Brussels Noir Read online

  Table of Contents

  ___________________

  Introduction by Iman Humaydan

  PART I: THE RAZOR'S EDGE

  Introduction

  The Parakeet

  BY BARBARA ABEL

  Saint-Gilles

  Daedalus

  BY KATIA LANERO ZAMORA

  Matongé

  Only Muddy Streams flow in Darkness

  BY PATRICK DELPERDANGE

  Rue d’Aerschot

  R I T U A L: Diary of Flesh and Faith

  BY KENAN GÖRGÜN

  Anderlecht Abattoirs

  PART II: SUR(REALISM)

  A Fraction of a Second

  BY PAUL COLIZE

  Palais de Justice

  The Other War of the Marolles

  BY SARA DOKE

  The Marolles

  The Other Half of a Life

  BY AYERDHAL

  Gare Centrale

  The Killer Wore Slippers

  BY NADINE MONFILS

  Place du Jeu de Balle

  The Village Idiot

  BY EDGAR KOSMA

  Rue de Flandre

  PART III: ROOM TO MANEUVER

  In the Shadow of the Tower

  BY ÉMILIE DE BÉCO

  Reyers

  Ecuador

  BY ALFREDO NORIEGA

  Ixelles

  Paint It, Black

  BY BOB VAN LAERHOVEN

  Parc de Forest

  The Beekeeper

  BY JEAN-LUC CORNETTE

  Woluwe-Saint-Lambert

  About the Contributors

  Bonus Materials

  Excerpt from USA NOIR edited by Johnny Temple

  Also in Akashic Noir Series

  Akashic Noir Series Awards & Recognition

  About Akashic Books

  Copyrights & Credits

  Introduction

  Beneath a Low, Gray Sky

  Genesis 11:1–9 tells us that God, angered to see the Tower of Babel rising to the heavens, decided to confound the universal language and scatter it over the surface of the earth; the text fails to mention that a piece of this tower must have landed in the center of the marshland north of Gaul, where, according to Julius Caesar, the people are the bravest (and the most barbarous) in the land, and given birth to . . . Brussels!

  Brussels the cosmopolitan, multilingual capital. Brussels, whose geography and demographics are reminiscent of a small rural town. Brussels, a city that tourists can walk across in a few hours, but that groans under the weight of its complexity and multiple identities. Brussels of a thousand faces, a city in the heart of Europe where communities live side by side in (almost constant) peace and harmony, without ever seeking to get to know one another. Brussels, at the center of all Belgian disputes . . . Brussels, the specter of Europe constantly raised by Europhobes . . . Brussels . . .

  It’s impossible to write about my city without first drawing a portrait of the bureaucracy at the origin of all its misfortune—and all of its richness. Brussels (or Brussel in Dutch . . . here we go!) is a small village of just over a million inhabitants, situated an hour and twenty-five minutes from Paris and two hours from London, Amsterdam, or Cologne. The capital of the federal state known as the Kingdom of Belgium, it is enclaved within the region—relatively autonomous, Flemish-speaking—of Flanders, of which it is also the capital (despite the fact that few of its inhabitants actually speak Flemish). But, to keep anyone from kicking up a fuss, it’s also the capital of the French-speaking community of Belgium, represented by an entity called the Fédération Wallonie-Bruxelles. And if this isn’t already hard enough to keep straight, Brussels also insists on being a region in itself, with its own elected government, which geographically covers the city of Brussels: a city made up of nineteen municipalities (arrondissements, for those who speak Parisian), the largest of which is named . . . Brussels. Are you lost yet? This is the moment to recall that, down to its very institutions, Belgium is a land of surrealism, of pragmatism, and of a certain irony—for want of knowing any better—and that all of this is part of the fabric of everyday life. I will spare you the symbolic titles of my city (the “capital” of Europe, of NATO, etc.)—and its history, which is also the history of the Spanish, Austrian, French, Dutch, in that order and disorder.

  Fortunately, Brussels, my city, is more than the sum of its administrative roles; it is also known the world over for bruxellisation, its tendency to destroy the urban fabric in the name of modernity, to the detriment of its residents; for its façadism, the practice of conserving only the facade of buildings and destroying the rest; for its urban tunnels and metro stations that overflow with commuters at rush hour, but are deserted the rest of the time . . . for its waffles, its chocolate, and its beer (phew)!

  A less than flattering portrait of my city? Perhaps . . . but have I not already mentioned Belgian pragmatism and irony? I should probably have also warned you about the excessive modesty of ces gens-là1 of the flat country.

  But is Brussels a noir city? The first response that comes to mind is the most bruxellois: “Well, no, maybe!” (a turn of phrase that translates, in the rest of the Francophone world, as, Yes, of course!); but reflection gives way to anxiety. From the Grand Place, preserved by the illustrious Freemasons of Belgium, to the legacy of Expo ’58; from the Brabant murders to the Heysel Stadium disaster, not to mention its judiciary history, Brussels is overflowing with stories and mysteries to feed any writer’s imagination. But does the city really spark the creativity of its own children? To ask the question is to plow full force into the wall of the Belgian inferiority complex, for if no one is a prophet in his or her own country, the Belgian is even less so. Belgian writers of every era have generally sought recognition in Paris, which has often served them well, considering the careers of Stanislas-André Steeman, Roger d’Arjac, Edmond Romazières, René Charles Oppitz, Paul Kinnet, and Jean Ray, to cite just a few authors who preceded the benchmark, the now inimitable (as Hergé is to the comic book genre) Georges Simenon. Faithful to this tradition, Belgian “genre” writers have blended, without fanfare, into the editorial landscape of their neighbors while preserving the sensibility—acquired beneath their low, gray sky so dear to Brel—unmistakable to any discerning reader.

  Whether foreigners in Brussels, or bruxellois expatriates, Belgians from either region or community of Belgium; whether Francophone, Dutch, or Hispanic, the thirteen (we’re not superstitious in my city) contemporary authors found in this anthology are bruxellois at heart and have found the words—often sharp, always affectionate—to describe their love for the city that gives rhythm to their days. Whether practitioners of detective fiction, thrillers, fantasy; whether comic book authors or, even worse, journalists, they will take you for a ride that is sure to be dark, funny, bloody, harrowing, whimsical . . . in short, Belgian!

  For our grand tour, please be seated, ladies and gentlemen readers, in Tram 33 . . . and no, there’s no rain in the forecast today, just a leaden sky; for that matter, considering the timetables of the STIB, it’s probably better to go on foot than to take public transport. We’ll explore the city center, that pentagonal surface defined by urban highways and a canal, home to the real old Brussels, the historic core. We’ll take a dainty stroll through an edifice that achieves the feat of being more vast and monolithic in style than St. Peter’s Basilica: the Palais de Justice. From there, it’s easy to glide down to the Marolles; then let your feet carry you from kabberdouch to stamcafé, as you wander in an ethereal, even surrealist mode through the heart of the city, and finally come full circle. Having whetted our appetites, we’ll play leapfrog along the boulevards to make our way to the inner ring road and tiptoe across the razor’s edge of the city, where blood, alcohol, and debauchery know how to coex
ist . . . or not. And if the life of the abattoir hasn’t sated you, you’ll have plenty of room to maneuver as you stray from the center and discover the oh-so-serene neighborhoods of the greater ring, home to our venerable European institutions above all suspicion.

  One last piece of advice before setting you loose in the streets of my city—always keep in mind this little tune of local folklore, which will remind you that you’re indeed in Brussels and nowhere else:

  J’suis bruxellois, voilà pourquoi / Bruxellois am I, and here is why

  En vill’ je suis chez moi / I’m at home ’neath this sky

  J’aim’ de flâner sur le boul’vard / And on my city’s boulevards

  Au milieu des richards . . . / Where all the rich folk are

  Mais bien plus qu’eux je suis heureux / But much more gay am I than they

  Car je m’content’ de peu / At the end of the day

  J’arrang’ ma vie selon mes sous, / I’m content with what I’ve got,

  Je ne suis pas jaloux . . . / A jealous fellow I’m not . . .

  —Jan de Baets, “L’Heureux Bruxellois”

  Happy reading!

  Michel Dufranne

  Brussels, Belgium

  March 2016

  ___________

  1. The title of a song by the late Belgian singer Jacques Brel.. Return to text

  PART I

  THE Razor’s Edge

  The Parakeet

  BY BARBARA ABEL

  Saint-Gilles

  If I remember well, it was my husband who had the idea. Jean isn’t usually bursting with initiatives, at least as far as family projects are concerned, but that morning, when he spoke to us about renting out the room upstairs, I was immediately intrigued by the proposal. In the twenty years since we bought the house—we’ve only just finished paying it off—this room has gone by many names: rec room, guest room, workshop, storeroom, and so on, while never quite living up to any of them. Virgile, our son, for whatever reason, never staked claim on the space, which is not, however, without charm. He sleeps on the first floor; even after he was old enough to climb the steep staircase leading to the attic, he preferred to keep his room rather than move into one that would have attracted any other child his age.

  Virgile is eighteen now. He is finishing high school at the prestigious Robert Catteau School.

  My name is Emma Parmentier and I have no paid profession, even if my schedule is just as busy as that of any woman who sacrifices her life to a career. We live on the upper end of the Saint-Gilles municipality: a pleasant neighborhood of single-family homes side by side with apartment houses, no more than three or four units per building; close-knit, convivial dwellings with kindly neighbors.

  We are happy. At least, we were. A simple family. A fairy tale.

  I don’t understand how all of this could have happened. I have always placed our family at the forefront of my concerns, devoting to my son and husband as much time as energy, attention as good intentions, not to mention my unfailing love for them, a love that never calls into question this commitment that I, as a wife and mother, consider natural. As I’ve said, my days are very full: when I’m not busy keeping the house in order, which already takes up three-quarters of my time, I manage the bookkeeping for Dr. Dutoit, a general practitioner whose office is situated near the town hall, in exchange for a symbolic wage and free consultations. This is what I like most about the place where we live: we value social relations, and solidarity is not an empty word. Our neighborhood has, for that matter, improved a great deal since we first moved in.

  Despite the apparent calm of the surroundings, organized gangs were once rampant in the area, wrecking cars when they didn’t steal them, vandalizing the facades of houses, snatching purses from women walking home alone at night. The gangs would meet at place Louis Morichar, a vast space converted into a public square, bordered by splendid houses in eclectic and art nouveau styles. Back then, old public urinals still stood in the middle of the square, a sordid sight, covered in obscene graffiti, where delinquents gathered to take drugs and share the fruits of their larceny. The place became, several years ago, the scene of a disgraceful crime: during an altercation between two young people, one brutally stabbed the other and left him there without the slightest chance of survival. This happened on a Sunday afternoon. In broad daylight! I have never understood the root cause of such violence. The attacker and his family lived a few blocks away from us. I remember it perfectly because we had just settled into the neighborhood, and the incident had upset me to the point where I considered moving again.

  The affair caused a great commotion in the neighborhood. A committee was put in place, and we demanded a firm stance on the part of the local authorities. It was inconceivable to us that we should continue to live near these people. A neighborhood is shaped every day by the will of its residents. They are the ones who lend it a rhythm, a dynamic, a character, an atmosphere. It is they who imbue it with kindness or brutality, with joy or tragedy. With peacefulness or intimidation. We are responsible for the place where we live. It is our daily landscape. And if we leave our mark on it, it influences us in turn.

  After the tragedy of place Morichar, it became vital for us—I mean, for all the residents of our neighborhood—that the family of the young murderer leave the area. We put pressure on them to do so, first by mail and then by more explicit means. Some of our neighbors even went so far as to empty a few garbage bins in front of their door. I am not saying that the method was decent, but it was, at least, efficient.

  Fortunately, things have changed since then: place Morichar has been completely renovated, and now children can play there without fear of being attacked.

  There was a time when we had planned to have more children, but life decided otherwise. It must be said that my recovery from Virgile’s birth was rather difficult, and a new ordeal of that sort was not advisable for me. And then, as I told my husband, we were so content, just the three of us, that regrets never had the chance to encroach on our daily life. Jean shared my opinion, beyond the shadow of a doubt.

  And so, about eight months ago, my husband proposed to convert the upstairs room into a student’s loft, so that we could house a young foreigner eager to spend a few months in Belgium. By “foreigner,” I understood he meant an English or American boy. We liked the idea of providing Virgile with an English-speaking companion. And of putting this space, whose vacancy had for some time weighed subconsciously on us, to good use. Virgile, for his part, did not seem opposed to the idea.

  It was the beginning of the month of June. Time was running out if we wanted to be ready by September. We contacted an organization that took care of this sort of arrangement, and sent in the application to be recognized as a host family. Despite the short time frame, after having filled out all the necessary forms, we quickly received a positive response. I suspect they did not have enough applicants to host the numerous hopefuls. Furthermore, our conditions were not very strict: we asked only for a boy, more or less the same age as our son, whose mother tongue was English.

  By mid-July, we had received a letter containing the identity of the young man who would be spending a few months with us. His name was Michael Hampton and he was from Brighton, England. He had just turned nineteen and wanted to take a training course in graphic design at one of our universities, while improving his scant knowledge of French, and fifteen days later the organization confirmed the date and time of Mike’s arrival.

  We spent the month of August converting the upstairs room. It was a charming space that, once renovated and furnished, resembled exactly the kind of intimate loft every student dreams of living in one day. We repainted the walls white, replaced the carpet, and set up a handsome single bed with posts of light wood, an oak desk that had belonged to my father-in-law, and a wardrobe varnished to a beautiful sheen.

  Mike arrived on Thursday, the third of September, at three forty-five in the afternoon. The three of us were waiting for him at the Brussels-Midi station,
a bit nervous, admittedly, since we had no idea what sort of person we would be dealing with. My husband stayed at my side, holding up the cardboard sign on which we had written Michael Hampton’s name in thick black marker. Virgile stood in the background, silent and taciturn as usual. The Eurostar swept into the station and quickly unloaded its passengers. Jean raised the sign above our heads so that Mike could easily identify us. The minutes that followed were nerve-racking and exciting all at once.

  He looked older than I’d imagined. At first glance, I would have guessed he was at least twenty-five. Virgile, only a few months his junior, seemed so much younger. I can’t say that Mike made a poor impression on me; he was probably just as apprehensive as we were. His graceless features contrasted with the intense blue of his eyes, and at first I thought the poor boy was afflicted with crossed eyes. He walked hesitantly toward us, as if giving himself one last chance to turn around and call everything off. But he must have liked the look of us, since he ended up planting himself in front of Jean and holding out his hand with a bewildered smile. The introductions were made politely, perhaps not quite as warmly as I would have liked.

  Everything went wonderfully for the first few weeks. Mike seemed pleased with his new room and he quickly adjusted to the family schedule. We eat at precisely seven o’clock every evening; Tuesday and Thursday are cleaning days, and on Wednesday we do laundry. If I take care of the housework in all the common areas, namely the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, and the bathroom, I expect everyone to devote a portion of his time to keeping his own room in order. We do our grocery shopping at the nearest Carrefour on Friday night, for the full week, as a family—I’m very strict on this point. On Saturday, finally, we tend the garden.

  On Monday, September 14, Mike began his graphic design classes, and from that point on, he was rarely home before dinnertime. The evenings are calm at our house, and that seemed to suit him. At least at first. At the dinner table, we chatted about everything and nothing—Belgium, England—and I made an effort to correct his grammatical errors as often as possible. I was disappointed, however, that between him and Virgile, an open camaraderie was slow to take hold. The boys remained mutually on their guard, slyly observing each other’s reactions, exchanging only vague good mornings and good nights with a cold courtesy.