by Tikiri
“Merci, monsieur!” Luc said, giving his best smile to the men. “Dank u wel!” He came back with the dishcloth in hand, breathless, his cheeks a bright pink.
I took my time covering the cakes. I wanted the world to see their fluffy swirls. With one woeful look at us, the dog followed its human colleagues. We watched with half-frozen smiles as the officers disappeared into the crowd.
I let out a breath. “Phew, that was close.”
“Good thinking,” Luc said. “Now how to get the hell out of here?”
“There can’t be that many exits out of this place, can there?” I glanced around but it was hard to see between the crowds and the crowded rows of buildings.
Luc didn’t answer. His nose was on his phone, trying to zoom into the map.
“Maybe we should ask someone?”
“No,” Luc said, but he was only partly paying attention to me, his fingers busily tapping on the map.
I saw her right in front of us. It was a slightly hunched woman, with perfectly done-up white hair, a designer tote in one hand and a smart-looking umbrella in the other. She was alone, carried no camera, and was walking toward one of the chocolatiers, using the umbrella as a walking stick.
“Bonjour, madame,” I said, turning to her. “Good afternoon,” I added, remembering Luc’s language tip earlier.
She looked me over from head to toe and sniffed.
“Excusez moi,” I said. “Are you from Brussels?”
“Absolument,” she said, without a smile.
“We’re looking for the pissing girl. Do you know where she is?”
“Pissing girl?” she said, giving me a look of severe disapproval.
“Er,” I said, “I meant to say the girl version of the boy over there, going to the toilet. The one peeing, I mean urinating.” I felt my face go warm.
“Ah, you mean the Mannekin Pis? He’s our symbol.”
“Asha,” Luc said, in a warning voice. I felt his hand pulling on my elbow, but ignored it.
“Yes, but we’re looking for the girl.”
“Jeanneke Pis!” the woman said, tapping her umbrella on the ground impatiently. “The brother is named Mannekin Pis and his sister is called Jeanneke Pis. Do you not know this?”
“No, sorry,” I said. I felt like I’d touched a raw nerve.
“You have to get these things right, you know. And you must also refer to Zinneke Pis.”
“Zinneke?”
“Asha.” I felt Luc pull at me, but I couldn’t just leave now.
“You did know there is a dog in the family, did you?” the woman said, now standing close to me and fully engaged in what I could only think of as educating yet another dumb tourist. “Brussels is not all about beer, as you young people think. There is culture here! You need to learn the places you travel to!”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to offend,” I stammered, regretting starting this conversation.
“Well, you should be sorry.” She stepped up to me, her gray eyes drilling into mine. “When you go to London you see street puppet shows. When you go to Paris, you visit Montmartre, and when you go to Copenhagen you learn about the Little Mermaid, do you not?”
“Er…thanks so much, madame, but I think I have to go—.”
The woman raised her umbrella and pointed to an alleyway we hadn’t noticed earlier. “That way. You will find your pissing girl there.” She said those last few words with more venom in her voice than I thought necessary. “Between the pub and the lace shop. Do you see it?”
“Yes, madame. Merci beaucoup, madame.” I almost curtsied. “Un grand merci.”
“Well, at least you speak some French,” she said, looking slightly satisfied. “In a terrible accent, my dear, but at least you try.”
I didn’t know what to say. Nothing, I thought, before I offend her further.
“Foreigners.” She shook her head and walked off, her umbrella clicking angrily on the cobblestones with every step.
“What are you doing?” Luc whispered in my ear as he pulled me away, this time for good. “We’re super late!”
“She helped us, didn’t she?”
“We can’t go around talking to people like that with drugs in our hands.”
Shhh,” I said. “Don’t say that word.” I still hadn’t come to terms with what I was doing. Aiding and abetting a drug sale. One more thing to add to my rap sheet.
We hurried toward the alleyway the old woman had pointed to. As soon as we stepped into the corridor, the air around us changed instantly. We’d moved from the hustle and bustle of the large square full of tourists, to a cooler, darker little street with almost no one around. A few pubs and small restaurants scattered the alleyway, but they were quiet, dark, brooding.
“There!” Luc said, pointing. “I see her!”
A roar of laughter nearby startled us. We turned around to see three young men shakily climb out of a narrow stairway from a sunken doorway. We were standing next to the entrance of an underground pub. The sign above the steps said, “Delirium, all five hundred Belgium beers on tap and more.” The men stumbled down the alleyway, barely keeping upright.
I squinted to where Luc had pointed. I saw her in a secluded corner of the street, on a ledge in the wall, and secured behind a grill.
The “pissing girl” was a pigtailed three-year-old made of dark gray limestone, squatting naked on a high-placed mantel with a tiny stream of water flowing between her legs into the fountain. Her impish face looked up with an expression that said “What you looking at?”
I smiled at her cheeky little face.
“She’s cute,” Luc said. “I like her better than the pissing boy.”
“Me too,” I said. “But how come she’s hidden over here while her brother’s up there in front of all the tourists?”
“Bonjour Monsieur Luc,” a deep voice said only inches from our ears.
Luc and I jumped, bumping our heads.
Chapter Thirty-two
I looked up to a see a skinny, clean-shaven man in a pinstriped gray suit, white shirt and ultra-thin tie. He was leaning casually against the wall, in the shadows next to the fountain.
He’d been there all along watching us, I thought. Even in the dim light, I could see he was smart and sharp, not at all what I’d expected a drug dealer to look like. There was no comparison between him and the thugs I’d seen on the street earlier with their torn leather jackets and scruffy jeans.
“You must be Monsieur Fred,” Luc said, with a slight bow of his head.
“C’est correct.” The man beamed, showing tobacco-stained teeth. “Bonjour mon ami.”
“Bonjour,” Luc said, and softly nudged me. “This is Julie. I mentioned there’d be two of us.”
“Yes, yes. We were looking forward to seeing you. It is indeed a great pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle Julie.”
“Moi aussi,” I stammered, trying to remember the high school French I’d learned back in Canada. “Ravi de vous rencontrer.” “Great to meet you too.”
“Americaine?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Even my French accent betrayed me.
Fred bowed his head and for the second time that day, I felt I should curtsy. While he looked a lot like Zero—the same olive skin, dark brooding eyes and curly, short hair—his manners were exquisite, and nothing like the crazed man back at the house.
“Sorry about the delay,” Luc said. “We’ve been walking all over the place looking for the—” He cocked his head toward the little naked girl squatting behind the grille bar. “Looking for her.”
“Have you seen her esteemed brother on the other side of La Grand-Place?” Fred asked.
We nodded.
“He is indeed popular with the tourists and is one of Belgium’s national treasures.” Fred flashed a big smile. “Did you know that statue is more than three hundred and fifty years old?”
“Wow,” Luc and I said in unison.
“Legend tells us how Brussels was under attack and the enemy had s
et up a fire to burn the city down.” He paused.
I looked at Luc. He was listening intently.
Fred continued. “But a little boy who saw the burning wick pulled down his pants, urinated on it and put the fire out. Imagine that.”
Luc nodded with a grave expression on his face.
I looked at both of them closely. Is all this code for something?
“That statue was built in the memory of that brave young boy,” Fred said, raising his arm so expansively, his jacket flapped open, showing the gun on his belt. That was not done accidentally, I was sure.
Fred smiled at me. “I should know all this. You see, if I may say so humbly myself, I do have a doctorate in world history.” He bowed again.
“Bravo,” Luc said.
Fred straightened up and cleared his throat like he was about to give us another history lecture. I was completely at a loss for words. It seemed like we’d just met the most educated and polite drug dealer in all of Europe. But we didn’t have time for this, not with Katy tied up in the attic.
I nudged Luc. “We need to be getting back home soon, no?” I said.
“Monsieur Fred,” Luc said, his worried face returning, “May we talk business now?”
“Non! Absolument non!” Fred looked appalled.
I drew back in surprise.
“You must never rush business,” he said. “Why, we just met. One must have a good mint tea first and inquire about each other’s families at the least.” He shook a long, skinny finger at Luc. “You’ve been hanging out with our dear American friends too long. Haha!” He laughed at his own joke.
“Sure. Tea’s fine,” Luc said uncertainly. He pointed at the tray I was carrying. “We did bring your merchandise. It’s right in there.”
I daintily lifted the dishcloth to show what was underneath.
“Cakes?” Fred said, beaming. “They look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said automatically.
“This is the delivery,” Luc explained.
“Come now, mes chers amis, come this way,” Fred said, stepping out of the shadows. “I know of a very good coffeehouse where we may sit and enjoy some good Moroccan tea. I would be delighted to discuss your lovely cakes then.”
We stepped behind him, perplexed.
“Are you sure he’s the right guy?” I whispered to Luc. He shrugged.
“Monsieur Luc,” Fred said, turning back to us.
“Oui, Monsieur Fred,” Luc replied quickly.
“Your reputation from London precedes you, mon cher monsieur Luc, did you know that?”
Luc’s face went slightly pale.
On our way to this rendezvous, Luc had explained how these gangs worked across Europe, and the intricate but dangerous alliances they formed, arrangements you didn’t want to mess with. According to him, they were stronger than the European police forces and Interpol combined, and had their own free trade system, now that international borders were open within the EU. We had to tread carefully.
The three of us walked down the street, with me flanked by the two men. Luc remained silent, while Fred did all the talking.
“So you like sweets?” Fred asked. “Have you tried any Moroccan sweets yet, mademoiselle?”
“No,” I said. “Never had any.”
“Well then, we must certainly try some date cake today. It’s from my homeland, Morocco,” he said, spreading his hands out. “How lovely it is to introduce new friends to good foods they’ve never tried before!”
I forced a smile.
“Do you know what a date cake is?”
I shook my head.
“It is indeed an exceptional dessert,” he said, kissing his fingertips. “Superb, but not difficult to make. I bake it for my mother’s birthday every year. Dates are very healthy for you, you know, and it is the oldest cultivated fruit in the history of mankind.”
I looked at Luc, puzzled. Who is this man? A drug dealer, a world historian, a foodie, or a nutcase?
Fred led us through the maze of cobblestone streets to a coffeehouse a few blocks from the pissing girl’s fountain. Walking in, my mind flashed back to the hookah bar I’d stumbled into almost four days ago in London. This café was lit with pale lights. A haze of smoke from the hookah pipes hung in the air. Red and gold tasseled cushions were laid out haphazardly on beautiful Persian carpets. Like last time, there were only men inside. Luc stepped in, looking distinctly uncomfortable. I guessed he hadn’t expected this. Neither had I.
Fred led us to a dark corner where a blue rug was strewn with piles of cushions.
“Please,” Fred said, bowing deeply to me. I removed my shoes, stepped onto the rug, and kneeled down. I placed the cake tray in the middle of the carpet and gave Luc a look that said, You take care of this. He’s your problem. We sat in a circle, frozen smiles on our faces, nodding awkwardly at Fred’s history anecdotes, until a waiter came to take our order.
The waiter, dressed in embroidered pants and shirt, looked like he’d just been whisked out of Aladdin’s magic lamp. On his head was a blue turban, and on his feet were Arabian slippers I’d seen before at the immigrant market. But what struck me most was the curved steel dagger on his belt. Since when do waiters walk around with naked knives in their belts?
In a quiet voice to the side, Fred ordered mint tea and date cakes for us. He turned and flashed his grand smile at me again. “You will absolutely love the cake, I assure you, mademoiselle. They make it almost as good as I do. Haha! Almost.”
I smiled back politely. “I’m sure I will,” I said, feeling my stomach constrict slightly.
“The trick is to keep the oven temperature low and leave the cake in longer. That is what makes it moist. And a moist cake is the most important thing, isn’t it?”
I nodded noncommittally.
“So tell me, how do you keep your cakes moist?” Fred smiled in earnest. “Do tell.”
I shot Luc a worried look. Was he talking about real cakes, or the delivery we’d bought with us? Luc gave a miserable shrug.
“Well,” I said, turning back to Fred. “Using the best ingredients always helps, but when I make my island fruit cakes, I soak them in rum and let it marinate for a while. That makes them really moist.”
I felt Luc gently squeeze my elbow. Fred fixed me with an unhappy expression.
What?
“That is a very interesting idea, indeed. A very interesting but foreign idea,” Fred said, shaking his head. “You see, we do not endorse alcohol in baking, mademoiselle. Or in anything for that matter.” He looked at me sadly, like he was offended to the core.
“I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean any offense—”
Just then, the waiter came, carrying a bronze tray with a fancy teapot and cakes.
Fred made a grand gesture of serving us tea, and we drank in silence for a few minutes. The waiter, however, didn’t leave. He stood silently behind us, like a mysterious jinn waiting for his master to call for him. I tried not to look at Fred. I wanted to leave this place, and leave it fast. Tetyana’s quick-thinking street smarts were all they had to rely on back at the house, but even she might not be able to tackle Zero, with or without Win’s help.
Luc cleared his throat after a sip. “This is delicious tea, Monsieur Fred.”
“We use the best in the world.” Fred smiled happily again, all his teeth showing. Something about it made my body and mind go on full alert, like I had to prepare to defend myself. From what exactly, I didn’t know.
“This is the tea of the Berbers, the first settlers of Morocco,” he said, and turned to me. “Did you know the Berbers can be traced back to almost four thousand years ago? Four thousand years of North African history in this cup of tea. Imagine.” He paused and looked at me. “Now, tell me, my dear friend from across the Atlantic, how old is the United States of America?”
That was a rhetorical question, I knew. I stared at him silently.
“Only two hundred and thirty odd years, I believe,” he said, smil
ing prettily. “You’re a very young nation indeed.”
I’m not even American. I gave him a frozen smile. He calls himself a historian and he forgot all about the—.
“Well, of course, you must not forget to take into account the aboriginal cultures that survived well before that.” He winked at me.
“Ahem.” Luc cleared his throat, louder this time. “Is this a good time to get into business, Monsieur Fred?”
“Absolutely, we can discuss business at any time you desire, Monsieur Luc,” Fred said, spreading his hands out as if he’d never suggested anything different.
“Okay, then.” Luc lowered his voice and pointed discreetly at the cake tray in the middle of the rug. “The merchandise has been secured inside there.” That was my cue. I pulled the dishcloth off with a swoosh, and my make-believe cakes beamed under the light, looking tantalizing and devilish, just like they were supposed to. Our job was over. It was time to go back.
“Ah!” Fred said, “How delightful. Are these your creations, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.” I nodded. Despite their looks, the cakes smelled to high heaven. And for good reason. I wondered if Fred smelled them too.
After our group huddle near the attic with Tetyana, I’d followed Win to the basement. She was right. There was nothing edible in there. On top of what she had already discovered, I also found a gallon of petrol in a rusty can in a corner. With Win’s help, I picked up what I could use and walked into the kitchen. Within half an hour, I’d made a dozen barely risen, tasteless, toxic cake-like objects. Since I couldn’t find any baking pans in the kitchen, I used leftover aluminum foil instead, just like I had for my very first batch of real cupcakes in Goa.
Once the cakes were baked, I hollowed them out, inserted Luc’s small packets snug into the holes and covered them back up. Then, as Luc and Win watched, fascinated, I used the smashed boil potatoes to make yellow swirls of topping on each cake.
“You must tell me the origins and name of these exotic sweets,” Fred said, looking at me expectantly.