Brussels Noir Page 6

  Lea’s hand trembles. What choice do you have? Her phone rings and vibrates in her pocket. 5:59, one minute until the next blackout. Lea catches a glimpse of her future. A future of arborescences branching toward happiness, toward a vista of possibilities. At last, some stability. She lets go of the syntactic segment and takes off her goggles.

  6:00. Blackout. The sound of the shot is lost among the blasts of gunfire in the street, among the cries of “Udhalimu!” that echo through all of Matongé. Lea’s eyelids flutter. She sees nothing but the ceiling of her office and its damp stains. Warm blood flows down her chest.

  Gently, her eyes close, and the light in them goes out, along with all the lights and all the hopes in Europe, everywhere, at the same time.

  Only Muddy Streams flow in Darkness

  BY PATRICK DELPERDANGE

  Rue d’Aerschot

  Just at the moment when I manage to slip two fingers under the elastic of her panties, a disturbance in the yin-yang balance occurs. Someone is knocking, you might even say pounding insistently at the door, each thump followed by shouts and curses from the adjoining rooms, and Serena Shackleford seems suddenly to awake. She realizes that her jeans are unzipped, and that my right hand is practically inside her panties, while the left one has been feeling beneath her red wool sweater for quite some time now. Serena Shackleford is from Richmond, Virginia, and she’s treated herself to an all-inclusive European tour with a group of her fellow American citizens. She is forty-three years old, divorced, and the sort of tourist who immediately catches my eye when I skim over the list the agency provides. I always draw a little star beside these names.

  Whoever’s at the door has not thrown in the towel; quite the opposite. The banging is becoming more and more violent, and it’s clear I’ll have to open up. Serena Shackleford understands this too. She understands that she’ll have to explain the presence of the tour guide in her room at eleven forty at night. I took charge of her group just this morning, which goes to show how much Serena Shackleford, though perhaps not fully conscious of it, was open to more than three days of guided visits in Belgium when she booked her vacation. Divorced four years, it said on the form. Which had earned her another star.

  I stand up straight, smooth out my clothes, and grab my jacket off the floor, under the anxious gaze of Serena Shackleford, who has pulled up her jeans and sits at the edge of the still-made bed, twirling a lock of her blond hair.

  I wink at her reassuringly. Spreading peace around me is what I’m paid to do, in addition to the lectures and museum visits. I’ve learned to remain at ease, come what may, thanks to the path of the Buddha. When Megan Elizabeth Peyton twisted her ankle leaving the Cathedral of St. Michael and St. Gudula, I carried her in my arms to the car, all 175 pounds of her, while her husband, Rodney, stood there and watched. (Megan Elizabeth Peyton received no star from me.) When Steven Dale Gross’s wallet was stolen with his twelve credit cards and three thousand euros inside, I was the one who brought him to the police station to file a report.

  “Serena!” someone yells from the hallway. “It’s me, Tina! Wake up, please!”

  Now Serena Shackleford jumps up, panic-stricken. This Tina is her best friend, as far as I’ve been able to observe since this morning. Tina Marie Kinworthy had gotten a star on my list, a star I crossed out once I’d met her. As I understand it, she’s on a honeymoon or an engagement trip—accompanied, in any case, by a certain Scott Burdett. He guards her like a rottweiler, constantly hugging her waist with his beefy arms, to the great enjoyment of Tina Marie, who throws little mischievous glances at Serena whenever this occurs. It’s the first time I’ve heard of an engagement trip taken with a group, but the lessons of the Buddha have taught me to be surprised at nothing.

  I station myself beside the door and lower my voice to declare in my most lilting, Yankee-accented English: “Don’t you worry, Miss Shackleford, this can happen to anyone.”

  Then I open the door and act surprised to find Tina Marie Kinworthy standing there in a slip, barefoot, her hair tousled, visibly beside herself.

  I smile at her with Buddhist serenity, then glance back at Serena, still in the half-darkness of her room. “Don’t worry,” I say to her over my shoulder, “I’ll take care of everything. Get some sleep now. We have a very full schedule tomorrow.”

  I close the door behind me before Serena comes into view, then put a hand on Tina Marie’s waist, as she seems to appreciate, and pull her aside.

  “Can I help you, Miss Kinworthy? Is there a problem?”

  She’s still a bit stunned at seeing me leave her friend’s room, and takes a moment to recover. “Scott’s disappeared!” she finally blurts out.

  I raise an eyebrow to indicate my concern. “You mean he isn’t in his room?”

  “Our room!” whines Tina Marie. “When I got out of the shower, he was gone.”

  “He probably went out for some fresh air.”

  “I’ve been waiting for two hours!”

  “Hmm . . . yes, that is a long time.”

  My words seem to throw her into an even greater panic. “I’m sure he was kidnapped!” she says. “Oh my God, how will I pay the ransom? Do terrorists accept credit cards?”

  I pat Tina Marie Kinworthy’s plump little arm and walk her back to her room at the end of the hallway.

  “Calm down, Miss Kinworthy. I assure you Mr. Burdett has not disappeared. Wait for me a moment, I’ll be right back.”

  I leave her and go down to the hotel bar. The waiter is busy putting glasses away behind the counter. Scott Burdett isn’t here. I lean toward the barman, smiling.

  “I’ve lost one of my Americans. You wouldn’t have seen him here, by chance?”

  He hesitates a moment. “What sort of guy is he, your American?”

  “Burly, with a face like a bulldog.”

  He nods. “He downed a double whisky, then told me he wanted to go ‘window-shopping,’ if you know what I mean. I pointed him toward rue d’Aerschot. Don’t know if I should’ve.”

  “Okay.”

  Outside, a fine, cold rain has begun to fall. I pull my jacket collar up high and take off in the direction of the Gare du Nord, not far from the hotel. Rue d’Aerschot isn’t mentioned in the travel guides, and yet quite a few tourists are aware of its existence. The gentlemen in particular, I must say. My gaze is drawn to the first neon lights that flash in the darkness. There’s a line of cars on the street, practically at a standstill, with the drivers leaning in to get a look at the shop windows. Girls—very young girls—writhe slowly beneath the red and blue lights in nothing but lingerie that emphasizes their assets. One of them beckons me with a motion of her index finger. But the lessons of the Buddha showed me long ago that this sort of invitation owes nothing to my charm, and so I remain as Zen as a moss-covered stone in a windswept garden.

  Of course, there’s more at stake here than my ability to resist sexual temptation. If my American has ventured into one of these establishments, he’s not only in danger of coming out minus a wad of cash—which wouldn’t be so bad in itself—but also of ruining his engagement trip and causing Tina Marie one hell of a nervous shock. All of which would be a serious pain in my ass for the next three days. I’ll do whatever I can to avoid that.

  I walk into the Blue Star, a café/bar between two red-lit windows. It’s so dark in there that you have the feeling of entering a cave deep in the woods. The only source of light comes from a string of tiny bulbs draped around the bar counter. Two guys are seated on stools, sipping their cocktails and talking in low voices in what sounds like a language from the deep steppes. The barmaid turns around, pointing at me an impressive pair of breasts that no longer owe much to nature, held only by some miracle inside her skintight, half-unbuttoned blouse.

  Her eyes blink for a moment, fixing on me. “Well, what do you know?” she says. “Didn’t think we’d see you around here again, my ol’ Pat. Thought you’d straightened yourself out once and for all.”

  “Hey, Sonia,” I
reply. “I’m here for professional reasons. Don’t go imagining anything.”

  She starts to laugh. “I’m not imagining a thing. You’re the artist who had enough imagination for two, aren’t you?” She lets out another little mocking laugh.

  Yes, this girl and I were involved in a kind of relationship awhile back. But that was before I discovered the path of the Buddha. Without getting into details of doctrine that would only lead us off course, I can assure you that the spirit of Zen doesn’t quite square with the pastime we engaged in.

  “How ’bout a bourbon and soda, Pat?” she asks, grabbing a bottle of liquor from behind her. “As usual?”

  “Stop calling me Pat,” I say. “I always hated that. And I’ve quit bourbon. Well, I’ve quit drinking so much.” I wait until Sonia has placed my drink on the counter before continuing. “I’m looking for one of my tourists . . . an American. He’s got it into his head to visit the neighborhood and I don’t want him to get lost, you know . . . A big fellow with the face of a pit bull.”

  I raise my hands above my head to give her a sense of the guy’s height. With a discreet movement of her chin, Sonia points to a corner of the bar near the restrooms.

  My eyes are so unaccustomed to the dark that I hadn’t seen him when I’d first come in, besides which, he’s half-hidden by a curtain hung from the ceiling that forms a sort of alcove. Considering the shoulder breadth of the patron seated there, it must, indisputably, be Scott Burdett. Just as I’d hoped, he’d gone into the first café he saw upon arriving in the district. I take my drink and go to join him, acting casual.

  He’s deep in conversation with a girl sitting across from him. Or rather, he’s talking to himself and the girl is listening, a vague smile on her lips, which she parts every so often to drink from the glass of champagne in front of her. The bottle juts out from a bucketful of ice and appears already half emptied. It takes Scott Burdett a moment to register my presence. He rotates his bull-like torso and sizes me up and down without a word.

  “Brussels by Night is on Wednesday,” I tell him, sitting down on the banquette beside the girl. “You’re ahead of schedule, Mr. Burdett. And the Blue Star wasn’t on the itinerary.”

  He makes a gesture in my direction, followed by a remark, neither of which leave room for interpretation, and it’s only the mastery of my nerves, acquired through rigorous training, that keeps me from responding in a similarly crude manner. The thickness of his muscles—his biceps in particular—must also be taken into consideration. In the pallid glow that bathes the alcove, he looks like a grizzly bear wearing a too-small shirt.

  I consider a few of the koans I’ve meditated on over the past few weeks before placing a hand on Scott Burdett’s forearm and saying: “When the wind stops, the flowers still fall.”

  I pause for a moment to let him grasp the subtle character of these few words, but Scott Burdett is obviously not moved by the poetry of Zen. He suddenly grabs me by my jacket collar and pulls me over the table, toward him.

  “Piss off,” he grunts. “I’m talking with this girl, can’t you see?”

  I don’t think he knows who I am. He must believe I’m just some asshole, when in fact I’m simply doing my job. But it’s strange that he doesn’t recognize me, since our faces are now only a few centimeters apart, which allows me to appreciate his remarkable features in detail. He finally lets go and I fall back onto the banquette, trying to smile, to show him I’m not offended by his macho attitude.

  “Tina Marie is in a hell of a state,” I say as soon as the air can move normally through my lungs again. “She thinks you’ve disappeared.”

  “Tina Marie?” repeats Scott Burdett, as if he’s never heard the name before. “Pfffff!”

  He makes a mildly disgusted face while the girl pours herself another glass of champagne, with the clear intention of emptying the bottle as quickly as possible.

  “We really should get back to the hotel,” I say. “I’m telling you, you’d better get some rest. Otherwise you won’t be in shape for my lecture on the Flemish primitives tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t want to see her ever again!” cries Scott Burdett. “She annoys the shit out of me, she’s worse than the bubonic plague. I wish she’d go fuck herself!”

  “Tina Marie Kinworthy?”

  “Who else?”

  “You’re not engaged anymore?”

  In lieu of a response, he waves his hand to get Sonia’s attention and orders another bottle of champagne, as well as a bourbon and soda for me, which I find a thoughtful gesture on his part. “I never should’ve let myself get involved with her,” Scott Burdett says once he has a full glass in front of him again.

  “But you seemed so much in love today.”

  He looks at me without answering. “She’s loaded,” he finally says. “She’s just inherited a ton of money from her dead banker husband. She pays for everything, for herself and for me. And she gave me this, when we were in Paris.” He holds out his wrist to show me a watch with a silver band. The thing must be worth a good dozen years of my tour guide salary, if I know the price of a Cartier.

  You’d think the mere exposure of the watch to open air had captivated the attention of the entire bar. In any case, a second girl has just materialized out of thin air. Fidgeting in her minidress with its neckline plunging down to her navel, she sits next to Scott Burdett and immediately cuddles up to him, causing a wide grin to spread across his craggy face. He starts serving glasses of champagne on the fly and the girls laugh while I drink my bourbon and soda, telling myself that to get Scott back to the hotel, the best strategy is probably using the enemy’s own strength against him, as the Buddha teaches us. In other words, since he wants to drink and enjoy himself, I’ll do all I can to help him at it, and once he’s out of commission I’ll pluck him like a daisy in a field after a rainstorm.

  It’s at this point that things begin to grow hazy.

  It seems to me that Sonia keeps coming back to our alcove, maneuvering bottles and glasses. She flashes me a sly wink each time she refills my bourbon and soda. Beneath the gruff exterior, Scott Burdett reveals himself to be a truly charming guy, and the few stories he tells us—rollicking tales of ass-kickings in the suburbs of Richmond, Virginia—certainly don’t make us like him any less. Now the two girls are sitting on his lap and I think, though it’s hard to be sure in this poor lighting, that their hands have slid beneath his shirt and even started unbuttoning it, coaxing Scott’s torso to reveal itself in all its glory.

  “So . . .” I say to him at one moment, trying to catch hold of my glass, which has a nasty habit of sliding toward the edge of the table. “So, old Scotty, what do you think of Brussels?”

  “I love it!” he roars.

  “Shall we go out for a stroll, then? There are some other places I’d like to show you. You can bring your two new friends, of course.”

  * * *

  On rue d’Aerschot, the line of cars is just as long as before. The drivers are still in search of true love, which is to say a girl with long legs and a tight ass who’ll agree to give them a little human warmth in exchange for their cash. Scotty studies the shop windows with the look of a kid who’s been left overnight in a Toys “R” Us. He staggers a bit, but you try to walk in a straight line with two girls hanging from your biceps. As for me, I move with a slightly swaying step between the clients meandering down the sidewalk, their noses in the air, examining the merchandise.

  As I’m looking for the bar where I used to while away the hours, back when I hadn’t yet found the path, I hear a guttural cry behind me: Scott Burdett is suddenly brawling with several opponents, a dozen arms and legs thrashing wildly, all clearly set on relieving my American friend of a piece of his fortune and his personal effects.

  The two girls run off without further ado. I throw myself into the fray to pull Scott out, but it’s hard to know how to go about it discreetly, and when an elbow slams into my nose and the side of my mouth, I understand that even transcendental meditat
ion has its limits. And so I retaliate with all the strength and precision I have left after the barrel of bourbon and soda I’ve just imbibed.

  Eventually, our little group skirmishes its way off the sidewalk and onto the street. The drivers here are so distracted that we risk being flattened on the asphalt without anyone even noticing, so absorbed are they in examining the silhouettes of the girls on display. The strangers who have just ambushed Scott Burdett seem well aware of this. I can make out, in the glow of the streetlamps shining down on us, two heads emerging from the crowd. At that moment our attackers evaporate like the dew at sunrise, and we find ourselves alone, Scott and I, sprawled out on the ground. It takes us a moment to realize that I’m biting into his calf muscle while he’s pinning me down with his right elbow. We manage to untangle our limbs, only to break into raucous laughter and throw ourselves on one another again, this time in righteous celebration of our friendship that has only been strengthened by this manly adventure.

  We decide to make a stop at Shalimar to drink to the occasion. The bar has been run for ages by an old friend of mine who bears an uncanny resemblance to Yul Brynner in Taras Bulba—well, he wears an astrakhan hat, at least. When he sees me coming into his place with Scott, he howls in surprise and immediately fetches a bottle from his cabinet, a liqueur whose name I’ve never been able to remember, distilled with some rare herbs gathered by the proprietor’s own grandmother and brewed according to a recipe that’s been kept secret, no doubt for the sake of world peace.

  And then, without the faintest idea how this could have happened, I find myself slumped in the hall of my tourists’ hotel, my back to the wall next to the reception desk, wearing plaid golfing pants. (While golf is a respectable sport if ever there were one, I’ve never played it in my life.)

  I know that part of this story seems to be missing, but I beg you to believe that it isn’t my fault. Address your complaints to Taras Bulba’s grandmother.

  I have no clue what time it is. My watch reads 2:32, but considering the state of its face, that must be the moment when a foot crushed it earlier in the evening.