Belgium inches closer to easing some COVID-restrictions. The ban on non-essential travel lifts mid-April. Friends ask about my immediate travel plans, in particular to the UK. I am not making any trips before June. I want to see how the situation evolves with required testing and quarantines.
I nevertheless take one significant step towards facilitating the process when I can travel. Thanks to my voluntary work at the Red Cross via my church, I am eligible for residual doses of the vaccine; provided I am available at short notice. I keep my phone close at hand so I don’t miss any of the alerts. It’s happened once before.
One Wednesday, late afternoon, I am summonsed to a vaccination centre just down the road. I am offered the Astra-Zeneca jab. Before handing over my consent form, I ask for another rundown of the risks. The youthful doctor mentions flu-like symptoms and reassures me that the most extreme side effects happen to only a handful. My second appointment is booked on the spot for the summer. After the jab, I’m told to wait half an hour to make sure I don’t have any immediate adverse affects. Whilst moving my shoulders to the waiting room music, I text friends excitedly about how I’ve managed to jump the relatively sluggish Belgian vaccine queue. The feverish symptoms of which I've been warned, hit hard the next day and are over within 24 hours.
Alas, the rules around compulsory teleworking are yet to be relaxed. There are days when I’m busy enough to all but forget the isolation. On others, a wave of loneliness seems to engulf me. That’s the nature of the beast, I suppose. For a change of scene, I steal away to the hotel where I passed my first couple of months in Brussels last year, with the full blessing of the proprietor.
Thank God for spring flowers. My favourite aspect of the season. There are disappointingly few cherry blossoms in my neighbourhood and in the city as a whole. It’s on the bus through the Schaerbeek area, on the way to the hotel, that I truly glimpse the pink splendour Brussels has to offer.
Still, this doesn’t prevent me from enjoying an early evening stroll around the vicinity one clement Saturday, working my way through my Benny Sings catalogue. For all its reputation of dullness compared to some of its more glamourous European counterparts, Brussels has several lovely corners.
Relationally, it’s been an interesting few weeks. I meet up with Habiba; Rob’s Day One to whom I was introduced at March’s picnic. She warns that she'll be semi-incommunicado for Ramadan so I make the most of her company. She mentions that Rob knew we’d get along. You have a lot in common. He tells her cryptically. One lunchtime together and it becomes apparent why.
Things come to a head with the man himself.
Dear patient readers, I won’t reproduce all the non-drama here. Suffice to say that after months of disrespect, ulterior motives and insincere apologies, I give up on any expectation that this will develop into a functional friendship. The last straw is the frequenting of my Internations profile by one of his side-chicks. I discover their connection purely by chance. I don’t know why the heck this woman is even aware of my existence. Naturally, Rob refuses to come clean.
It’s all far more trouble than its worth. Neither do I like the side of me it evinces. I haven't covered myself in glory this whole time. One evening, after several tense email exchanges I explain that I plan to part ways for the foreseeable future; save for bumping into each other at the odd Internations event. The online conversations spill into the next day. He employs all the usual Rob tactics to exculpate himself; denial, misdirection, gaslighting and when all else fails, bare faced untruths.
I don’t like cutting people off. It feels harsh and uncharitable, even when pushed. It’s always a measure of last resorts. But as a friend later quotes from the Good Book (although not being religious himself): I need to be wise as a serpent and harmless as a dove. For too long, I have given Rob the benefit of the doubt; holding out the false hope that he would find it in himself to be decent as I've observed he can be with others. People are complex. And yet the more I’ve witnessed, the more I’m convinced the whole ‘deep down, he’s really a great guy’ defence from acquaintances, is just his finely-honed PR in effect. It never quite worked on me.
Oddly enough, around the same time, Rob’s South American friend texts me out of the blue. By that point in time, I no longer have his number. I ask for an identification. I hesitate over whether to respond, deciding finally it’ll be too mean-spirited after all this time not to do so. I’m nevertheless circumspect. Gauging from the manner in which this particular exchange unfolds, some of his bad habits die hard. He makes unspecified plans to catch up. I give an equally vague reply.
Where one door closes, others could be opening.
Introducing Julius, another (younger) mulatto suitor that I’ve come across on my Belgian adventure. We first meet back around the Christmas period. He sidles up to me one evening on the platform of Arts-Loi metro, having expressed swivel-eyed admiration. We swap numbers, followed a few days later by an awkward phone conversation. When I describe my social-justice work at the TTUO and he mentions the illuminati, I'm left with the distinct impression we have little in common. He eventually begs off with what seems to be an everlasting toothache. Tant pis. Our interactions have been so fleeting, it barely warrants a mention on these pages.
Fast forward a few months. I’m participating in a nationwide solidarity strike for better wages in late March. Public transport is drastically-reduced. I’m walking back to my flat from Roodebeck station, when a young man approaches me on his bike with brazen familiarity. I don’t quite recognise him without his mask.
Julius, c’est toi ?
It’s fate he says, us running into each other once again this way. He insists he’s tried to reach out to me before, showing me his text history as proof. These messages never make it to my temperamental European phone. I’m sheepish. I don’t have his number any longer.
Whether or not it’s a strategy or something innate, Julius is a shameless romantic. A few minutes into our unexpected reunion, he wants to spirit me away to France for a couple of days. I don’t even clock the romantic overtone at first, more concerned with adhering to the still active non-essential travel ban.
I take his number once again. He texts shortly afterwards: You're magnificent.
This is Julius’ way. He uses epithets like ‘beloved’, ‘sweetheart’ and once, the especially bold, ‘my lady’. He sends messages attempting to coax me to come out for a spontaneous walk or to be a plus one at a birthday lunch. He texts me links to obscure songs by otherwise well-known 90s R&B artists. Since the vast majority of our exchanges are Francophone, I have little opportunity to gauge his level of English. It seems respectable. Yet clearly something gets lost in translation when he sends songs with miserable lyrics that he presumes are endearing. I point out their inappropriateness. Noticing a mild defensiveness, I acknowledge the well-intentioned gesture. It's a tricky balancing act; being affirming but not leading him on.
One mercilessly rainy Saturday afternoon, we take a trip through central Brussels by tram and foot. It almost doesn’t happen. He texts in the morning to cancel but then changes his mind. He later admits he doesn’t want me to think he's a flake. He gives la bise when he arrives. I can’t recall the last time someone tried to kiss both cheeks. There’s a whiff of nicotine. Later, when he starts a mild coughing fit and bends over to empty the contents of his throat (not impressive), I advise him to quit the fags. Surprised I picked it up, he assures me he’s only an occasional smoker.
One less thing we have in common.
But I’m not looking for a boyfriend.
To avoid any ambiguity, I tell him upfront that friendship is the objective. I put my celibacy out there too; to leave no room for equivocation. Julius is Chris Rock-style sceptical of platonic relations between the sexes. Rather incriminatingly, he claims one party is always biding their time. At best, it comes at great sacrifice, he rues. What if we are friends and develop feelings for each other? (My Anglophone male friends are never amused when I reference this part of the conversation). It usually doesn’t end well, is my response.
That doesn’t stop him from persevering. He stretches his arm around my shoulder, on the pretext of covering me with his umbrella (I have my own). From our discussions, I already glean he’s looking for a wife.
I have no plans to fulfil that JD. I’m still very much on the simple (!) endeavour of establishing some kind of basic community here. I can’t lie, however. It’s an ego boost. I may be celibate but I'm still a red-blooded woman in my late 30s. Julius is younger. He has a very good bone structure (a light-skinned Patrice Lamumba type, with a SE Asian-ish twist). He's blessed with a great physique (if a little too short for my tastes). With all these things going for him, he’s probably used to getting his way. He routinely praises my looks. Eventually, I feel pressured to return the compliment, even if I strongly doubt he’s oblivious to it.
You’re not bad yourself.
Do you mean it, or are you just paying back the compliment?
...Men and their bloody insecurities...
Don’t read too much into it, Julius.
To his credit, he also values intelligence. During our rain-soaked ramble, he too proves to be more than just a pretty face. Our interests might diverge but he’s cultured in his own way. An architect by profession, he is clearly enthused by the topography of urban Belgium. He launches into impromptu history lessons, pointing out the intricacies of roof tops and window lattices.
He's aspirational. Evidently, we have differing views on wealth accumulation. I don't take kindly to him complaining about a beggar woman, muttering something about a lack of work ethic.
Like most of the men I've met in Brussels, Julius speaks freely about his personal life. He casually mentions spending time in a children’s home, when his parents’ doomed marriage reached a particular nadir. This strikes me not only as sad but perturbing for the kid he was. I don’t know how to react. Julius is matter-of-fact about it; one might say even cheery.
I really didn’t mind. I was glad to escape the war zone.
People are complex.
À suivre.
I have one more potentially positive connection in the pipeline, thanks to a long-time Italian friend currently based in southern Africa. She puts me in touch with Lorenzo, with whom she’s been closely acquainted since her teens. He's having a hard time maintaining meaningful connections in Brussels. He also happens not to be attracted to my gender. This makes for a change from all those sketchy heteros and their shenanigans. If Lorenzo and I do get on, there’ll be something poetic about an Italian gay man and West African straight chick becoming tight.
We agree to meet in his part of town in Northern Brussels. Lorenzo has sapphire blue eyes, dusty blond hair and altogether more Nordic traits than I anticipate (not that there is a uniform Italian look). We have an easy rapport. Another refreshing aspect.
He seems a sweet but burdened soul.
Something of a Brussels veteran, changes in life cycles and various other challenges have left him socially adrift. I’m cautious not to overwhelm him with my enthusiasm. I nevertheless invite him to accompany me on my Sunday ritual the following sunny but brisk weekend. After breezing through Place Jourdain market and Parc Leopold, we settle down to chat and eat pastries in Cinquantenaire.
À suivre.
Soundtrack: Benny Sings: Music; Groove Theory; Lous & The Yakuza: Gore.
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