“Okay, okay, I’ll explain. The museum, back in the day, in the ninth century or so, was a house. A house that people lived in. This filthy-rich carpenter named Devos—like the mayonnaise Devos & Lemmens—had it built. He moved in there with his wife. Woluwe was still in the countryside back then. At one point, they had an addition built onto the house and soon after, poof! His wife died.”
“How?”
“That, I don’t know. But she died. Of old age, maybe. Anyway, Monsieur Devos was sad over it. But not for too long. He fell in love with a young chick, a singer, and he remarried!”
“And the table? When does that come in?”
“Here, now! The singer, she liked talking with the dead. People did that stuff a lot back then. It was before the Internet, you know?” Fat Dan laughed at his own remark, letting out a few snorts. “She decided to build a rotunda.”
“A rotunda?”
“Yeah, a rotunda. She moved a table out there and had séances with her snobby friends.”
“And did the dead teach her anything interesting?”
“Oh, yes. Of course. But we don’t know what. That’s all secret.”
“And the table is still there?”
“I think so. Anyway, the rotunda is. When Monsieur Devos died, the singer lived there all alone for a few years. Then she donated the property to the municipality of Woluwe, under the condition that the house would become a museum and the park would be opened to the public. Now there are donkeys, goats, rabbits, and birds of every color . . .”
“And guinea pigs too!”
“Yes, Joseph, that’s true. I forgot about the guinea pigs.”
Dan wasn’t sweating at all anymore. He had captivated his audience. Joseph and Moana were astonished by their friend’s knowledge of history. Who could have imagined that such a well of information was tucked away at the back of that fat head? Dan himself, absorbed in his story, had forgotten that the most beautiful woman in Woluwe was sitting beside him, her bare thighs next to his greasy jeans.
“You think we could ask to use the rotunda and the table?”
“No way, don’t even think about it!” said Joseph. “These guys are civil servants. My father was a civil servant for a long time. I know them, they’re nothing like photocopy machine operators or royal gardeners. They have rules to follow, opening and closing hours to enforce, permits to check, and they’re very serious about it all. Forget it! It’s an awful idea, the rotunda.”
“We can go at night!”
“It’s closed at night.”
“Sure, but we’ll open it. We’ll force the door a little, and voilà! No one’ll even notice.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Oh, come on, I’m telling you this for your friend’s sake. If you want to help him find out what the future has in store for him, I’m just saying, there’s only one solution: the rotunda!”
Moana was in favor of the plan too, perhaps even the most enthusiastic. She was crazy about talking to the dead.
* * *
At five o’clock the next day, Joseph waited, black sunglasses on, for Dan and Moana at the entrance to the park. The cages that housed the rabbits, guinea pigs, and various species of parrot lined the left side of the path between the chaussée de Roodebeek and the museum. Fat Dan was completely defenseless in the presence of so many adorable two- and four-legged creatures. He stood frozen, his fingers grasping the wire mesh. He started making sharp little cries, attempting to imitate the birds’ songs. Then, at the end of the path, where the aviaries were replaced by pens, the large white goats drew him in. And when he saw the donkey, he looked like he was going to melt. Joseph pulled him along by the elbow.
An elderly woman walking with her grandchildren called out to Moana: “Mademoiselle Sainte-Rose!”
Many of Moana’s clients assumed that Sainte-Rose was her mother’s last name and that it had been passed down to her by matrilineal tradition. Moana never corrected them. In reality, her surname, Adelphonse, had been passed down from her father, a snorkelling instructor in the Trois-Îlets whom she’d never met. Her mother had indignantly kept her own name, Sainte-Rose Monlouis-Bonheur.
“Mademoiselle Sainte-Rose, can I come by Thursday afternoon?”
“Of course, Madame Verstraeten. Your dress will be ready.”
Wide rings of sweat soaked through Dan’s T-shirt; he trembled all over and his breathing grew heavy. He approached Joseph and whispered into his ear: “Oh shit, we’ve been sighted!”
“Calm down, for God’s sake. It’s only a client of Moana’s. We have every right to visit the animals.”
Relieved, Dan turned back toward the donkey. Madame Verstraeten began chasing Dylan and Océane, her hyperactive grandchildren, and Moana came over to Joseph.
“Here’s the rotunda . . . The windows are barred . . . the door’s here, to the right. It looks like we can get in through there.”
“I don’t know, it seems pretty heavy. Dan? . . . Where’d that idiot run off to?”
Joseph’s eyes scanned the row of pens and finally landed on Dan, who was kneeling behind the dovecote, collecting dandelions. “Help! Over here!”
“Me?”
“Yes, you!”
“Why don’t you call me by my name? My name is Dan. At least I’d know it’s me you’re talking to.”
“I know your name, moron. Why don’t you shout your address at me too? You’re so discreet.”
“Oh shit, sorry, I forgot . . . Do I have time to feed the donkey some dandelions?”
“Drop your dandelions and haul your ass over here!” Joseph raised his hand to his forehead in disbelief. “Take a look at that door. You think you can break into it without a tank?”
Dan ran his hand over the perimeter of the door as tenderly as if it were the neck of a donkey or a pony. Then he kneeled to examine the lock.
“Discreet! Be discreet, please.”
“Yeah, yeah . . .”
Fat Dan declared that with a crowbar and some biceps, the door would give in fifteen seconds. They’d have to be sure that no one was around, however, since the wooden frame could make a cracking sound as loud as a gunshot.
That same night, Joseph explained to the prince that he was expected the following Tuesday at eleven thirty on the dot, at 314, chaussée de Roodebeek. He advised him to come in an ordinary vehicle. Not one of his brother’s Ferraris. And above all, not in a helicopter. The keyword was incognito.
* * *
Tuesday came quickly, but the last few hours crawled by at a snail’s pace. In the time it took for them to drink two Ramées at the Tap, night had gathered the living to its dark breast. Joseph leaned over and grabbed his faux Nike bag at the foot of the barstool. His eyes slid over the curves of Moana’s long legs. Her camouflage-patterned skirt, though very short, added a hint of elegance to their nocturnal expedition.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Just what we need. You know, the blunt instrument that’ll get done what we have to get done.”
“The what instrument?”
Aside from words that pertained to the proper use of photocopy machines, Dan had difficulty with overly technical vocabulary.
Joseph, Moana, and Dan walked across Meudon Square, at the center of which a small palm tree was doing its best to grow far away from its family.
“Moana, you’ve got everything ready?”
“Don’t worry, I looked on the Internet, watched some videos on YouTube. It’s not that complicated. If you let me lead the way, we’ll be communicating with spirits in no time.”
“My blood’s running cold! Can’t I stay outside while you do your macabre stuff?”
“Better ask this now . . . Moana, will it work with just three people?”
“Yes, and even with just two.”
They walked along avenue Heydenberg, brushing past the facades like nervous vampires, and headed down avenue Speeckaert. The chaussée de Roodebeek was shrouded in a darkness that the streetlights couldn’t penetrat
e.
“Stop! Let’s stake out here, by the wall.”
The three apprentice criminals hid out behind the cars and bushes around the parking lot, on the corner of the chaussée de Roodebeek and rue de la Charrette.
A small orange truck pulled into the parking lot. On its side, azure-blue writing spelled out the words Zeebroek Dry Cleaners. Beneath the lettering was a golden lion against a black shield with the royal crown resting on top—the coat of arms used by suppliers to the Court. An individual dressed all in white, wearing a bizarre floppy hat, his face hidden by a black net, stepped out of the vehicle. He moved as clumsily as a poorly inflated Michelin tire. Closing the car door, he noticed the three accomplices lying in wait behind a Ford Fiesta from the previous century.
“Joseph, it’s me!”
“Your Highness!”
“Himself, but incognito.”
Amused and intrigued, Moana stood still, her arms stiff by her sides, her hands pulling at the hem of her miniskirt. Fat Dan, his mouth frozen half-open, did not seem to understand what was taking place before his eyes.
“Good evening. It’s me . . . the friend of my old gardener here . . . But anyway, let’s be careful. We can’t let anyone find out about this.”
Moana asked what she should call him.
“Better not to use my first name, or my title. You can call me ‘the beekeeper.’ I like that, the beekeeper. And it goes with my outfit.”
Then Fat Dan finally understood the provenance of this creature in a baggy jumpsuit with a black screen over his face.
They didn’t kowtow; the confidentiality of their mission obliged them to throw etiquette to the wind. To maximize efficiency and reduce risks, Joseph took charge of assigning code names. He agreed on Beekeeper for the prince. Dan became Photocop, and Moana, Thimble. He dubbed himself Spliff.
* * *
While the residents of Saint-Lambert slept, tossing and turning in their pastel Swedish quilts, the four creatures of the night braved the darkness of Roodebeek Park. The chickens were asleep in their feathered nests and the long-haired rabbits snoozed like dormice. Dan stopped three times to try to get a better look at them.
“Come on, Photocop! We’re not here for that.”
Not the slightest sound disturbed the park. Joseph thought back to the moments when he’d collected the buds of cannabis in the moonlight. He suddenly had a terrible longing for a joint. But then he heard Dan calling the donkey.
“Little one! It’s me, your friend Dan!”
“Aw, shut up, Photocop! You want us to get caught? Leave the poor creature alone, he has the right to some sleep.”
“But I—”
“You nothing! Come open the door for us, then you’ll stand guard. It’ll take us ten minutes at most.”
They skirted the shrubs that surrounded the dovecote and made their way toward the green door. The museum looked asleep too, with all its windows closed. Joseph opened his bag, took out the crowbar, and handed it to Fat Dan.
“You don’t have the key?”
“No. But don’t worry, Beekeeper, Photocop is an expert. At least that’s what he told us.”
“I told you fifteen seconds, and it’ll be fifteen seconds, Your Highness the Beekeeper.”
“You’ll be careful about it now, hmmm?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Dan pushed with all his weight against the handle of the instrument. Strange veins appeared on his neck and forehead. The effort wrested a little grunt from him, which quickly rose into a deafening “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrhhh!” The frame buckled at last, the lock exploded into pieces, and the door swung open. Dan, drenched in the sweat of a conqueror, let his muscles relax back to their original gelatinous state. But that didn’t keep him from lifting the crowbar above his head and yelling one last, “Banzai!” Like an echo, the sound of the donkey’s braying reached them.
“Shut up, Photocop! Shut up, for Christ’s sake!”
“Okay, okay . . . Well, fifteen seconds, yes or no?”
“Yes, Photocop, good work. Bravo. Now can you keep guard? Silently?”
“Of course! I’ll wait over behind the dovecote. Now go make the table turn. But be careful, okay? Don’t wake up too many evil spirits.”
“We’ll be fine. Isn’t that right, Thimble?”
“Yep, Spliff, no problemo!”
Joseph pulled a flashlight from his backpack, turned it on, and plunged into the cultural abyss of the Woluwe-Saint-Lambert Museum. Moana and the prince followed him.
“I’ll send you a check for the door.”
“We haven’t used checks for years, Your Beekeeper.”
“Well, I’ll be damned, you’ve taught me something, Thimble.”
* * *
Fat Dan looked to the right, then to the left, then to the right again. His gaze swirled. He stepped forward, stopped, stepped forward, stopped again, held his breath. He listened to the rustling of the leaves. He walked back over to the pen of the donkey, who’d been woken by the sound of the exploding door.
“Hello there. You remember me, little donkey?”
The animal saw in Dan a friend of animals. The latter pulled up a few handfuls of grass and reached between the bars of the pen. With equine grace, the donkey puckered its downy lips toward the measly twigs. Suddenly, the animal turned bright blue. Dan was mesmerized, but the donkey went back to normal. Then he was lit up again. He flickered. The entire pen flashed electric blue every few seconds. Dan turned around.
A police car was coming up the path. It drove past Dan and stopped in front of the museum. Two cops got out, sidestepping the dovecote. The beefier of the two, with the handsome, thick mustache typical of Brussels policemen, turned on a flashlight. The beam crisscrossed with the pulsing blue light, swept over the facade of the museum, and lingered on the debris of the broken door. The cop made a sign to his partner, who walked back to the car and announced over the loudspeaker: “Woluwe-Saint-Lambert police! Come out with your hands up!”
Dan had followed the the cops the whole time without their noticing. He approached them now, crowbar in hand. Joseph, Moana, and the prince—decked out as if he were going to collect honey—came out of the building.
“Set down the flashlight and the bag and put your hands on your head!”
The policemen, no doubt unaccustomed to dealing with such extreme criminality, were nervous. They kept their guns pointed at the suspects.
“Anyone else inside the museum?”
“No, Monsieur Policeman.”
The cop shot the crowbar right out of his hands, then aimed at the others.
An irrepressible fury took hold of Fat Dan. “Don’t shoot at my friends, you bastard! They’re not criminals!”
The cop shot again. The sound of the bullet whistled in Dan’s ears. A terrible howl tore across the night: “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiihaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” The donkey’s cry stiffened at the back of its throat as it fell on its side, dead. The ground trembled.
A ghostly silence fell over the museum esplanade. Dan, completely disoriented, let go of the crowbar and began to choke back sobs. Tears soon flowed down his cheeks.
“My d-donkey,” he stammered. “They killed my little donkey, the bastards . . .”
“Go join the others, you. Next time, I won’t miss.”
The four accomplices lined up with their backs against the facade.
“You, the beekeeper, take off your hood!” ordered the mustached cop.
“Ha! Would you look at that, he looks just like the prince!” exclaimed his colleague. “The spitting image.”
* * *
Joseph was placed in the care of the State Security Service witness protection program, which assigned him an absurd new identity: Melchior Magritte. They moved him and his cats into a white-plastic mobile home on a bank of the Semois, banning him from returning to Brussels or making contact with his family and former connections. Once a month, the guy in the Hawaiian shirt came by to check on him and left an envelope containing 1,600 e
uros. Melchior never learned what had become of his friends. When he got lost in his memories, he would see Fat Dan crying over the dead donkey. And he liked to fall asleep thinking of Moana’s smile, but visions of Thimble’s pert little breasts and too-short skirts plunged him into a Caribbean agony.
The Tuesday of the break-in, a spirit had spoken through the young woman’s feverish mouth. The voice had announced that the prince’s coronation would take place on July 21, 2013—National Independence Day.
A year had passed since His Highness the Beekeeper had become the King of Belgium. Melchior wondered if he still harvested cannabis on his estate and if, sometimes, at nightfall, he sat on the bench facing the pond and smoked a joint, remembering all the good years with his friend Joseph the gardener . . .
ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
Barbara Abel, born in 1969, is an aficionado of theater and literature. At twenty-three years old, she wrote her first play, L’esquimau qui jardinait. In 2002, her first novel, L’instinct maternel, won the Prix Cognac. She was selected by the jury of the Prix du Roman d’Aventure for Un bel âge pour mourir, adapted for television in 2008. Her works, which have been translated into several languages, include Duelle (2005), La Mort en écho (2006), Illustre inconnu (2007), Le Bonheur sur ordonnance (2009), La Brûlure du chocolat (2010), Derrière la haine (2012), and Après la fin (2013). Since 2009 she has been a columnist for Cinquante degrés nord, a daily cultural magazine distributed by Arte Belgium.
Katie Shireen Assef is a writer and translator living in Oakland, California. Her prose and translations have appeared in journals such as Joyland, Asymptote, M-Dash, PANK, and Weird Fiction Review. She is currently translating the novellas of French writer Valérie Mréjen, to be published by Phoneme Media in 2017.
Ayerdhal (1959–2015), awarded the Prix Cyrano for lifetime achievement in 2011, played with literary genres with a mastery that earned him numerous awards. After having renewed Francophone science fiction in the 1990s, he did the same for the thriller genre with, notably, Transparences (2004, Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire) and Rainbow Warriors (2013, Prix Bob Morane). He passed away in October 2015.
Brussels Noir Page 24