Last week, during one of my daily walks, I see a huge double rainbow straddling a busy main road in my neighbourhood. It ends somewhere in a nearby field. Following a drop in temperature and return to more frequent rain, there have been a few of these multicoloured appearances in the past couple of weeks.
I’ve always been taken by this natural phenomenon. In the biblical story of Noah, it’s representative of God’s mercy and fresh starts. I also like the paradox of this hopeful emblem. Such a wonderful and reassuring sight is only possible after significant rainfall. A rainbow would never be found on a clear, sunny day.
In this prolonged Coronavirus season, it’s symbolic of my efforts to count my blessings amidst the trials. March marks the first anniversary since the WHO officially declared COVID19 a pandemic. The month has brought with it more crises of morale as I reach another slow descent in the rollercoaster analogy. The monotony of teleworking once again eats away at my soundness of mind and there’s no immediate relief in sight. Yet March has also brought some opportunities to interact with others in ways that have eluded me for a while.
On the first Friday of the month my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM) organise a mass sandwich making initiative on their premises. The following day we are to deliver and distribute hundreds of packed lunches alongside the Serve the City team at the Red Cross Centre. Owing to the scale of the operation, it’s been in the church diary for weeks. It nevertheless requires some time management on my part. Friday nights have recently been set apart for online Christian counselling sessions with specialists from FWM. With all that’s going on, it’s vital that I avail myself of whatever resource to improve my emotional and mental well-being.
After another evocative session, I rush to FWM HQ. Dozens of (fairly) physically-distanced church members are in the back hall, beavering away. It’s quite the slick process, broken down to its most basic components. Some are buttering, others do the filling, whilst others still wrap the finished product in clingfilm.
There are ample treats around, both for the sandwich bags and to line the volunteers’ stomachs. Pastor Tasha asks me to join a group of Francophones doing some buttering. This is no time to be coy. After mildly awkward salutations and listening in for a bit on the girls’ talk, the conversation becomes more relaxed and inclusive. There’s an embarrassing episode where I mistakenly eat what I think is a stray slice of bread. Tya, one of my co-volunteers at the Red Cross, teases me all evening. Sensitive sort that I am, usually this would bother me to a small degree. But teasing denotes familiarity; like being officially initiated into the clan.
Some of us reconvene the following day at the Red Cross Centre. I’m wrapped up warm, expecting to hand out sandwiches to rough sleepers as on a previous occasion. Instead, the RC have a soup-kitchen set-up to distribute the lunch bags.
This is an even more rapid-fire operation than the sandwich-making. Recipients of the food packages are moved along a conveyor belt-style system. The international voluntary team set to work; some pouring out flavoursome soup and passing it around, the rest distributing various components of the food bags. We’re given strict instructions to hand out a maximum amount of food at the onset. Those with families are only allowed limited extras, to ensure everyone can eat their fill. A few chance it, hoping we won’t recall their faces when they return for second or third helpings.
The distribution goes so fast that we barely have time to speak to beneficiaries. Many are the walking definition of world-weary. They avoid my gaze, as if the burden of their circumstances has denied them of their dignity.
I try and make eye contact, smile, ask Ça va ? or wish them a Bon Appetit.
The afternoon shift draws to a close before we know it. There are plenty of left overs, long after redistributing extra helpings. The rest is to be deposited at another centre to minimise any waste.
All the volunteers are dying to taste the tantalising, still-warm soup on offer.
At home time, I’m shown more backstage bounty by a confident young Anglo-Belgian man. He has a fascinating hybrid accent, that at first makes him hard to place. I’m not tempted by the sandwich bags so much as wanting to give some away en route home. Murphy's law, of all the many homeless in Brussels, I’d see none on my journey. I decide not to risk it. There are indulgently large bags of brownies and muffins on offer that I manage to resist. I take a respectable portion home and no more.
I’m on a high from this fulfilling start to my day. I’ve also been enjoying the respite from Rob the Frenemy. That afternoon will be the first time I’ve been in contact since taking a break from the drama. I send him a carefully curated email, hoping that we can come to an entente cordial. Or at least I'll understand why his overtures of friendship are so conflicted. I have to manage my expectations. Emotional intelligence is not one of Rob’s strengths. I hope nevertheless that being earnest might get us somewhere…
Instead he makes a glib comment about having ‘ulterior motives’ after all. I’m an Aphrodite Kallipygos, according to Rob. I have to look up the term.
Once apprised, I explain that I choose to overlook this remark. Considering he’s spent the last couple of months protesting his innocence; even when unsolicited. I re-direct Rob's attention to the rest of the email’s content, which he ignores.
So what if I’m attracted to you? Is it really a problem? he shoots back. He claims his admiration of my rear is the same as some women appreciating his height.
No. It's not the bloody same.
Seeing we won’t have an adult conversation by email, I decide to call. I’m not prepared for what turns into an hour plus of drunken confessions. I don’t pick up anything untoward at first. I’m used to Rob mumbling. It’s only when he admits that he’s been drinking all evening; at first with a guest and then on his own, that I peg just how wasted he is. He proceeds to send me photographic evidence.
Alcohol notoriously loosens the tongue. Heck, Rob doesn't have much of a filter when relatively sober.
Time won’t allow for me to go into the half of what he says. He tells me things that I know he’d regret in the plain light of day. Pretty much every suspicion I’ve had about his intentions, he confirms. He itemises all the ways he finds me attractive; physically, intellectually and spiritually.
Half-way through inviting me to the park the next day, he mentions he just broke up with one of his girlfriends. As if that has anything to do with me.
Rob admits that his hitherto refusal to meet up for a platonic walk is little more than petulance. He resents that I wont come round for dinner or invite him to mine; something on which he still insists. He claims that he doesn't have a history of sexual assault (how comforting). Besides, he says, if I try anything you can just push me off.
Likely flipping story. He's 6"6. It'd hardly be a fair fight.
Don’t take it personally, I say. Just ask your South American friend. This is a segue for Rob to begin some emotional exposé on my former crush that makes little sense in his intoxicated state. Something about the South American being ‘confused’ and hung up on an old girlfriend. Tempting as it is, I have no time for these revelations. It’s none of my business.
Then in probably the most startling admission of all, Rob interjects
You know, a girl like you, you shouldn’t even give a second thought to [men like] us.
Many a true word spoken in drunkenness. There’s a poignancy to the obvious complimentary element of Rob’s statement. I find it depressing that under current virus-related circumstances, my friendship options are so minimal that my most regular contact is with a man who has such muddled motives. Moreover, it appears Rob prefers some idealised version of me in his head than the one in the real world. He questions why his being attracted to me should pose a problem. Normally it wouldn’t. Except he seems less respectful towards me than other female acquaintances such as Carol; to whom he’s much more like a model friend.
Thankfully, not all my efforts to socialise are so fraught. I have female acquaintances round for late lunch on two consecutive Sundays. First it’s Brenda, a sweet 20-something Austrian sister from FWM. Having moved to Brussels around the same time, she’s one of the few other consistent contacts I have in Belgium.
I take care of starter and mains, whilst Brenda brings over a more-ish homemade trifle. My spinach soup entrée and main fish pie dish go down very well. She’s appreciative to the point I feel a tad embarrassed. With both of us stranded in Belgium for Easter, I suggest she comes over again for Resurrection Sunday lunch. The offer is accepted without hesitation, her enthusiasm reiterated by text a fortnight later.
The following week, I’ll be pleasantly surprised to find a ‘thank you’ card in my letter box courtesy of Brenda.
That Sunday, it’s the turn of mutual friend of Rob, Auntie Carol. Her being of West-Indian extraction, I’m especially keen for my flat to be in good order when she arrives. Nobody keeps house like Caribbeans. It’s mixed-meat tagine on the menu this time, albeit not as warm as I would have liked despite being fresh out of the oven. My lukewarm flat is also too chilly for Carol’s through-and-through tropical blood. She hops from one foot to the other. There’s not much I can do to alleviate her discomfort. The living room heating is on a timer.
Notwithstanding my eagerness to share my Rob-related gossip, I learn more about Carol’s adventures as a student in Spain, our shared faith, various exes and suitors as well as work-related drama. I’ve lived a sheltered life in comparison. As Carol recalls her pre-COVID nights on the town, I rue how much this bloomin' pandemic has robbed me of Brussels’ life.
By the time we’ve exhausted this round of conversation and I accompany Carol to the metro station, it is nightfall.
Soundtrack: Expansion by Speech
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