*
Veronique and I had abandoned our plan of watching the solemn events on TV after all. A sense of history in the making pushed us out onto the street like everyone else. If you had a chance to see Jesus with your own two eyes, you’d be daft to admire Him through a cameraman’s viewfinder. It was elbow work, of course, to lay claim to a spot on the cobbles of the Rue Ducale with a view of the royal box trees; even making it that far was a miracle in itself. We’d aimed for a better spot at first, but that turned out to be reserved for a group of cancer patients. They had lost their faith in science, cancelled all treatment and travelled to Brussels in the hope of being touched by the Hand that once gave light to the blind, birdsong to the deaf and a new lease of life to Lazarus. As a demonstration of their faith in a favourable outcome, a few of them had already planted cigarettes in the middle of their movingly emaciated faces.
The Rue Ducale had to do, and now we were there. Or, as a few of the extremely pricey T-shirts on sale around us proclaimed in English, ‘Jesus was in Brussels – the same day as me.’
That’s right, we were part of that privileged whole, but when we saw how others had set themselves up on rooftops with telescopes and folding chairs, preferably with a crate of beer, a bag of charcoal and a kilo of lamb chops within reach, we also felt like nothing so much as members of a stupid herd. The art nouveau building of the Old England clothing store on Rue Montagne de la Cour, for some time now home to a musical instrument museum, had opened up its panoramic roof terrace to bring in the punters; the Ferris wheel on the Boulevard Poincaré had hiked its prices but was still full of slick operators with 500-ride tickets, who had been rotating constantly since early in the morning with binoculars and air-sickness bags at the ready. And all of that without any guarantee of success, as there still wasn’t an official programme.
From where I was standing I could just make out the tent with the guests of honour – at least, if the man in front of me with the child on his shoulders changed position for a second or two to rest a few muscles. The monarch with his entire household, the provincial governor, the prime minister of the permanent provisional government for business in hand, the politician charged with trying to form a coalition, the politician charged with assessing the likelihood of succeeding in forming a coalition, the politician charged with mediating the formation of the coalition, the politician charged with clarifying the state of the coalition formation … As far as I could tell from where I was standing, they all looked fairly relaxed. The King in particular radiated a certain languor – he had a definite air of self-satisfaction, and that inspired confidence in all that was about to happen.
If anything was about to happen.
We scanned the heavens, identifying signs of His imminence in everything that presented itself: a piece of paper floating on the breeze, a pigeon coming in elegantly to land … Faith was all we needed, surely, and the seas would part before us.
At quarter to three or thereabouts there was suddenly some action when, despite the general ban on motorised emitters of particulate pollution, a red-and-white-checked 2CV came sputtering up the closed-off circuit. Girls with saucy expressions blew kisses and threw lengths of salami into the crowd, completely free of charge, and these welcome snacks certainly eased the waiting. ‘Try it French-style: taste Cochonou saucisson!’
Of course – a promotional pageant! There’s no such thing as a free lunch, and if it was possible to bankroll the whole event with donations from generous companies, why not? If Christ’s festive but expensive visit wasn’t necessarily going to imply grit shortages next winter or our rusty lampposts remaining unreplaced alongside our old-fashioned motorways for yet another year, the taxpayers would be wise not to grumble about this spiritual holiday being brought to us with the aid of a contribution from selected capitalists. Look, there was another float filled with hip youngsters, angels of the age of consumerism, tossing white hats into the grasping audience. Sponsored by Skoda: ‘voiture officielle du Paradis’. Shall I admit it? I was so glad to get my hands on one of those hats, I waved it around like a big kid. Because I of course had not thought of protecting myself against the burning sun – or the rays of Christ’s halo – before leaving home. Foresight is not one of my strengths. Never has been. But coming down with sunstroke was the last thing I wanted on that day of days.
Other products I remember as gracing the first part of the parade: a host baker, the brewer of a renowned abbey beer (who, unfortunately, failed to provide samples, the stingy bastard), a betting shop, canned olives …
The various tourist boards had also realised that a more beautiful opportunity for promoting our country would never arise. The international press had turned out in its entirety with zoom lenses as big as bazookas. The entire planet was going to have images of our country branded on its retinas today, and not because we’d stolen the world endurance record for forming a government from under the nose of the Iraqis. Accordingly, the tourism barons had the clown-like Gilles of Binche marching down the boulevards – and because it was still a long way to go to mandarin season, these carnival characters were tossing Swiss chard, French beans and turnip greens into the mob as a summer variant – courtesy of Haspengouw district, where tubers thrive. From Dendermonde came Bayard the magic horse with four intellectually challenged children on its saddle, the shrimp fishermen of East Dunkirk rode past on their draughthorses, from Liège came the giants Tchantchès, Nanesse and Charlemagne, followed by the royal stilt-walkers of Merchtem, the dancing leeks of Tilff, the bicycling brass band of Haneffe … They all passed by while pamphlets praising our hotel facilities fluttered down around us.
A wave of mild hysteria swept through the inner city. Finally, finally … The screeches of the masses kept coming closer and we interpreted this as a sign of His presence. And, yes, a divine, bare-footed figure did come round the corner with the cheering, dressed in white robes, shining like photographic paper, inadvertently stepping in the pies left behind by the shrimper’s horses. But it was an actor from the Nieuwkerk theatrical society The Flax Flower, most recent winner of the National Theatre Prize, in the role of his life. Various key scenes from Jesus’s life were acted out for us according to medieval theatrical conventions, as if to refresh our knowledge of the catechism before He Himself put in an appearance. The annunciation, the manger in Bethlehem, driving the money changers out of the temple, the betrayal by Judas, the story of Barabbas, the crucifixion, the whole kit and caboodle … The guy playing Joseph wasn’t bad at all, I thought. The role of Pontius Pilate was filled excellently too. A man with the perfect face for the part. But we hadn’t overpopulated this city to admire street theatre and pageant plays. People were still keeping it under their breath for now, but the grumbling was swelling. If it hadn’t been for the sight of the King up on stage flossing a remnant of Cochonou sausage out from between two teeth with an expression that didn’t betray the slightest sign of unease, we wouldn’t have tired our legs any longer.
The next part of the caravan could lay claim to a more concrete link to the announced entry of our most welcome guest. A parade of penitent criminals – serious offenders, murderers from the prisons of Lantin, Hasselt and Merksplas – marched down the street unshackled, without so much as an ankle bracelet between them. Begging for public humiliation from the flabbergasted viewers, crawling for forgiveness. We recognised a gangster boss, an escape artist, an infamous paedophile, the jealous wife who provided the clientele of our hairdressing salons with weeks of entertaining discussions by castrating her adulterous husband with a paring knife. If the people had wanted to take revenge on these sinners with all the blind, mindless power of the mob, they could have done so easily and the malefactors’ innards would have been splattered over the ground in no time. But how insignificant was our rage compared with the Judgment that lay ahead for these lost sheep? The Righteous One was approaching. If not for the fact that He was probably as scentless as a new-born deer, we could have smelt Him already, truly, so close wa
s He now.
Even more pathetic were the guilty who came in the wake of the official criminals. These were poor wretches without a record, respectable citizens whose lives had deviated only slightly from the straight and narrow: a banker, a vendor of affordable dreams that had pushed many to bankruptcy; a property speculator; a stockbroker; the boss of a factory who paid his employees a pittance and drove them like slaves. But also a mother who thought she had neglected her children; an alcoholic husband with a quick temper and a slow wife; a forty-something having an affair with the woman next door; a mechanic who knew which customers you could con about the state of the engine and which ones you couldn’t … the whole gamut of minor sinners. I saw my upstairs neighbour, Antoine – yes, of course, I should have expected that. I saw Antoine and called out his name, inappropriate as it was, as happy as a toddler, proud to have recognised someone who was playing a role in this historic event. But Antoine kept his eyes hellbound. Humble. Some of the marchers flagellated their backs to shreds with whips, others pounded nails into their flesh. No, it wasn’t tasteful. And by the time I saw a section of this penitential procession turning their tongues raw and bloody by licking the cobblestones clean, I really was sick of this show of self-chastisement.
Someone had apparently read my mind, because all this misery came to an abrupt end in the form of a float with worshipful wenches. There couldn’t have been a more glaring contrast. An array of rows and rows of teeth exposed in gleaming smiles, cleaned with Fluoracil toothpaste – waving hands, coquettish gestures, plastic faces. Miss Belgium, Miss Shopping Flanders, Miss Sports Belgium, the Strawberry Princess, the Grape Queen, the winner of The Most Beautiful Female Farmer in Flanders, the Oak Queen, Miss Chocolate, Miss Dender, Miss Diamond and Miss Tractor-Pulling (the last-mentioned was seated on the tractor that was pulling the float with her colleagues on board – the organisers certainly had an eye for detail!). I could think of more beautiful things, even people, to illustrate the magnificence of Creation, but it seemed impossible that this motorised meat market could have been intended for any other purpose.
That year’s Miss Asparagus had overslept and came limping after her trailer on a broken stiletto, thus winning for herself the honour of bringing this curtain-raiser to a close.
At least, I call it a ‘curtain-raiser’ now …
For a good half hour after the passage of the – naturally – blonde ambassadress of asparagus nothing happened. Then a column of the motorised unit of the Royal Guard appeared and we knew things were getting serious. Flashing lights. Mercedeses. Giants with armour-plated chests in tailor-made suits, gleaming with sweat, focused. Even more Mercedeses. Only now did the tension rise to a maximum. The heat wasn’t helping and the long, motionless wait will have had an equally deleterious influence. More than one good soul couldn’t bear another second and collapsed unconscious. To the well-concealed delight of those around them, who gained both breathing space and an improved view. All this fuss was caused by the appearance of the little girl Ohanna, dressed ceremonially as a communicant. That is, she was dressed the way my parents were dressed for their First Holy Communion. If I’m not mistaken, nowadays children take their oath of religiosity in jeans, pulled up or sagging, as the case may be. I mean, the rare children who still see the inside of a church. The bodyguards were hard put to protect the girl from all-too-pushy pilgrims. Ohanna had a link to the Prophet, inspired columnists had dared to describe her as the first apostlette, an extension of both the Lord and of His Word. Yes, one wasn’t shy of an archaism more or less. All frills were allowed in these hours. But because Ohanna’s status had been written up to such heights, some readers had become convinced that she was on the same level as the Nazarene. Seeing her walking there like that reminded me, and not just me, of Nepal’s Kumaris, young girls of fourteen at most who have been recognised as reincarnations of the Hindu goddess Durga. They are worshipped and get a horrible existence in return. Their lives are no longer theirs, but the masses’. And with the same logic, hysterical gangs now wanted to touch Ohanna. Photos of sick relatives were held out for her to kiss. Open suppurating words were bared before her, one touch of her hand would suffice. Flowers were pressed upon her. Along with artificial limbs as tokens of thanks for so-called miraculous cures. One person wanted to dab her forehead with a hankie, another devotee wanted to wash her feet and cut her nails. As I said, the security men had their hands full. It cost them blood, sweat and tears to get Ohanna up to the seats of honour on the stage. But they did it.
She sat down next to the King.
Silence descended over Brussels.
Now there was only one Person left for Whom we were waiting.
Fourteenth Station
As a community, we could easily have reacted differently. I would have found it far preferable if, on arriving at that point of realisation, we’d all burst out laughing. A giggling fit rising up over the whole city centre, tireless laughter gurgling out of hundreds of thousands of mouths for hours on end. Sometimes I still dream of that missed opportunity, us slapping our thighs on the evening of that twenty-first day of July, at the hour when all hopes had been dashed, rolling over the ground and shrieking with pure delight at having let ourselves be taken for such a massive ride. Christ hadn’t come, hallelujah! Hello? You could hardly call it a surprise. But what was so immensely funny about it was that we, invariably practical, sceptical, bone-dry hyperrealists that we were, had so looked forward to His coming. We had infected each other with enthusiasm preparing ourselves for a day that we, in the essence of our being, were incapable of believing in. The joke of the century: collectively we had expected salvation and that salvation had to come from somewhere else.
We should have pissed ourselves laughing, nothing else would have done.
The joke of the century, yep. But getting it required a talent for self-mockery and an ability to see the bigger picture. It was true that we had once been the proud owners of these pleasant traits, but no-one could convince me they hadn’t been lost somewhere along the way. It was indisputable – we’d been led by the nose in an excellent practical joke and responded by choosing the worst of all possible scenarios: we swallowed our defeat humourlessly and crawled back behind our withered façades.
When two gendarmes grabbed little Ohanna by the arms, we realised all too well what was going to happen: today, or tomorrow at the latest, she’d be on a plane, despite the government’s earlier promises. We didn’t protest. After all, we had put our everyday death masks back on and resumed the role that fitted us like a second skin: indifference.
There was no room for doubt; everywhere the flower-boxes were being lugged back inside out of fear of itching delinquent fingers, the fronts of the buildings had taken on their familiar grey, our view contracted once again to satellite dishes, peeling paint and tiny balconies with rusty wrought iron and crumbling concrete. We turned the faces we had been showing each other for almost three weeks back to the ground as if we would find our future destinations there and nowhere else.
The sounds of sirens and impatient, blasting car horns had returned with a vengeance.
All of a sudden I caught a glimpse of the policeman with the enormous birthmark on his face, and he didn’t seem at all consoled by the reassurance of ongoing job opportunities in the police force. He was stressed and couldn’t hide it. Brussels had been living a lie; it had been a pleasant lie, but a lie for all that, and now the city was getting back to reality. A more resolute return to business as usual was harder to imagine than the one provided by several, some would almost say classic, riots in the Rue de Ribaucourt, caused by boys who had only just sprouted moustaches. Convinced that they needed to brighten the emptiness of their lives with the cling-clang of a few shop windows, they were also clever enough to legitimise their vicious misbehaviour with a sense of discrimination. A number 75 bus was destroyed in the neighbourhood of Bizet for the pleasure of destruction, and it was definitely not the first and definitely not the last either. On route 46 a bus
driver was dragged out of his cabin before having his face ‘adjusted’ with a baseball bat. Simply because the unfortunate driver had been impertinent enough to ask a passenger for his ticket. We knew how those conversations went. ‘What? My ticket? Do I look like a fare dodger to you? Is that what you’re trying to say? That I’m not respectable enough for your standards of etiquette? That I don’t care about the rules and want to ride for free? You’d already judged me before I got on your shitty bus …’
He’d been able to rest his vocal cords for quite a while now, but the Brussels police spokesman was soon running short of saliva once again.
Of course, nowadays everyone denies ever putting a scrap of faith in the communiqué about the miraculous entry. ‘Christ coming to Brussels? And Tutankhamen to Antwerp, I suppose?’ You know the kind of thing: they were standing there in the inner city with hundreds of thousands of others waiting for the arrival of an air bubble just for the festive occasion, attending the non-event for its own sake, a bit of fun. Still, you’ll just have to take my word for it when I say I never had any faith in God to lose. As a consequence, I can’t claim to be devastated by the cancellation of His coming. If I’d begun to believe in anything during those days, it was that I was finally allowed to live somewhere where people looked each other in the eye when their paths crossed. Where you didn’t have to be an egotistical slimeball to secure a seat on a tram. Where people didn’t walk past a beggar in exactly the same way they walked past a parking meter. That our short and simple existences had at least a shred of significance for each other. That was the most painful thing: realising that I had been so keen to delude myself about human nature like that.
Christ’s Entry Into Brussels Page 9
