Brussels Noir Read online

  I asked her only one question: “Ghost?”

  A few seconds went by. I knew that she had taken an oath of silence, but my question was deliberately vague.

  “Yes.”

  I went on: “If it’s him, I’ll be able to recognize his face.”

  Her tone changed, became cold. “I know. You’ve already told me. Now, be reasonable and let us do our work. You were eight years old; that was almost thirty years ago, it lasted only a fraction of a second, and he was wearing a mask. What would your testimony be worth? Any lawyer would make a mockery of you.”

  I hung up.

  * * *

  I open the door at the moment the man passes by. He’s escorted by two guards. They pause and glance at me disapprovingly, but seem more surprised than concerned.

  The man is stoop-shouldered and walks with a slight limp. He’s about to continue on his way, when the object in my hands attracts his attention.

  He slows his step, his eyes fixing on the rag doll. He glances up at my face. Then he turns his head and keeps walking away.

  I close my eyes.

  * * *

  The rest of the world will probably have to wait months, even years, to find out what role he played in the crimes, and whether he is guilty or innocent.

  As for me, a fraction of a second will have been enough.

  __________

  Author’s note: This fictional story is based on actual events. I am grateful to Patricia Finné for the time and assistance she contributed to my research. She allowed me to paint the backdrop of this story and to add personal elements. Léon Finné, Patricia’s father, was murdered by the Mad Killers of Brabant on Friday, September 27, 1985. For over thirty years, Patricia has left no stone unturned in the search for her father’s assassins. A relentless, opinionated, and determined fighter, she has never stopped hoping that one day someone will come forward and bring the truth to light.

  The Other War of the Marolles

  BY SARA DOKE

  The Marolles

  I wake at dawn, at the foot of the statue of Peter Pan, curled up between Tinker Bell and Wendy, in the gardens of the Palais d’Egmont. There’s no sign of what might have led me here. I’m not missing anything; my clothes are in perfect condition, not the slightest crease betraying this little nap on the grass. Dry and untouched by the morning dew.

  But I remember nothing.

  When I stand up, my legs feel a bit stiff. I leave place du Petit Sablon by the carriage gate, waving to the bronze guildsman atop the wrought-iron fence; flash a smile at Notre Dame de la Chappelle and her illustrious, eternal host; and find myself on rue Haute, trying to piece together my forgotten night.

  Seated on the red spiral bench in the middle of place de l’Epée, my back to the glass elevator that ascends to the monstrous place Poelaert, my gaze lost in the silhouette of the Jacqmotte coffee emporium, I try to sort out my few impressions of last night. The day’s first beer slowly warms in my hands. I wonder if the taste of alcohol can revive memories of past drinking bouts.

  Where did I start out the evening? Which bartender poured my first golden faro? I could make the rounds, ask each one of them, but I’d rather not draw attention to the state of my beer-soaked brain cells. Above all, I don’t want to show any signs of weakness. The beasts in this jungle have some serious fangs, and aren’t afraid to use them.

  I crawl from one watering hole to the next, passing the time before nightfall. The neighborhood is in the throes of gentrification. Place du Jeu de Balle, between rue des Renards and rue de la Rasière, has become the frontier of the working-class district. Near place de la Chapelle, the houses are elegant, the businesses flaunt their wealth, attracting tourists and bourgeois bohemians, and the architecture, from its Spanish gables to its historic cinemas, is picturesque. South of rue de la Rasière, poverty is still widespread; the Marollien, whatever his origin, recognizes his history and culture here, in the crumbling ruins of his all-but-forgotten childhood. The Bon Bec, the preferred sweet shop of the local ketje, now stands empty, its sign faded to a dirty gray that blends in with the sky. Only one small area, across from rue aux Laines and the remnants of the hospital for the poor, has somehow avoided bankruptcy and even sprouted several upscale boutiques. But on the main thoroughfare, the last thriving businesses are restaurants and bars, from the trendiest to the most working class. I stop in at a few of my locals, chat with the owners, order myself a beer, soup, steak tartare with chips.

  Evening comes on, faster than I’d expected.

  * * *

  Outside, the darkness is deep, a bluish glow on the deserted cobblestones. The last bobo restaurants have lowered their metal curtains, and the secret, nocturnal Brussels begins to creep out from back alleys and underground passages.

  Chic cafés and lounges give way to the taverns that fuel the city’s lurid, indigenous nightlife. The sounds we make change; you might say we speak a different language altogether.

  If you don’t live in the Marolles, you’re advised to stay away after dark. Strange creatures prowl here, creatures you wouldn’t want to come across in the moonlight. Not even the homeless of Saint-Pierre dare to venture far from their meager territory, and they’re wise to keep their distance. Those who emerge from the forgotten dark corners of rue Haute, loping down the streets from Jeu de Balle to the sophisticated rue Blaes, are often not quite human.

  Rat-people deformed by misery, cat-people with gleaming fangs, hyena-people who can kill with a single glance.

  At midnight they start to come out, with the hope of finding an imprudent tourist, thrill-seeker, or rich girl looking to misbehave. They lead her to some back room, aroused by her fear, her curiosity, her repressed desire. They’re careful to hide their spoils from the aging Lost Boys, who’ve swapped the child who wouldn’t grow up for the zwanze2 of the prankster Pitje Scramouille. Their eyes are cruel, their limbs lithe. And not all who dare set foot on the cobblestones of the old town are welcome to their nocturnal dance.

  The new masters of the Marolles rule with a vengeance: they’ve reduced the mermaids of place St. Catherine to sexual slavery, threatening to bring a drought on the land; raised taxes on the junk vendors’ stalls at the Jeu de Balle flea market; forced the owners of our bars to hand over the better part of their profits. Everyone must take an oath of allegiance. Some refuse, but the lords of this new feudalism have a well-trained army at their command, ruthless in its cruelty. Their games are lethal, their chief ferocious; Marolliens are powerless under his control. So much has changed since the fall of Peter Pan, whose joyful anarchy was hospitable to all.

  The bric-a-brac dealers have yet to set up on the outskirts of the market. Between midnight and four o’clock in the morning, the streets belong only to predators and forgotten ghosts.

  And so I wander from bar to bar, nod at familiar faces, exchange a joke with the regulars, a handshake with the doormen who pretend to be assuring the security of all. Mich has found himself a pretty redhead and is smugly persuading her to finish the night in his bed. Manu mocks him, trying to throw him off his game. The lady resists, wide-eyed, in awe of this foreign world and its exotic dangers. Mich won’t speak to her of the bloodthirsty creatures who would hunt her if he left her alone on these streets. He prefers to lavish her with little falsehoods that make him sound like a great adventurer of the night. She doesn’t see the two switchblades her gallant one-night stand is packing; if she looks any closer, she’s bound to get scared. I know them so well—Mich, Manu, Scal—their stories of wild nights in bars, of concerts and parties that exist nowhere but here.

  I’d been sure they would offer me a clue, some anecdote to jog my memory. But no one utters a word. Perhaps I didn’t meet up with them last night, after all.

  I move on to another place, hoping someone will notice me lingering at the bar, remember seeing me last night with the girl I’ve forgotten, help me to grasp onto my slippery memory.

  A tap dancer with a clear and joyful voice comes traipsing up ru
e des Capucins, humming, swinging hands with a child. As they draw nearer, I recognize Mickey la Bourgogne and Little Ka. Her too-big eyes, her too-red mouth arouse my suspicions. She has a violently hungry look that’s better not to acknowledge. She smiles at me, ravenous. They’re making their way back from the Bazaar, which closes its doors promptly at midnight.

  “Well, Steph, are you recovering from your little tryst?” Ka asks me.

  I look at her, surprised, fumbling for an appropriate response, not wanting to say too much, show too much vulnerability. “After a night like that, it’s better to forget everything.”

  “Your mermaid would be shocked if she could hear you.”

  Mermaid?! Where would I have met a mermaid? They’re usually too scared of poachers to come around here.

  “Hey, where did we part ways yesterday? I’m drawing a blank.”

  Mickey la Bourgogne stops hopping around for a moment and smiles. “With all that you knocked back, that doesn’t surprise me. We left each other at la Porte Noire, you were going to take her to l’Arrosoir. You’d picked her up at la Fleur en Papier Doré.”

  “What was I thinking, bringing her to l’Arrosoir? That’s no bar for a mermaid.”

  “She wanted to see the slums,” Ka replies, her full, red lips smiling wolflike.

  “You charmed her with your ghost stories,” adds Mickey, jeering.

  Oh God! I can be so stupid when I’m trying to impress a woman. L’Arrosoir is not the most well-reputed café this side of the Marolles, either. Its patrons are boorish, known for their macabre sense of humor.

  “We tried to talk you out of it. Big Catherine even insisted. But your mermaid wouldn’t be bossed around and you were already too wasted to refuse her.”

  I know that gleam in Mickey’s eye; he’s mocking me and my wayward memory.

  Ka bursts into fiendish laughter. “You don’t remember anything?”

  “Nothing. I woke up at Peter Pan’s feet, alone, unhurt, my pockets full, my memory blank. And no mermaid in sight.”

  “We told you yesterday,” Mickey presses, “the Lost Boys took back l’Arrosoir. It’s definitely not a bar to bring a lady to anymore.”

  “I don’t even know what happened to her.”

  “You’re going to have to retrace all your steps, Stepheke,” says Little Ka. “Make sure nothing happened to her.”

  I agree, nodding my head without letting her see the fear in my eyes.

  * * *

  I walk from rue Haute to rue des Alexiens, slowly making my way down to la Fleur, the last neighborhood bar to keep its old-world charm. Tourists are rarely seen there. They prefer la Becasse, Au Bon Vieux Temps, or l’Imaige Nostre-Dame, hideously remodeled by investors.

  The interior of la Fleur is cluttered with antiques, its walls decorated with relics of various eras, all jumbled together, clashing: surrealist illustrations and maps of old Brussels hang side by side.

  There’s hardly anyone here tonight, but the owner gives me a warm welcome. I sit near the bar, order a half-and-half instead of another beer; the mixture of faro and lambic goes right to my head. So much for sticking to one type of booze. Mireille, always the mother hen with her customers, walks over and sits beside me.

  “What’s going on with you? You rarely come by like this, two nights in a row.” Her Anderlecht accent always has a soothing effect on me.

  “Well, I’m having a hard time remembering what happened last night.” I know I can trust Mireille. She considers me one of her own, would never do me any harm, not even to please the new rulers of the territory. We’re from the other side of the boulevard, she and I. They don’t have the same hold on us.

  “She was a pretty one, the mermaid you brought here. That’s all I can say about that, but I doubt she’s a man-eater. What’d you do with her?”

  “That’s just it, I wish I could remember.”

  Mireille laughs brazenly, gives me a big slap on the shoulder. “I’ve never known you to be a forgetful drunk, Stephy. What happened to you?”

  “I’m trying to remember. According to Mickey la Bourgogne and Ka, I went by la Porte Noire after I left your place, then took the mermaid to l’Arrosoir—to impress her in that cloud of testosterone, I guess.”

  “What a silly idea! That doesn’t seem like you. You must have a serious crush, my boy!”

  “I must. Well, I’ll have to keep trying to jog my memory.”

  “If the Lost Boys didn’t steal it from you.”

  “They can do that?”

  “With Pitje in power, fairies and boys can do whatever they please. There are no more taboos.”

  “I thought it might’ve been the Rats, or maybe the Hyenas.”

  “They’re still loyal to their chief; they don’t come near rue Haute anymore. The Marolles are no longer safe, my little Stepheke.”

  I finish my drink, hug Mireille, and walk back up the street toward la Porte Noire, the favorite haunt of role-players and goths.

  The door is indeed black, the stone staircase still poorly lit, and the basement room looks the same, with its long tables and benches. Pierrot le Zinc is at the bar—standing in front of it, not behind—his customary glass of whiskey in hand, and I don’t know how many others under his belt. He calls out and offers me a drink. I climb up onto a stool. I stick to white wine; I’ll avoid beer for the rest of the night.

  I exchange a few jokes over the counter with Pierrot, wait for him to ask me about last night. He doesn’t, preferring to tell me all about the novel he’s just finished reading, to bore me with gossip about the regulars at his bar on the other side of town.

  I sip my wine and remain silent, hoping he’ll take the hint. He looks about ready to strangle me when he catches on, his face suddenly breaking into a grin.

  “Ah, so you dreamed away your memories. I was expecting you to come in here like some dikkenek3 with your mermaid story.”

  “I can’t even remember what she looks like! Let alone where I left her.”

  “She wasn’t in your bed this morning? Or you in hers?”

  “No, I woke up on the palace lawn.”

  “You can’t hold your beer anymore, brother Steph. Are you getting old on me?”

  “Mickey la Bourgogne and Little Ka say I brought my mermaid to l’Arrosoir to satisfy her curiosity.”

  “Bad idea, l’Arrosoir. You want me to come with you?”

  “Well, sure, but I don’t want to be a pain.”

  “Why not? I feel like throwing some punches tonight.”

  You can always count on Pierrot to be up for an adventure, with his flat cap pulled tight over his shaved head, frayed leather jacket on his Irish longshoreman’s shoulders, his shoes well-shined. He abandons his glass of Jameson and I swig the rest of my wine.

  We walk back up toward Jeu de Balle, passing by rue du Saint-Esprit and its youth hostel, then along rue de la Chapelle until we reach rue Haute. We turn the corner past the Samaritaine theater and find ourselves at the blue and orange door of Pitje’s bar.

  Inside, the Lost Boys take up the tables near the bar; apart from them, a group of punks huddle together around their cheap pilsner. Their favorite waitress, the petite one who sometimes offered them a house-brewed beer along with her smile, stopped working here after the change of hands. Vince le Rouge brought them off the streets, found them shelter, clothes, and shoes. Now he lovingly takes them out drinking, but manages to keep them from getting too sloshed.

  Sam the Rascal, with his odd air of an English cabbie, is working the bar tonight. Pierrot greets him coldly, quickly scans the room, and moves up close to the bar. We order calmly, nothing too strong; we have to keep our wits about us.

  The Lost Boys watch us with their wild eyes. Pitje le Scramouille is nowhere to be seen. Leaving the back room, we’re surprised to see Till, a glass of jenever in hand. He joins us at the bar. His dialect has improved unusually quickly since he left his native Flanders for the capital.

  “I didn’t really think we’d see you back ar
ound here so soon, Stephy!” he shouts at me, rolling his r’s. “You looking for your mermaid?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Bad idea. Tchantchès doesn’t like to share.”

  “That liégois has no business in our Marolles!”

  “Since Pitje took him in, he’s like me, your lord and master.”

  Pierrot laughs softly.

  “Nowhere else do we mix so freely. Brussels is nothing but zinneke4! Till Ulenspiegel of Flanders, Tchantchès of Liège, and Pitje le Scramouille: that’s quite a few pranksters for one bordello.”

  “Careful what you say, Zinc, the boys might be lost but they aren’t deaf or blind and you’re on their turf,” Till hisses.

  “We’ve just as much a right to be here as any of these ketjes. I’ve worn out the seat of my pants on the benches of every bar in this town!”

  Till stifles a malicious laugh. “You had what none of them has ever known, Stephy. Parents. A mother and a father who didn’t abandon you.”

  “They fell from the roofs of Lycée Dachsbeck in the last police raid.”

  “But you knew them. And you remember.”

  Pierrot rests his hand on my shoulder to keep me from losing my calm. It’s better not to challenge the tricksters here, in their lair, in front of their henchman. But my hands curl into fists. I lost more than just memories, and now a mermaid has disappeared because of me. They rarely venture far from place du Marché aux Poissons, for fear of the horrors that await them here.

  “Where did Tchantchès bring my mermaid? What does he want with her?”

  “You should be happy he didn’t leave her to the boys. He brought her to the baths. And you don’t have permission to go down rue Blaes.”

  I’m seething inside. This prohibition is absurd, but I’m at least partially responsible. Oh, I can take rue des Renards, or even rue des Tanneurs—the baths are on rue du Chevreuil, for that matter—but only in the daytime. At night, rue des Brokelots and place du Jeu de Balle are off-limits to me. It all goes back to a depressing story of a brawl in a pub with some shady characters. But it’s the pirates’ territory, and many of us are forbidden to go there at night. Even the Lost Boys avoid it after dark. Only the three tricksters have permission to come and go as they please, and they had to use all their force to get it.