-American.
It was Lou’s husband who had organized a wake just the other night, the first Irish wake Maribel had attended. The food and drinking were not foreign to her—Filipinos did the same thing—but the public sharing of personal anecdotes was new to her and moved her. She had always known Lou was intelligent, feisty, sensible, yet fun-loving, but she learned more about her friend from the teary-eyed witnesses: how brave Lou had been during her three year battle with cancer; how thoughtful she was of others despite her own falling hair and excruciating pain.
The stories were difficult to listen to; Maribel’s own husband had died from cancer five years ago. The sorrow inside of her that she thought was gone had bubbled up once again, and Maribel found herself struggling to contain grief and the other accompanying emotions: sadness, anger and that awful feeling of alone-ness … of being totally alone without God even, in this vast universe ... completely on her own in the only life that she had.
She was lost in the swirl of emotions when she felt a sharp kick to the back of her chair. “Excuse me!” she said, and she turned to glare at the perpetrator. “Pardon me,” a man said. He was around thirty-five, slender and tall, like a basketball player, with legs and arms sticking out all over the place. Maribel realized this tall man was just trying to find a comfortable position when he hit the back of her chair.
“No problem,” she said, embarrassed at her outburst. Earlier, she had reclined her seat and now she straightened it up to give him as much space as possible.
“Thank you,” he said, as he struggled to find a comfortable position, bumping the back of her seat again, which she ignored.
After a meal (pasta or chicken?) she tried to catch some sleep because she knew she’d be busy in Frankfurt. She was excited to be a Philippine delegate (one of seventy) to the Frankfurt Book Fair, the largest book fair in the world. She was looking forward to meeting other writers and publishers, attending literary events and talks; and she looked forward to meeting her literary agent for the first time. A couple of months before her trip to Frankfurt, she had met a German consultant online who loved her two novels and connected her with Adela a Czech literary agent. In a matter of two weeks, Adela had sold the Czech translation rights of one of her novels, with more possibilities brewing. “You will meet your charming Czech publisher in Frankfurt,” Adela had messaged.
When the plane landed and passengers were getting ready to disembark, Maribel saw the tall man unfurling his arms and legs as he struggled to get out of his seat. “You had a miserable time, didn’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, looking exhausted.
“When you check-in, you can ask the airline person for a seat with legroom. My husband used to do that. They will often help you.”
“I did,” Tall Man, said with a long solemn face. “I tried to get Premium economy, but all seats were taken. Business class is almost twenty thousand dollars, a ridiculous amount.”
“You have to be charming. Choose a woman at the desk and smile,” Maribel said, and the woman beside her, who had finally removed her ear buds, laughed. Tall Man cracked a smile.
He walked with her to Immigration and later out to the curb where she called for an Uber ride. “I’ll wait until you’re in your Uber,” he said. When her luggage was in and she was seated, he said good luck, waved goodbye, then fumbled with his phone.
Her Uber driver was a young man who was showing off his knowledge of English. “May I be bold and ask you how old you are?” he said.
She smiled at his bluntness. “Older than your mother,” Maribel replied.
“I ask because even though you are old, you are very attractive. Still sexy, you know.”
Shaking her head, she laughed. But in her heart she was glad she had kept her weight down and that she took care of her skin. Her body was fine, but she wondered about the rest of her.
“You can ask me anything,” he continued.
Maribel looked out at the clouds and said, “Where’s the sun?”
The Uber driver laughed. “This is not California.” Earlier she had mentioned that she had come in from Los Angeles.
He dropped her off in front of her hotel, which was near the Frankfurt fairgrounds. It was a five-star hotel, modern, with theme rooms boasting psychedelic murals on the walls. She had decided she would be safer staying near the book fair. She did not want to take the train in the evenings.
Her room was spacious with floor length picture windows that brightened the room and allowed some kind of view, office buildings mostly and a square below with some trees. The wall behind the bed had a zany mural that included Queen Elizabeth and George Washington on a bike holding a huge dollar bill. Just a few steps away from the hotel was the Skyline Mall with a supermarket.
She bought some fruit, nuts, and a bottle of Frankfurt apple wine (she had read this was a specialty of the area). Then she got ready for the Opening of the Frankfurt Book Fair, a two and one-half hour event, riddled with speeches in Italian, German, and English, most of which expounded on the importance of books to ward off autocracy. Maribel knew many of the delegates and she found some close friends to spend the evening with—(after the program, some wine at the reception, then dinner nearby).
She slept reasonably well, got up early, stared out her picture window, and despite the gray sky outside, felt expectant. She made some coffee, ate some fruit, then walked to the fairgrounds, which was just across the street, closer than she had expected. There was a long line of people at the entrance, but after a security check, some meandering through the various halls and stands, she was at the Philippine National Stand by nine. She chatted with people until it was time to head for the Czech Stand to meet her 9:30 appointment.
Adela, bubbly, statuesque, all smiles, greeted her. “Your publisher is here,” she said. “Jan wants to meet you. He loves your writing. He wants to translate the other novel too.” Adela, turned to call Jan who was hidden by a divider. The man appeared and Maribel’s eyes widened before she laughed, “It’s you,” she said.
It was Tall Man from the airplane.
He laughed as well, while Adela looked at both of them, puzzled.
“We were in the same Lufthansa flight,” Jan explained. “I was in LA to visit my mother.”
Maribel said that she had to be in LA for business—she did not mention Lou’s funeral.
After a few niceties, Adela whipped out their agreement for signing. She had already emailed this to Maribel and Jan, so they had read it beforehand. They signed the documents, and not too long after, another business contact of Adela appeared. Maribel and Jan got up, said goodbye to Adela, and stepped away from her desk.
“It is this way here in Frankfurt, meetings back to back,” Jan explained. “We did not have time to discuss it, but I would also like to translate your other novel.”
She nodded.
“Then I will inform Adela. And I will let you know if the translators have any questions.”
“Yes, and if you need the actual books, I can send them to you,” she offered.
“I’ll let you know,” he replied.
They shook hands, said how glad they were to have met, then parted ways.
The rest of her day was filled with more meetings with publishers and other writers. The main thrust was to sell translation rights of Filipino books, and networking played an important part in this game.
By around 4 in the afternoon, she felt woozy and tired—it was jetlag. She decided to take a break and sit in a lecture about Jose Rizal. The Philippine National Hero had lived in Berlin and had his first novel, Noli Me Tangere, published there. Here in Frankfurt, Rizal was a precious link between the Philippines and Germany. She listened to the talk, tuning in especially to the fact that the publishing cost of Noli Me Tangere was kept low because the type-setters were women.
Then she dozed off, just briefly, then woke up with a start, feeling someone was watching her. It was Jan, seated beside her. “You were asleep,” he whispered.
She blinked her eyes, tried to clear her head.
After the closing remarks Jan said, “If you don’t have dinner plans, would you like to catch something to eat? There is a steak place nearby, or Japanese if you prefer,” he said.
She realized that she had not eaten lunch and that she was hungry. There had been a group of delegates talking about dining together, but the thought of being with more people that day tired her out. Despite the excitement of the day, her feelings still felt raw, as if her sadness could blossom once again. It wasn’t all about Lou’s and her husband’s deaths, but for a long time now, her school chat group had talked of nothing but their illnesses: one had a kidney transplant; one had a fall and was bedridden; another had a knee surgery that failed and now needed a wheelchair; most everyone was on medicines for high blood pressure or diabetes. It just seemed to her that death and decay were too close to her.
She said yes to Jan.
They chose the Japanese restaurant called Hanako in the Mall next to her hotel. He ordered Ramen; she ordered shrimp and vegetable tempura, which appeared in a huge platter with way too much food for one person. She offered some to him. He ate his Ramen and would occasionally pick a shrimp from her plate. This bit of intimacy amused her, added to the ease between them.
He was a poet and a publisher of a small press of Czech fiction and translations by famous foreign writers, and he assured her that she would be in that catalogue. He was full of questions about where her novels came from, what historic events in the Philippines had inspired her novels, which authors did she like, what books did she enjoy, many questions.
Talking to him made the time pass; it dispelled the gloom in her, and when they had finished eating and had paid, she felt a rising dread to go back to her hotel room. It was that feeling of alone-ness that she was afraid of. And near the exit of the restaurant, before they parted, she said, “I have a bottle of apple wine. Since Frankfurt is famous for this, I thought I’d try it. Would you like to see if it is any good?” she said.
“Only if you have sparkling water. Apple wine has a benign name, but it’s very potent.”
She said there was sparkling water in the refrigerator in her room, and they walked the short distance to her hotel. Briefly she wondered what she was doing, but her room had a sitting area, and they were simply going to continue their conversation.
They sat next to small round table near the picture window with the view of buildings with offices that were closing for the night. As they talked, this time she told him the real reason why she had been in Los Angeles. She talked about Lou, their friendship, details of their lives in the Philippines, Lou’s wonderful life in America.
He had attended the Prague School of Creative Communication, had worked in New York, returned to Prague and started his own publishing house. He was divorced, no children.
At some point her feet hurt, and she removed her boots. “The feet,” she said, and he laughed and straightened his spine and stretched out his long legs. “It’s been a long day,” she said, as she sat back down and shrugged her shoulders to loosen her muscles.
A lock of hair fell in front of her face, and he reached over to push it aside. They smiled at each other. He pulled his hand back, poured more wine, and they continued talking. Later, she got some nuts and fruits and served these on the table. He peeled open a mandarin, held out half the fruit to her, and they both ate in companionable silence.
She glanced at him and realized she felt contented, no, she actually felt happy. Sitting there, eating fruit and drinking apple wine with this man made her happy. And this thought upset her because many years ago, a man had made her happy and he had died. Meaning to end the evening, she said, “Do you have to get up early? I have a 9:30 meeting.”
He didn’t bite. “Frankfurt night has only begun,” he said. “There are clubs out there that are just opening. I should have taken you out.” The light shone on his face, such a young face, and attractive. This thought made her self-conscious about her own looks. She ran her hand through her hair. “My hair must be a mess,” she said.
He sipped his wine while studying her. “Look at yourself,” he said, pointing to their reflection on a large wall mirror. “You are beautiful.”
She glanced at her image and saw her disheveled hair, noted that most of her makeup was gone, but that her skin glowed and her features were even and she wasn’t bad looking really. She ran her fingers through her hair again. He reached over and touched her arm. “No, your hair is nice like that,” he said. He brought his hand up to her face and cupped her cheek briefly before withdrawing his hand. It was a tender gesture. Maribel did that often with the people she loved, cupped their faces before kissing them on the cheeks.
They were quiet for a while, but Maribel felt a shift in the room. There was something … something in the room that Maribel could not immediately define.
When he bent over to kiss her, then it was out in the open. It was a light kiss, but it came to her that the something in the room was desire --- this man desired her. She could feel his need, his desire for her. And when this something went on for a while, when this energy expanded and filled the room so that it could not be ignored, she said. “Jan, do you know how old I am?”
He smiled and shook his head.
“Let’s put it this way. You are as old as my son.”
“Does that matter? If two people…”
She stopped him: “I want to tell you something. I will tell you about my husband Ric. We met when we were in college, college-sweethearts you understand. We were happy together, and sometimes when we are happy, we feel invincible. We think our happiness, our good fortune will go on and on forever. I was wrong. He became sick; he had a rare blood cancer. The doctors who diagnosed Ric’s illness said he had a six-year survival rate. I didn’t believe them because we were invincible and besides I was going to ask God for a miracle. And Mary too. I would ask the Mother of God to give us a miracle. We went to Lourdes, Fatima, Medjugorje, pilgrim sites in the Philippines, but almost six years to the nose, he did die. It was not a pretty death. Well, I’m not sure any death is pretty. So you see my husband Ric and my best friend Lou both died from cancer. And these deaths have been on my mind, even in the plane when I first saw you. But talking to you today, being with you, has made me forget ... no, that is wrong because I have not forgotten … has allowed me to laugh and be happy despite this sorrow. Thank you.” She got up and dismissing him said, “But I think it is late.”
He stood up, towered over her. He put a finger to her lips to silence her.
She moved her head slightly and spoke in a soft voice, a pleading voice. “You see, I do not want to be hurt, and I don’t want to hurt anyone. It feels horrible to be hurt. It never goes away. Even when you think you have gotten over it, the feeling can rise up unexpectedly, and devastate you all over again.”
He bent down and pressed his lips to hers, warm lips, slightly open, his tongue touched hers.
She felt dizzy; she lost all sense of time, but she managed to continue, “You understand that this can be only a dream. Tomorrow, we will remember nothing of this. We will continue with our work. There will be no expectations between us, you understand. No waiting for phone calls, nor messages. None. No feelings of hurt. Nothing. Just this dream.”
He kissed her again, more passionately this time. She found herself kissing him back, pressing her body against his. Feelings that she had forgotten rose up, desire among them. Desire to feel a man’s arms around her, to feel the full length of his body against her, to feel his skin against hers, to feel his hands travel over her body, to smell and taste him. Desire to feel him on top of her, to feel him enter her, and be inside of her. To be one with him. It had been a long time.
This is only a dream, she said softly, as she led him to her bed on the other side of the room.
~END~
Copyright 2025 by Cecilia M. Brainard, all rights reserved.
BIO: Cecilia Manguerra Brainard is the author and editor of over 22 books. She has written three novels: When the Rainbow Goddess Wept, Magdalena, and The Newspaper Widow. Her recent books include her Selected Short Stories and Growing Up Filipino 3: New Stories for Young Adults. Her work has been translated into Turkish, Finnish, Greek, Japanese, Portuguese, among others.
She received an Outstanding Individual Award from Cebu, a California Arts Council Fellowship, a Brody Arts Fund, several travel grants from the US Embassy, National Book Award, Cirilo Bautista Prize, travel grant from the National Book Development Board, and other awards.
She taught at UCLA, USC, California State Summer School for the Arts, and the Writers’ Program at UCLA Extension. She served as Executive Board member and Officer of PEN, PAAWWW (Pacific Asian American Women Writers West), Arts & Letters at the Cal State University LA, PAWWA (Philippine American Woman Writers and Artists), among others.
She also runs a small press, PALH or Philippine American Literary House.
Her official website is https://ceciliabrainard.com.
AND MORE FROM CECILIA'S BLOG:
Author Cecilia Brainard Interview by Read Pinoy Philippine National Book Development Board
Cecilia Brainard Talks About Her Novel The Newspaper Widow and More - video link
A Book Fair to Remember (And Get Ready For), by Cecilia Manguerra Brainard, Positively Filipino
Carlos Roxas Interview of Cecilia Brainard re Frankfurt Book Fair
Cecilia Brainard's Travel Report of Frankfurt Book Fair 2024
Tags - Philippine authors, Filipino stories, Filipino writers, Philippine literature
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