Shoots of Green?

 

As I write this, I confess to being in an odd head space. I should feel more upbeat. There are reasons for [very cautious] optimism. 

In early May, Belgium allows cafés and restaurants to open their terraces for the first time since the autumn.

That murky Saturday morning, there’s a flurry of activity in my neighbourhood. Establishments that have long been closed stir to life.

What a day for it, I consider ruefully. I doubt the Bruxellois would want to sit out in the rain, no matter how long it’s been.

I don’t have time to hang around to find out. I’m en route to the Red Cross centre in Tours & Taxi. Now I am in their database, I don’t have to wait every three weeks to do a shift with my church’s outreach group. Rather than sitting around feeling sorry for myself on a Saturday, I join the international team of volunteers to serve hot drinks, or supervise the showers or hand out masks at the centre's entrance. Thanks to my more frequent visits, I’m becoming familiar to regular volunteers like facetious Micah, whom I met on my first ever shift. The recognition is comforting.

The day centre is a godsend for those who benefit from the practical and emotional support it provides. Yet, it’s in constant threat of closure. May marks one more month of reprieve, although the regulars warn that it’s only a matter of time. There’s not the steady flow of funds to keep such an initiative open. Everyone agrees it’ll be a disaster if - or when - it closes its doors. Hundreds of men and (less so) women will be turned back out on to the streets with nowhere to go. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have mental health issues. The community and belonging they find at the centre offers some relief. Not always. Amongst others, I think of young Nahum, with his incoherent broken-English monologues, rictus grin and frenetic side glances. These give some insight into the horrors he’s experienced journeying to Europe from East Africa, via the only unsafe channels available to him.

Later that afternoon, on the way back from my shift, I discover how very wrong my initial predictions were about restaurant clientele. As I pass through the city centre, I observe terraces full to bursting. Failing that, revellers compete for space in and around the landmark St Catherine church. It’s both heartening to see the streets teeming with life but also a bit worrying, given the unpredictability of this virus. Some think merely being outside and the ever-so-slightly warmer weather make large gatherings  safe. This time last year a similar optimism prevailed. It proved naive when cities across the world started entering second and third lockdowns in the final quarter of 2020.

That doesn’t stop me attending an outdoors Internations restaurant event that night in Ixelles. It’s been in the works for a couple of months. At one stage it’s not even clear it’ll go ahead. To avoid cancellation, the venue is eventually changed to a favourite haunt of the organiser, Rob. It’ll be the first time I’ll be seeing my former frenemy since I cut ties. The abrupt end to the steady stream of attention he provided takes some getting used to. I do miss having someone so keen to discuss Diaspora history, politics and faith. Nevertheless, with time I begin to truly value the peace and quiet.

Although I’m usually content to attend these socials on my own, I try to convince Julius to be my plus one. He responds with some grammatically-mangled refusal, that I at first assume is a confirmation. I’ve noticed a sharp drop in interest on his end. He seems to have taken notes from the same playbook that the other Brussels-based wastemen appear to live by. Perhaps he’s distracted by a new potential conquest. Or it’s finally dawned on him that he won’t talk me around to his way of thinking. Tant mieux. I can’t pretend my motives for the restaurant invitation are completely honourable.

At the dinner, Rob greets me with more enthusiasm than I anticipate. I attempt to be civil but distant. I make faltering conversation with the guests who have already arrived. 

Apparently, I’m not as insouciant as I like to believe. Later, when I give the lowdown to sis via voice note, she says I speak about Rob as if he were an ex. It sounds like an accusation, a depressing one at that, even if it isn't meant this way.

The evening is off to a slow start. It’s scheduled to start at 7pm but we eat closer to 9pm. When auntie Carol shows up, I don’t bother to hide my relief, smiling ear-to-ear. Over the course of the evening I engage in cultured conversation with one of Rob’s many old chums, Simon-Pierre. Unlike Rob’s other Day One, Habiba, he’s not averse to the Afropean concept. He claims to rarely have the opportunity to discuss such matters. Most of his circle either aren’t interested or find the notion baffling. Once we’ve devoured the Senegalese barbecue, somewhat rationed considering the number of guests, we head out to the ‘official’ terraced area.

St Boniface is buzzing. A waiter drops some plates at another establishment. Punters start cheering and clapping as if they’re about to catch a show.

A couple of police officers walk past the crowds waving cordially.

Rob, the ever-considerate host, makes an unceremoniously early exit. Something about waking up at the break of dawn. On a Sunday? Best not to ask why.

Brussels veterans, Simon-Pierre and Aurélien (whom, like Habiba, I first met at the sunset picnic in March) reminisce about how cheap and accessible the city once was. Just as Carol and I start talking about making our exit, a load of police show up in multiple vehicles, as if they’re about to break up a riot. They gingerly walk amongst the tables, dispersing the crowd. We’re confused. The curfew has been lifted. The following week, during a team meeting, my manager Ama points out that the Fuzz are merely enforcing the newly-imposed 10pm restaurant closure time.

The following day, I meet up with Constantin, a blast from my Strasbourg past. He’s in town with his sister and some of her pals (of which he’s clearly not a fan). 

I find out about his Belgian excursion quite by chance. He’s been on my mind. I send him a text. He announces his plans.

How long did you intend to keep that to yourself, then?

It’ll be the first time I’m meeting an acquaintance offline that I knew before I relocated to Brussels. It's reassuring. Whatever the initial attraction there might or might not have been between us, Constantin has never demanded anything beyond the platonic. It is a refreshing change from the constant utilitarianism I’ve sadly become accustomed to in Brussels.

Handsome as ever, I note Constantin's new hair cut. I only recognise him as he approaches at our meeting spot in Flagey. It’s an atypically warm and sunny day sandwiched between grisly weather. I have my sandals out. Even with just the terraces open, the neighbourhood takes on the erstwhile liveliness I could only glimpse before the second lockdown. A few days later, I’ll hear of an illicit gathering of hundreds in the area just the night before.

Constantin and I stroll towards one of several ponds in the vicinity. He’s not that impressed with Brussels. Although still only in his 20s, he already favours idyllic country life. He wants to live somewhere rural with a town and the sea within short-ish driving distance.

Half-Tunisian Constantin has decided to observe Ramadan for the first time this year. He’s not religious, he claims, just a seeker. Not for the first time, our conversation turns to metaphysical matters by way of a debate over immunisation. Trainee nurse Constantin insists on not being vaccinated against COVID nor self-isolating if required. We take many existential digressions. He suddenly becomes irritable, confessing a few moments later that it has something to do with the hunger. He calms down. The discussion moves on. He thinks I’m very bright. I hear this a lot from the male population, particularly in the European context. Rather than being completely flattered, I suspect they underestimate other women’s intelligence. Or worse still, the women they know feel pressured to curb their intellect.

Does that mean you don’t know clever women? I probe.

Could be. Constantin replies, to my surprise. He makes a joke about my (future) husband having a tough job. It betrays the reasoning behind the ostensible compliment. Too many men have a hard time dealing with a woman who speaks her mind.

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Constantin asserts nonetheless that he’s not that demanding when it comes to the females. 

I’ll eat anything.

Cheeky sod.

On my request, he introduces me to his sister before we part ways. He’s interested in dining at the Senegalese restaurant I visited the previous night. He’d like me to join him again the same evening. I’m happy to know I haven’t overstayed my welcome. I do have work the next day, however and can’t follow his fast-breaking hours. Still, I’m touched at his willingness to spend time with me before he returns to Strasbourg.

Back to my opening statements about a melancholy state of mind. 

Things have started to slowly open up. Surely, I should be upbeat. And yet, when the Ascension public holiday rolls around that week and I realise I’ll be spending another day in my own company, an intense wave of loneliness once again engulfs me. To my embarrassment, I start to wish one of the wastemen would at least extend a perfunctory invitation.

Always preferring to be proactive, I contact Brenda from church, half-expecting her to already have plans. On the contrary, she takes up my suggestion for a scenic ramble around Bois des Cambres with enthusiasm.

Soundtrack: Lous & The Yakuza -Gore, Sevena - Be Somebody. 90s R&B - Various Artists.