Brussels Noir

by Michel Dufranne

  So Tchantchès found the ideal spot to hide my mermaid. I don’t know who will be able to help me now.

  In the time of the one who wouldn’t grow up, the rat-, cat-, and hyena-people united under their chief, regularly accepted visitors to their territory if the reason was good, the beer stout, and the discretion infallible. Today, their vigilance is unrelenting. It’s almost impossible to outwit them.

  Till moves away from the bar, leaving me to my thoughts. Pierrot’s hand still rests on my shoulder, comforting me. I know I can always count on him for support. I don’t want to worry him about my memory, but I need his help to come up with a plan to save my lady.

  The mermaid whose face I’ve forgotten might be safe in the Brussels baths, since they’ve stopped chlorinating the water, but I wouldn’t give her—or her scales—much of a chance in Tchantchès’s hands. The trickster of Liège has particularly violent sexual habits.

  But first I have to let my anger subside a little, to grab hold of the memories that are still drifting around l’Arrosoir. Somehow, the walls of this place seem to preserve the memory of everything that happens here, of all those who pass through. I try to match my breath to the rhythm of the music and the clinking glasses. I keep my head lowered while taking in the room around me: the long bar, the worn leatherette benches sagging under the weight of one too many patrons, the mirrors reflecting a panoply of images and colors, the yellow door that leads to the back room reserved for the master of the house, the red door that leads upstairs.

  Gradually, as my breath becomes easier, memories start to surface: the mermaid’s little cries of delight at the premonition of violence that seeps from the walls; her insistence on visiting the upper floors, and how impatient she is to find the cursed room; her fervent sighs as she discovers the stench of the tortured cadaver that haunts the house; her eyes lighting up as she counts the rusty nails in the framework; how she jumps in surprise at the sight of the ghost-dog running past; my suspicions that force me to lead her back downstairs despite the excitement rising through my body, filling me with desire; the tricksters’ laughter as we descend the staircase; this mermaid who reeks of pheromones; Pitje, Till, and Tchantchès who watch me with contempt, who look her up and down, grinning.

  I try to convince my mermaid to let me take her somewhere else, to end our night in a quieter, less crowded place. But all the attention she’s getting only fans her flames. She doesn’t sense the danger. Her feral smile reveals the sharp teeth of an aquatic predator, but she acts the lady, bats her eyelashes, gliding from one man to another, from one boy to another. She wants to play. It wouldn’t take much for her to start singing. She refuses to listen to me. I take her by the elbow and try to guide her toward the door. She resists, orders a Screaming Orgasm from Sam the Rascal, and pouts at me, saying that she wants to make the most of this, to let these admiring gazes wash over her, to feel the eyes of the three powerful tricksters on her pale, green-speckled skin.

  Vince le Rouge’s boys try to come to my rescue, but he holds them back. Till and Tchantchès laugh at my boldness. Slowly, without rushing her, I steer my mermaid away from the bar, toward the street and the night that awaits us behind the immense door. But she uses all her charms to resist me. Pitje approaches her, slowly runs the tips of his fingers over her transparent skin, adorning it with finely braided plant motifs in the art nouveau style, to the delight of this lady of the sea. I avert my eyes, do my best to hide my anger—and yes, my fear—but the look in my eyes, the tension in my body give me away. It’s the mermaid’s turn to laugh at me. She teases me for worrying, tries to wear down my resolve with little caresses. The lure of so many glances, of so much feverish, unsatisfied desire, is even more powerful than my need to protect her. She glides toward the bar, where the zwanze flows as freely as the booze. That’s when I lose her completely.

  I make my way over to the bar, try to convince Pitje to let her leave with me, appealing to our shared memories, our common struggles. He responds only with a cruel laugh.

  The Lost Boys stand up and close in on me, trying to pull me away. Fortunately for me, Vince le Rouge intervenes, sending his protégés over to help me. They carry me away from this den of shadows, but not before Till slips a glass of beer into my hand; it’s as amber as my lady is blond. Without thinking, I drink it down in one gulp.

  So that’s how I lost my memories! How Vince le Rouge and his men came to lay me down at Pan’s feet. Hoping, perhaps, that he would be wakened by my suffering. That he would finally be able to escape the gardens where the three pranksters imprisoned him.

  As the events come back to me, my mind is flooded with thoughts, with unfamiliar sensations; all at once, I know that a part of my being is inhabited by the conscience of another. I wonder if it’s him. If he can help me. If I might somehow, in the smallest way, be of help to him.

  Slowly, I regain my footing in reality. The presence of Pierrot at my side becomes palpable, and I sense the invisible rope of trust that binds us. I sigh. It takes some effort not to let my shoulders drop, to keep my head held high. I force myself to sit up straight on my stool.

  I can hear the ghost of the hanged man moaning through the staircase. Does he, too, sense the presence of the exile? Is he trying to communicate? To wake me?

  The tension in the room is thick. Everyone is looking back and forth between me, Vince le Rouge, and Till, the only lord among us, wondering how we will react.

  I grab Pierrot by the arm, lean on the invisible rope that binds us, and signal to him that we have to leave, to go somewhere else and talk it over. Perhaps we can round up some allies to help us free my spellbound mermaid. But first—right now—we have to leave this den of shadows.

  * * *

  In the end, I lead him toward the Palais d’Egmont; something draws me back to the place where I regained consciousness. Is it him, in my head? No matter, the calm of the park will help me recover from the chaos of the bar.

  Pierrot asks no questions, is content to support me in silence. His presence and his strength reassure me; even in the face of my distress, he is calm. When I stumble, he holds me up with a swift movement of his arm. I gradually find my center, and my breath becomes slower, deeper.

  When we arrive at the statue of Pan, I let go of Pierrot’s arm and lower myself carefully onto the grass, resting my head on the pedestal. For an instant, I close my eyes. The stone quivers beneath my head, the ground beneath my body; it trembles softly, almost like a caress. I let go completely, abandon myself to the sensation. At the edge of consciousness, I can see Pierrot crouching down beside me. He doesn’t touch me, but I know in my bones that he’ll stay—no matter what happens.

  I came back. I brought you my memories, they won’t disappear again. Did you wait for me? Where are you? I can feel your spirit in me, all around me. Where are you?

  I feel a shudder run through my entire being. Is that even possible? My body becomes tense. Pierrot’s distant voice soothes me. The trembling intensifies, and suddenly it’s as if I’m trapped in a vibrating cocoon. My bones pulse, about to break. The clamor of an explosion bores into my eardrums. Scraps of metal and dust fly everywhere. I feel a shock against my chest, my stomach. A twisting pain. I open my eyes.

  Pierrot helps me to my feet, dusts off my jacket with his hands. At the same time, he manages to hold me up, to support me when my legs give way. His breath warms my face; I feel the strength coming back into my limbs.

  The sound of panpipes turns our heads, and we see the exile standing there, escaped from his bronze prison. Tinker Bell flutters around his crown of auburn curls. Wendy is holding a rabbit, a squirrel perched on her shoulder.

  Pierrot and I both nearly fall backward. The boy who wouldn’t grow up laughs with unrestrained joy. The tiny fairy has just covered us with a scintillating dust. The wise young girl approaches, intent on comforting us. Pierrot and I exchange a bewildered glance, then break into raucous laughter, stumbling around.

  As we finally collapse side by side,
out of breath, I try to get my thoughts in order. I hiccup, I stammer. Peter leaps into the air, turns around, shakes himself off like a young fawn.

  “How?” I can’t keep myself from asking.

  “What does it matter?” he laughs. “We have a mermaid to save, a neighborhood to take back, tricksters to chase off! Comrades, let the adventure begin!”

  “But . . . but, how?” I feel profoundly awkward, ridiculous. Am I stupid? What did I think? That the prince of Never Never Land was going to fret over his strategy? The size of his army? That he’d want to take time to reflect?

  “There aren’t enough of us,” I say. “We can’t take back the Marolles like this! Don’t forget who you’re dealing with!” I shout, eyes brimming with tears of laughter and disbelief.

  “Not for long! All the statues are waking: Manneken Pis is racing up rue des Grandes Carmes, his little sister Jeanneke, rue des Bouchers; Madame Chapeau is taking rue de la Roue, the Water Carrier has already crossed la Barrière de Saint-Gilles with her pails across her back . . . Children, peasants, nobles, guildsmen, animals—they’re leaping down from their pedestals, from their horses! They’re racing up rue des Grandes Carmes, up rue des Bouchers! They’re coming from Saint-Gilles, from Notre Dame du Sablon, from Jeu de Balle, from everywhere! So we’re only five now, but just wait, by the time we get to la Chapelle, we’ll be thousands strong. All of Brussels will come to our call, even the meiboom will pull up its roots and join in the march. The bars and the cafés are emptying, the brasseries too! And all along the Senne, that river that will one day rise again, pei and mei, ketje and keeke, bomma, bompa, and zinneke call out to each other in solidarity. Walloons, flamoutches, bruxellois—they’re all marching to meet us. Don’t you feel our city coming to life?”

  Oh yes, I do. I feel it. Pan! Let’s bring them to their knees.

  ___________

  2. A typical bruxellois spirit of mockery, derision, and self-deprecating humor.. Return to text

  3. Someone who acts pretentious (literally, “fat-neck”).. Return to text

  4. Diminutive of Zenne, a name given to bastard dogs and bruxellois.. Return to text

  The Other Half of a Life

  BY AYERDHAL

  Gare Centrale

  This isn’t any ordinary train. It’s a train you catch on the fly, when you have time to spend hours staring into the eyes of cows. It never travels faster than 120 kilometers an hour, a speed it only reaches twice—when passing fields of beets and potatoes along a stretch where the land is farmed rather than lived on. (There isn’t much to life there, anyway, except for the winds that change with the seasons and the rains they sweep along with them.) Then come more brick houses, bell towers, train stations, and bridges that straddle the lazy canals and rough roads. The cars rattle over switches, the wheels screeching against the rails; a few passengers step off and many more rush to board, in greater numbers as the train approaches a city, especially from Antwerp onward.

  Jeroen boards a few stops after Rotterdam. A young woman is seated alone in a four-seat compartment, facing against the direction of the train, a tablet asleep on the table in front of her. He greets her in Dutch with a Flemish accent and asks if she’d mind if he sat across from her. She responds in English, apologizing for not being able to speak Dutch very well. She understands it but can’t speak it, finds the sentence structure confusing. Jeroen assures her, in English, that this doesn’t bother him in the least. She tilts her head to the side and her eyes brighten.

  “French works for me too,” she says.

  Jeroen greets this remark with an oblique smile. “My accent?”

  She corrects him: “Your intonations. Typically Francophone. I can’t hear them in Flemish, I haven’t had enough practice. But in English, they jump right out at me.”

  “Never could get rid of them. But I’m not Francophone, not really. I grew up speaking both languages, Flemish at home, French at school—and brusseleir in the bars, of course.”

  His smug way of letting her know he’s from Brussels. She smiles tautly, out of politeness.

  “Sun Hee,” she introduces herself.

  “Jeroen . . . or Jérôme. I never really had a chance to decide.”

  “Well then, I’ll call you Yerroon.” She corrects herself: “Jeroen. How is my pronunciation?”

  “It was fine the first time.”

  “That’s nice of you, but I know my limits.”

  “I was being sincere.”

  Her eyes tell him that she doubts it; she looks out the window for a moment before turning to face Jeroen again.

  “What does your name mean?”

  Jeroen grimaces, embarrassed. “Etymologically, it means sacred name.”

  She bursts out laughing, but immediately stops herself. “Excuse me. I’m in no position to mock you. In Korean, Sun Hee can mean a lot of different things, but my parents meant it in the sense of fairy of hope.”

  “That’s very poetic.”

  “It’s not an easy name to carry—and I’ll spare you the other interpretations.”

  The car is nearly empty, the countryside a vast open space. A vaguely overcast sky hangs above tall white turbines, their blades turning slowly. To ward off boredom, Jeroen has only his e-book reader in his backpack on the seat beside him; Sun Hee, the tablet in front of her still turned off. Conversation is an alternative they attempt as one might explore an old-fashioned amusement park. It’s a haphazard stroll, a game without stakes, a momentary excursion. The questions are innocent; the responses, superficial, do not prompt further questions, are simply stated and acknowledged. Jokes serve as punctuation, reflected glances out the window as line breaks, cues to change the subject.

  Sun Hee is from Busan, the second largest city in South Korea, and grew up in a neighborhood where Russian was spoken almost as much as Korean. She started her studies in biology before focusing on molecular genetics, and received a scholarship that allowed her to continue her university work in Europe.

  “And you chose Brussels?”

  “Brussels chose me. A unit of Erasmus Hospital recruited me to join a project with a laboratory in Den Hague.”

  “A private lab?”

  She nods and turns her gaze toward the window.

  Jeroen, for his part, is bruxellois as far back as his family can remember. He’s been procrastinating at university, switching from one concentration to another within the department he finds crudely named “social sciences.” Everything interests him, nothing fascinates him. He piles up unfinished dissertations. He accumulates multiple undefended master’s.

  “You don’t have a project?”

  “Not exactly. For the moment, let’s say that I’m learning and trying to understand. I’m sure I’ll find something to do with it later.”

  The countryside passes by, the stations grow closer and closer together, the car gradually filling with passengers. No one asks Jeroen to move his backpack, or dares sit beside Sun Hee. It’s wrong to interrupt young people sharing the details of their lives with the curiosity of children, especially when there’s a certain tenderness about their shy complicity. They’ve created a bubble around themselves that the slightest intrusion would burst. They would become simple strangers again. They will, of course, as soon as they step off the train—that’s in the nature of these ephemeral encounters—but no one feels the right to deprive them of this almost-intimacy.

  Already, they look at each other differently. They see each other. Their gazes meet every so often through the reflection in the window, and they begin to smile at this code they’ve established in order to maintain their distance. She’s the one who finally looks away after refusing to answer a question.

  “I never talk about the studies I participate in. What happens in Brussels or in Den Hague stays in the labs.”

  “Military secrets?”

  “Commercial ones, actually, but that’s not the problem. You’d have to be a specialist to understand, and we don’t make a mystery of our work. We ca
n’t, for that matter, if we want to receive outside funding.” She lowers her voice. “What do you think of GMOs?”

  Jeroen remains speechless for a moment too long. She smiles at him sadly.

  “Now you know why I avoid saying that I work on the development of genetically modified organisms. People don’t understand. Not the reasons, the causes, or the consequences, let alone what drives me—and that I don’t even discuss with my colleagues. We all have secrets. This is mine, and I keep it so well that not even my thesis director has the slightest clue.”

  “You’re talking about your motivations?”

  “Yes, Jeroen. I can’t hide what I do . . . That would be absurd. But I don’t want to have to explain my reasons.”

  “I won’t ask you to.”

  “I wouldn’t answer you.”

  * * *

  Sun Hee’s eyes remain fixed on Jeroen’s. She no longer needs or perhaps no longer wants to be distracted by the landscape, now increasingly urban, passing by in the window. The train is approaching Brussels. All that’s left is to say whatever will allow them to go their separate ways, satisfied to have exchanged a little more than platitudes, to have confided what cannot be shared except between strangers, with the exhilarating certainty that this will have no tomorrow and no consequences. They’ve already tacitly agreed not to exchange phone numbers, not to try to see each other again, to accept that they might regret this in a few hours or days—when it will be too late—precisely because they don’t want to look back. To do so would be to forfeit the freedom they’ve granted themselves.

  Jeroen lets everything out at once: “I wasn’t trying to dodge your question so much as to articulate an honest response. For me, GMOs bring to mind a catastrophic time bomb whose fuse is constantly being shortened by corporations for the sole purpose of lining their shareholders’ pockets. If you think you can convince me that reality isn’t as bleak as I see it, I’m listening.”