After signing my new lease, comes the administrative headache of opening an account for the two months’ deposit required. I’m still awaiting my Belgian ID card which further slows down the process. So much for hopes that Belgium would be less bureaucratic than its French neighbour. It looks like I can no longer avoid setting up a Belgian account. The stress that came with looking for a flat, hasn’t completely subsided on finding one.
A few days after the signing, I’m exhausted. I do have one distraction to look forward to. I’m supposed to be meeting up for drinks with Robert (French pronunciation).
First, a little bit of background.
Rob -as he likes to be called- is the ethnically-ambiguous host of an Internations event I gatecrashed during my first few weeks in Brussels. At said event we have a fairly brief but enriching conversation about our origins (his mother Belgo-Rwandan, his father Dutch), Belgium’s refusal to confront its colonial past and the anti-imperialist Non-Aligned Movement, amongst other things.
Rob appears to have taken a shine to me, periodically getting in touch to invite me to various soirées that he organises both off and online. Over time, he’s been in contact with increased frequency. I keep missing his calls. We finally manage to catch each other. He invites me out for a drink one Saturday night. By the time I arrive, I’m in a churlish mood. My day hasn’t gone to plan.
I explain I’ll start off in English and switch to French when I’ve calmed down and can think clearly.
Rob isn’t fazed by my saltiness. He proceeds with gentle Socratic questioning; about everything from why I’m teetotal to my thoughts on revolutionary leaders gone rogue. It feels more like a job interview than a casual night out, I half-joke. I try to turn the interrogation around on him.
He was born and raised in South Africa. I ask how this came to be. Casually, he mentions that his parents were engaged in the anti-Apartheid struggle. As you do.
Well, I should go home now. I reply I can’t really top that.
He seems to be a good listener. Or it could just be an excuse to check me out on the sly. He doesn’t exactly hide it.
He has to leave early. I don’t know what I’ve said but he’s very keen to meet up again.
True to his word, Rob texts me during the week to ask about my availability. We’re both free Friday night. He texts the details of a restaurant in Ixelles.
Can’t wait to see you again, he adds.
That’s sweet. I respond See you Friday, inshallah.
I arrive at the proposed restaurant. It’s deserted, with a note indicating they’re (just about) still closed for the summer. I text Rob. Messages trickle in. Then he calls. He rambles something about low phone battery and being stuck at Louise. He suggests I come and meet him. I am not amused. I head to Trône metro. Just as I’m about to step on the train, my phone goes off again.
-Stay where you are. I’ll meet you.
Except he won’t literally meet me at the station. Rob texts me some more instructions to come to a book shop near Trône. He phones again.
I can see you coming up the high street.
As I approach, he’s smiling mischievously.
What the heck happened?
He tells me to hop in the van. I refuse. He’s 6”6 and of heavy build. It would hardly be a fair fight.
Oh come on! You know my friends from Internations. I’m not going to do anything…
He commences to tell me the convoluted story of his day. A sibling’s washing machine broke down. He had to replace it. Somehow this involves him also having to change vans, pass by said sibling’s flat and then stop off at his parents’ in the outskirts of Brussels. Oh yes, and he has to pick up a couple of mates to help him out.
-I don’t have time for this, I protest. I have an early start at the hairdressers the next morning.
-This is some crazy rom-com business. Why didn’t you just cancel?
Come again?
-I never said anything about a date!
-What would you call it then?
-I don’t know. Drinks with a new acquaintance? An outing?
-An outing. I like that.
Rob likes to go into deep discussion quickly. He says for example, that if a man hooks up with a woman whilst she’s drunk, it’s tantamount to rape. I’m impressed but shouldn’t be. That’s a minimum.
He volunteers to tell me about the latest woes of his ex with whom he was with for 10 years. They split five years ago but are still good friends.
-It took you a decade to work out you weren’t compatible?
-No, perfectly candid. We knew sooner. I even went to therapy about it. Haven’t you ever been in a similar…?
-...Ah. Sunken cost syndrome, I venture, Like Vietnam. You’ve already invested so much time, energy and money...it becomes a vicious circle.
-Exactly. Surely you know what that’s like?
He’s fishing. At this early stage, I say, I don’t owe him that much of my bio. There are no short cuts to emotional intimacy. I don’t want him all up in my business. In any sense of the expression.
-But I was completely open about my ex.
-Yes. Because you chose to be. I never asked you.
He has to pass by his flat for some keys and to charge his phone. He makes a joke about inviting me round.
-Oh no, uh-uh. No Netflix ‘n’ Chill.
-I don’t watch Netflix.
-In that case, there certainly won’t be any chillin’.
En route to his flat, we speak about the merits of chivalry. I maintain that it can be defended from a feminist perspective. My feminist perspective anyway. Anything that can counter the socialised selfishness in men is a good thing.
My new sandals aren’t handling the cobbled streets so well. I take a tumble. A couple of times.
-Are you all right?
-Yeah, I’m fine. Bet you won’t want to date me now.
-It’s women who worry about clumsiness. Men don’t care about that.
When I trip the second time, I say sheepishly
You've seen me fall over twice. We’re true friends now.
And so that’s my evening. My ruined evening, I tell Rob several times. I scold him for luring me out on false pretences. We banter back and forth. There’s a freedom to be as direct with him as I please.
-I couldn’t deny you some time in my company he insists At least you won’t forget it. Soon you’ll be catching feelings for me…
-Catching feelings? What is this, 1998? Anyway, you're the one catching feelings. You couldn’t let me have a Friday night to myself.
-What else would you have been doing?
-A lot!
He never does give me a straight answer as to why he didn’t just reschedule. Or maybe that is a straight answer in Rob’s world. Many a true word spoken in jest.
We hop in and out of an uber. He picks up another van. At sunset, we collect his two Moroccan friends. I wonder where they'll sit. Rob suggests we cosy up. I hop out of the car. One of the mates, Bilal, sits in the middle; the other in the back.
Between errands, the conversation continues. We talk about his time working in Accra, race relations, reproductive ethics, polygamy, birthdays, shoe sizes and French vs Belgian flirtation. I try and fail to intercept most of his double-entendres.
He has some slick word play, I give him that.
Until that evening, Rob’s facetious charisma hasn’t been apparent. Based on our previous outing, I thought he was nice; even a little dull. Still waters run deep.
It’s getting dark. A waxing gibbous moon hangs in the sky. I admit, this crazy road trip has provided me with an opportunity to see Brussels in a different light.
The streets are getting darker and I don’t recognise where I am. I start to panic. Maybe I'm being an idiot. I’m travelling with three blokes I’ve barely met and nobody knows exactly where I am.
-Please drop me off at Roodebeek station.
-I will but not now. I have to return this van by 10pm.
Rob will later have the nerve to accuse me of Stockholm syndrome.
-A good thing my Christianity obliges me to forgive. Otherwise, if I make it out of this alive, I’d never speak to you again.
A Night to Remember by Shalamar plays on the radio. I point out the irony. Later on, Rob turns up James Brown’s Sex Machine.
Turn it off! I order in English.
His freckle-covered face spreads into another impish grin.
Non-English speakers, his Moroccan acquaintances are perplexed.
- Don’t you like the song?
- It’s not that. It’s just that he has ulterior motives...
- The lyrics are a little...(Rob)
- ...Saucy (me)
At some point, I bring out my laptop to distract myself whilst the men do some heavy-lifting.
Rob passes the passenger side.
-Are you blogging?
-Yes, but not about you.
I promise however, that I will blog about this evening. How a mad mulatto practically kidnapped me. By the time I'm finished, he won’t be able to find a woman in all of Europe who’d want to date him (as if this blog has that sort of reach. Dream on, girl).
Shortly before 10pm, the time he’s supposed to return the van, we’re driving down lonely country roads. I put away my laptop, still mildly anxious. I can only hope Rob really is driving me to his parents’.
I’ve already warned him that I’m not meeting them. I don’t want to give his mum the wrong idea.
Rob leaves me no choice. He parks at the door. His mother meets us at the gate.
If he doesn’t have her diminutive size, he has inherited everything else.
I remain in the car, trying to be discreet. Rob and the boys go into the house, dropping off fixtures and raiding the fridge. When he re-emerges with his booty, he introduces me to his mum as a ‘friend’. My upbringing forces me out of the car. I greet her properly with a smile.
Rob’s mum is very welcoming, considering the hour.
-Ma pauvre. He’s taking you on quite the adventure, she sympathises
Back in the van I quip,
-Even your sweet mum sees through your dirty tricks
I refuse to eat the food that is circulated.
-I’m watching my weight.
I nudge Bilal, pointing to his chocolate bar and tease
-Don’t eat it. I don’t trust him. It’s drugged.
-Oh no! Rob is a great guy. Great! Always kidding around. Really kind...
It won’t be the last time he eulogises his mate/occasional employer.
-So what, are they your wing men? Talking you up?
At last, at almost half-10, we park around the corner from the Central Station.
-Is the ordeal finally over? I ask
-It is, Rob confirms
To disprove his Stockholm theory, I demand to be taken to the nearest bus stop. It’s a straightforward journey to my hotel from there.
En route, I ask why he’s limping.
-It’s not a limp. I walk with character, he retorts, grinning. Touché.
-You have incredible self-confidence, can’t lie
-Thanks to my mum’s love. I’m a mama’s boy.
-That’s obvious
-The perfect son.
I respond with something that is, on reflection, mean-spirited.
No riposte is forthcoming, for once.
Rob dutifully accompanies me to the station. His bus arrives. He feigns to leave. I’m not having it.
You spoil my evening then don’t have the courtesy to see me off safely?
He tells his boys that they’ll catch the next one.
I take the opportunity to ask if his activity on Internations is just a ruse to pick up chicks. He plays along. Or maybe not. Many a true word spoken in jest.
My bus arrives at last. The boys follow me on.
-I still can’t get rid of you!
Rob sits. I remain standing.
-I’m going to escort you all the way to the hotel. Since I spoiled your evening, I have to find another way to make it up to you.
My expression must be as quizzical as it is bemused.
-You’re seriously asking yourself if I mean it, he chuckles.
His humour edges ever more towards the scurrilous.
-You know I’m a Christian-Christian, don’t you? - I remind him.
-What does that mean?
- It means I’m celibate.
-You just haven’t found the man to make you change your mind.
-I have. His name is Jesus.
- Jesus is good. He has his niche…
-Yeah like creating the universe, dying for our sins, eternal salvation, abundance of life…
-...And I have my talents.
As they’re about to descend at Madou, Rob says he’s also celibate.
-In what way?
-I’m saving myself for my wife so that when she touches my skin, it’s so soft it falls off the bone.
I tell him not to mock my beliefs.
Over the next few days, exchanging voice notes with sis, the memory of the evening becomes less of the caper I thought. Sis pulls me up on some of the unpleasant aspects of the repartée.
In hindsight, I was uncomfortable. I'm not one for natural banter. The situation threw me off and I started to play a role. Je n'étais pas à la hauteur.
To be continued...
Or maybe not.
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