‘Brilliant! Have you brought a passport photo?’
‘In my bag!’
We strolled to what Waldemar had confirmed was the town hall.
‘Although I must be honest with you, I have never been here before. This is my first time at the Grand Place. Because I live 120 kilometres away.’
I found this a very shoddy excuse. I mean, I was all the way from England, and even I’d been there five minutes before him.
‘Thank you so much for coming, Waldemar. I really appreciate it.’
‘That’s okay. It’s not so far for me. Only 120 kilometres.’
Suddenly, someone else was present.
‘Have I come to the right place?’
‘Are you here to join me?’
‘Of course. I’m Steven.’
So now me, Waldemar and Steven were standing in front of the town hall. It was working! I found it hard to believe. A part of me had genuinely thought that I would be standing, lonely, all evening – a sad picture of a man, but a man with determination. I had found encouragement in the eyes of Waldemar and Steven. I felt sure we could get others. I knelt down and wrote JOIN ME BELGIANS on my huge piece of paper. Steven translated it, and wrote the Flemish words underneath: DOE MEE BELGEN. I held it aloft and looked out at the hundreds of people currently pottering around the square.
And then there was movement. In the corner of my eye, someone was walking towards me. The sign had acted as confirmation as to who I was and what I was doing there. On the other side of the square, someone else was moving towards me, too – slowly, casually, but definitely towards me. We made eye contact as he got closer.
‘I’m Wim,’ he said. He was a tall man with grey hair, probably in his forties. ‘I’d like to join you.’
‘My name is Katleen,’ said a voice to my side. I turned round and shook her hand.
‘You are very welcome,’ I said.
She’d been there for an hour, she said, and Waldemar confirmed he’d been there since 4.30. Their keenness made me happy – it was what Join Me needed. And now, look: in the middle of the square, two men were picking up their bags and starting to walk towards me. One had a notepad, the other a camera. The press had arrived! I waved at them, and they waved back.
Before I could say anything else, next to me, two girls, giggling and short, said: ‘We are here to join you!’
Another lad, in skater gear, raised his hand. ‘Hi Danny,’ he said.
I was becoming overwhelmed by Belgians.
I shook hands with the journalist and photographer, who’d travelled fifty miles to be there. ‘Hello Danny,’ said the journalist, Raymond, ‘Can we watch?’
I started to reply but someone was putting something in my hand. A passport photo.
Another person arrived. ‘I’m Joan,’ she said. ‘I saw you on TV. I would like to be part of your club.’
Moments later, there were two more; a boy and a girl, both bearing passport photos.
I was heartened. But I also started to panic. What did they expect would happen when they arrived here? Was I supposed to have brought sandwiches? Or make a speech? How was this going to end?
Another photographer strutted up and started taking pictures at random. A crowd of non-joinees had begun to gather around the outside of the group. I held the sign in their direction. A few turned away, embarrassed, but one man stepped forward.
‘Join you for what?’ he said.
‘You’ll find out,’ I said.
He hesitated, looked to his friend, and looked back.
‘Okay, sure.’
His friend smiled and followed him.
Two more!
A man on a bike, whose name, I would later find out, was Baert, cycled up to me very quickly, skidded, got a passport photo out of his pocket, thrust it in my hand, and then sped off again. He was like a hit-and-run joinee.
The assembled joinees, about twelve of them at this stage, chatted and laughed together. An old man had broken away from the crowd of spectators and stood by my side.
‘What is the purpose of this?’
‘We’re joining each other,’ I said.
‘And why does it take a British people to do this?’
‘It doesn’t – these are all Belgian people.’
‘I am very septic to the British. You want isolation.’
‘We can’t help it,’ I said. ‘We’re an island.’
‘I don’t care. Why don’t you join Europe?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ I said. ‘I’m uniting the people of Belgium with the people of Britain, and the wider world . . .’
‘HA!’ he shouted and batted me on the arm. I say ‘batted’. It was more of a punch, hidden behind a mock-friendly veneer, ensuring he could whack me but I couldn’t slap him back. I, Danny Wallace, had just been punched by an elderly Belgian! Days don’t get much better than this.
More people approached and joined me. Some stayed, some left. The photographers were keen to take pictures.
‘Danny, can you sit on the steps there, and the joinees behind you?’
This was great. Even he was calling them ‘joinees’. And they were happy to be referred to as such. I had fallen in love with this country.
We got into position for the photo.
‘Wait,’ came a voice from the square somewhere. ‘Can I join you?’
A young, happy-faced girl bounded towards us. The joinees cheered as one and welcomed her into the throng. ‘Philip! Join us!’ she shouted.
Her friend, Philip, trudged towards us, coolly, with the air of an art student about him. The photographers waited patiently for him to reach us. He stood at the side and postured moodily. He was a scowler. But he had joined me.
Katleen – now Joinee Van Veen – smiled. ‘The power of television, huh?’
‘I never expected this,’ I said. And I hadn’t. I was now surrounded by a group of around twenty-five Belgians. Most had a photo with them, some were promising to send one along, but each was now shaking the hand of another, each was making a new friend. One joinee, Inge, said she had to go because the bar she runs should have been open ten minutes ago but she’d got carried away. I thanked her for coming, accepted her photo and a business card, and sent her on her way. I was sure her customers would understand.
I surveyed the scene, and sensed that the time had come for me to say something. I didn’t know what it would be. I cleared my throat. Not because I needed to, but, I think, because that’s what I’ve seen people on telly do when they’re about to address a crowd.
‘Joinees,’ I said, making eye contact with as many of them as I could. ‘I thank you. I thank you for coming today, and I thank you for joining me. As you know, each and every Friday is a special day for those who have joined. Today is Friday, and you have done something nice already. You have made me happy. But next week, I would ask you to do something nice for someone else. Something unexpected. Something random. Something that will improve their day. You are now a very important part of the Karma Army. You are the Belgian Collective. You are at the heart of Europe, and will set an example to other joinees, throughout this fine continent.’
I had started to ramble. I knew I had to stop, before I started using words like ‘moreover’ and ‘hence’. How could I end this? I had an idea.
‘Now, all that remains is for us to complete your initiation into Join Me. Joinee Inge runs a bar called . . .’
I found her business card and read it.
‘. . . La Sorciére De Heks. It is now the official Join Me bar in Brussels.’
The crowd made a mental note of this, I could tell.
‘Last night on telly, I promised you all a beer. I am no liar. Please . . . join me for a pint . . .’
The joinees applauded and whooped and I led my army of Belgians through the streets, press still in tow, until we’d found the right bar. Apart from two young men and a bloke in a trilby, the place was empty. Joinee Inge smiled a broad smile as we walked in, and the barman looked s
hocked as a sudden influx of people filled the room. We put four or five tables together, and sat around, talking, drinking, laughing and having fun.
We talked about Belgium, about my other joinees, about life in general. Joinee Steven talked me through one of his favourite subjects – Belgian chocolates – and the whole group chatted and jabbered like we’d been friends all our lives.
I’d been slightly worried about Waldemar, though. He was the first person to have met me at the town hall, but he’d been quite quiet throughout the evening; bordering on the withdrawn. I sensed he wasn’t the type to talk over another, to be overbearing, or to force his point across, and I liked him for that, but I was concerned about whether he was having a good time or not. I was about to lean over and make sure, when he unexpectedly called for our attention, and addressed the room.
‘Excuse me everyone,’ he said.
The tables quietened down, respectfully.
‘Who here has had a good year?’
A few people raised their hands, a few others murmured positively. All eyes were on Waldemar.
‘Because I have had a really good year. I didn’t expect to go to Canada, but I did, and I loved it. And I didn’t expect to meet my girlfriend there, but I did, and she is wonderful. And I really did not expect to be sitting here, in this place, with you people, tonight, who I think are great. So thank you. All of you.’
There was a heart-swelling second of silence after he said this; one which I’ll savour forever. He’d been so quiet, and yet, inside, this had meant so much to him.
‘Kaas,’ I said, lifting my pint, saluting this magnificent moment.
There followed another second of pure silence, this one made rather less touching by the fact that the table then erupted with laughter. The previous day, I’d asked someone how to say ‘Cheers’, and apparently he’d thought I wanted to know how to say ‘Cheese’. That, or he was a wanker.
‘Proost!’ someone to my side tried, rescuing me, and this seemed to work far better. The table raised their glasses to Waldemar, and then to each other, and then we carried on with the very taxing business of laughing and fun.
At the end of the night, I paid the bill, which, to be honest, I think Inge may have slightly ‘fixed’ to my benefit – another good deed on her part – and Joinee Steven walked me back to more familiar streets.
‘That was a lovely thing Waldemar said, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ Steven agreed. ‘I think he will be a great joinee.’
I left Steven on the comer of the Grand Place, where he was going to wait to be picked up by his mum. Still a student, he also had to be up early for his Saturday job.
‘If you are around tomorrow, Danny, I will be dressed as a mobile telephone and I will be handing out leaflets nearby. You could come if you like . . .’
‘It’s tempting, Steven, but I’m on the first flight home.’
I shook his hand and gave him a little hug. ‘Thanks,’ I said, but I was really thanking Belgium.
‘It’s been great.’
CHAPTER 18
COME ON, ARLENE . . .
Dear Danny
I saw you on De Laatste Show last week and I am now a very big fan from you. I would ask you please to send me a signed photo from you.
Arlene Baptiste (14)
Rue M**** B*****
Antwerp
Belgium
Dear Arlene
No problem. I will find something and sign it for you – if you Join Me!
Danny
Dear Danny,
Thanks but No, I don’t want to join but please send me you photo.
Thanks you
Arlene
Dear Arlene,
I really must insist you Join Me. But I will definitely send you a photo and a souvenir from London too.
Danny
Dear Danny
No, I don’t want to joins you, but what souvenir?
I don’t want to join
Arlene
Dear Arlene
You have to Join Me to get the souvenir. That’s the deal. Please Join Me.
Danny
Dear Danny
no, i wont join but what souvenir?
Arlene
Arlene
You have to Join Me.
Danny
Dear Danny
no
Arlene
Arlene
Yes
Danny
Dear Danny
STOP. NO. I DO not want to JOIN YOU. I write NO MORE.
goodbye danny. not ask me to join you any more.
Arlene
Arlene
Join Me.
Danny
Dear Danny
I am the parent from Arlene Baptiste and I would ask you please to not pester my child any more.
Greetings
Olivier Baptiste
Olivier
How about you, then?
Danny
(No reply)
CHAPTER 19
6. Now Daniel’s knees smote one against the other, for his cogitations much troubled him.
7. But there was a letter sent unto him by Katleen of Veen.
8. And the letter held goodly pleasant things, and words of peace and truth.
9. And Daniel made a joyful noise.
I HAD RETURNED to London a proud and happy man. And a man who possessed a clutch of new, colourful passport photos. Plus, I was big in Belgium. Fair enough, most of us are. But to those of you who aren’t yet . . . imagine the feeling. I was now that most coveted of dinner party guests . . . a minor Belgian celebrity!
Incredibly, no one at Heathrow had recognised me. The woman on the tills at the snack bar had treated me rudely. My bus was late. I just couldn’t understand it. This would never have happened to me in Brussels, back among my own people.
I got back to the flat and checked my messages. There were three on my answerphone; one from my mum, one from someone offering cut-price electric garage doors, and the last, a message from Hanne.
‘Hi Dan. You’re probably asleep, poor thing. I tried your mobile in case you had it in bed with you, but I think it’s broken. The ring tone wasn’t normal and then it went to answerphone. Anyway, call me when you’re feeling okay and I’ll make you some soup or something. Bye.’
No, the ring tone wouldn’t have been normal. The British brrr-brrr would have been replaced by a single, continental brrr . . . Did she suspect anything? She’s Norwegian, after all, and she phones home often enough to be familiar with the ring. The guilt rushed over me. Until I checked my emails.
The people of Belgium had apparently been rather busy while I’d been exploring their capital, the day before. De Laatste Show had mentioned the Join Me website, and a whopping 103 Belgians had sent me messages of support out of the blue – better yet, each and every one of them wanted to join me.
Hi Danny,
I just saw you on television and I think what you are doing is great. It is funny and controversial. I like it very much.
Can woman join? I am a 30 year old girl from Ghent, Belgium, with a perky spirit and lots of good to share.
Ilse
xxx
Of course perky, good-hearted Ilse could join. And Geovanni and Blijke, too. And Els, Verona, Nathalie, Nele, Ciska, Wilfried, Didier, Tamara, Huda, Björn, Sophie, Joost, and all the other Belgians – including a man with the surname Slootmaekers, which I continue to enjoy to this day.
Mr Slootmaekers, first name Pierre, wrote:
I consider seriously to join the novel army of JoinersMe. I’ve never been a member of whatever organisation, except the professional organisations I have to relate to professionally (Chemical Society UK, American Chemical Society, the Dutch and also the Belgian Chemical Societies and so on . . .), but this idea seems to me so silly and altogether so sympathetic, I can not see any objection to Join in . . . So tomorrow morning I will post my passport picture, and wait to see what will happen . . .?
I imagined this serious c
hemist-type, probably with white hair and in his seventies (which, with a name like Mr Slootmaekers, he must surely have been – and, as it turned out, was) and smiled. Slootmaekers. What a fantastic name. Joinee Slootmaekers. And how good the word Joinee sounded in front of it. And in front of every joinee’s name, in fact. Only one other word, in my experience, has that kind of quality; the kind of quality that means it will sit incredibly well in front of any person’s surname. I’d first noticed this at school, when it had quite easily become my all-time favourite way of referring to anyone and everyone – Thicky.
Not because everyone around me was slow, or portly, or was a lisping skiver always throwing thickies. But because it worked.
Thicky Benson. Thicky Ballard. Thicky Nicholls. Thicky Noble. Thicky Lingwood. Even Thicky Slootmaekers.
Thicky Clinton, Thicky Thatcher, Thicky Hitler. Thicky Mussolini.
And here I was, discovering a new and exciting word that also fits that bill. Joinee. Brilliant.
I wrote back to Mr Slootmaekers, and each and every other Belgian joinee, with details of how they could join me properly, and I sat back, safe in the knowledge that within a few days I’d have even more passport photos to add to my collection.
And then the phone rang.
‘Hello, it’s Hanne.’
‘Thicky Knudsen!’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Listen, I’m just down the road from you, and thought I’d pop in. We need to talk. Are you still contagious?’
‘Nope, I feel pretty much okay now.’
‘I’ll come round then.’
‘Cool,’ I said, looking around me to see what evidence of my trip I’d have to shove into a cupboard.
‘Stick the kettle on. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
I sprang into action.
Half an hour later Hanne arrived at the door.
‘Sorry – took longer than I thought it would.’
There’s a fashionable shoe shop down the road from me. The sooner they shut it down, the sooner Hanne will start making it round to my flat on time. Still, her tardiness had allowed me time to receive another email to do with my trip to Belgium. Apart from the article in De Standaard and the appearance on De Laatste Show, the Belgian media had been quite into Join Me. Reporters and photographers from Het Belang van Limburg, Gazette van Antwerp and Het Laatste Nieuws had turned up at the Grand Place, and journalist Raymond de Condé – a very nice man in a yellow jacket, with a quiet, unassuming demeanour – had come along to the official joinee bar afterwards, too. He’d written his article and it appeared, along with a photo of me accepting passport photos and holding my sign, in Het Belang van Limburg. Joinee Vanden Bossche had scanned it in and emailed a translation to me, to the very best of her translating abilities . . .
Join Me Page 25