Hard Pressed but not Crushed

 

7 min. read

Capricious April first announces itself with a drop in temperature drastic enough for it to snow. A few weeks later, the consistent balmy weather will resume.  The blossoms are in full, extravagant, coral-coloured bloom. (I'm forever enchanted by nature's confetti).

After my auspicious short break in the UK, reality hits hard and quick on my return to Belgium. 

 After several weeks on the blink, my boiler is no closer to being fixed. The miraculous patience I had for the situation wears rapidly thin, especially as the temperature plummets. I grow tired of my landlord’s lack of urgency and even more frustrated with reluctant, unresponsive or unreliable plumbers. When we eventually do find someone willing to do the job, he takes longer than he suggests to supply a quote. After at last he does, the landlord decides on an extra feature that would prevent the build-up of limescale. It’s something for which he could have asked from the outset. This leads to further delays. To expedite the process, I make the appointment for installation before the new quote is even approved by the landlord. 

The technician, Nadeem, comes round with his assistant. I remain in the kitchen whilst they’re fiddling with the new boiler for a while. They prepare to leave as the sun sets, to break their fast.

That is, not before Nadeem demands payment. I assure him I'll make the transfer ASAP. He also chooses this moment to reveal that he misinformed me about the original quote, even after I double checked. They are unable to install the additional features that same day. So much the better. My landlord would otherwise be paying an arm and a leg. To cap it all, Nadeem tells me that they don’t have the van space to dispose of my old boiler. He’ll have to collect it later.

It’s only after Nadeem and co have left that I notice what a shoddy job has been done. A part of the boiler is hanging loose. There is still no hot water. It takes longer than it should to schedule a follow-up, with a lot of evasiveness and some dissembling on Nadeem’s part. He comes round again. Does some more fiddling. Still no warm water. The old boiler continues to be an obstruction in my hallway. I wonder if Nadeem is doing it on purpose. I’ve already decided no payment will be made until the task has been completed to a satisfactory standard. The saga continues well into Easter weekend, to my consternation. This time, to make sure, I conspicuously observe Nadeem whilst he works. Even when I finally feel the trickle of hot water between my fingers under the bathroom taps, I won’t dare inform the landlord until days later. I don’t want to tempt fate.

First world problems, perhaps but it’s additional stress. 

I’m doing my best to manage the things within my control. I have to make my peace with spending Easter on my own. Mum will not be fully vaccinated in time to benefit from relaxed travel rules. Em does not reply when I invite her round for Resurrection Sunday dinner.

I launch my job search after returning from the UK. Not much about which to be optimistic so far. 

I finally get hold of the trade union liaison once responsible for my file, following the discrimination and harassment I faced at TTUO. He’s never had the decency to directly communicate with me, ignoring my requests via the Delegation. I call and, as calmly as possible, explain where I feel there is room for improvement in the support he provides, for future reference. 

The liaison's response is arrogant and self-justifying. 

Typical of white fragility, he plays the victim, accusing me of aggression. He admits no culpability nor concedes that things could have been done better. He has no proper answer for a complete absence of direct communication. Instead he defends the process, the lacklustre attitude of the Delegation towards its conclusion and even the Belgian law that offers too little protection for fixed term workers. What about my interests, I ask, where’s his compassion for me? He’s not there to offer ‘psychological support’ he repeats, ad nauseum. He shows more hostility towards me than he does the Gen. Sec who wrangled and harassed me out of a job.

The heated discussion is conducted in my second language. I'm angry and haven't (yet) mastered French to the level of my first language. I'm therefore not as fluid as I would be in English. Still, I communicate my indignation well enough for him to be hyper-defensive. Talk about closing ranks. His outrage is misplaced. I’m the one who should be offended.

I still believe in the union movement, I inform him, but it’s individuals like you that make me – and others – doubt its efficacy.

Utrecht (GetYourGuide)

I’m frequenting fitness classes yet results seem sluggish, even weeks into a chastened Lenten regime. 

As Holy Week approaches, I tweak my routine further.

I spend a couple of days in the lovely Dutch town of Utrecht, where I review an excellent set by British Funk/Soul outfit, Mamas Gun. The mixed-dorm that I accidentally booked is not an experience I’ll repeat again. At least the premises are clean and the staff are helpful. It’s a fly-by-night trip. There’s enough time before returning to Belgium to engage in lengthy conversation with a friendly Irish woman from the dorm and attend a city tour. The weather has been kind. It’s good to be away just for a bit from Brussels, a city increasingly associated in my mind with false starts and false hope.

Holy Week begins the day after my Holland excursion. I’ve felt somewhat out to sea this Lent. In 2021, for the first time in aeons, I didn’t abstain from anything for the 40 days. I missed that kind of observance. Nevertheless, this year Lent hasn’t been the transcendant or serene experience for which I’d hoped. 

For the final seven days, I immerse myself in Gospel music and endeavour to be more circumspect about what content I imbibe.

I’m not a hermit, however. I make time for friends and fellowship. I lead a bible study on Christ’s statement, I am the Resurrection and the Life. It's well received. I’m emotional by the end of the discussion. It certainly helps to get my head and heart in the right space. 

That weekend, I have the opportunity to become better acquainted over drinks with Elsa, a fellow congregant at my Belgian church, FWM. Of mixed heritage, originally from Cape Verde, she patiently encourages my efforts to practise Portuguese. She’s a remarkable woman; quite the maverick. Looking too youthful to have a daughter almost 30 years old, she married young and scandalised her old Catholic community by divorcing a few years later. She went on to forge a successful career as a Leftist politician in her adopted home in the Netherlands; blazing a trail as one of very few Afrodescendant women in the game. She faced down misogynoir on all sides, including horrific threats of sexual violence and death. Ours is a meeting of minds on several fronts. I'm always buoyed by encounters with politically-aware, socially-engaged Christians.

Réformé-Ch

A few days prior, I catch up with Gretchen, erstwhile member of FWM. I’m pleased to discover things are going better for her since we last met in the New Year. Gretchen mentions in passing that she saw Lorenzo at a one-day silent retreat in late March. It coincided with my trip to the UK. If I had been there, no doubt Lorenzo wouldn't have attended. It was I who informed him of the retreat, when we were still on regular speaking terms. I’m conflicted, glad that he availed himself of this spiritual exercise on one hand. On the other, not wanting a reminder of a friendship once so dear but appearing more moribund as each day passes. It puts me in a funk.

Seeing as FWM does not have any special programme for the season apart from Easter Sunday, starting from Maundy Thursday I attend services at Trinity; a High-Anglican church in the City Centre. It’s a lot more regimented than is my custom. There are rituals that are unfamiliar to me, such as being plunged in near darkness on Easter Saturday before the individual Paschal candles are lit. Yet, carving out this time over Passion Weekend is just what I need for personal reflection. There are pockets of silence during the extended Good Friday service that are close to bliss.

After a special Resurrection Sunday performance at FWM, part-endearing (the kids), part cringe-worthy (most of the rest), it’s back home for a post-Lent brunch and an epic Skype call with sis. I pop out in the evening to check out an open mic night in town. It has just restarted after two years in the pandemic wilderness. I’ve been slowly getting to know these establishments in recent weeks. At the beginning of the month, I try out a jazz jam. It’s dominated, as usual, by self-indulgent instrumentalists. I hope to make some musical connections but it's not to be that evening. The reaction to my sung rendition of Stella by Starlight – substantially drowned out by the musicians-is at best lukewarm.

(BigOven)

This Easter Sunday session, at a different bar, is more a guitar-based singer/songwriter affair. Except for a few punters on the terrace, the venue is empty when I arrive. The bartender assures me the jam is still going ahead. I do a circuit around the neighbourhood. It’s a fine Spring evening in Brussels city centre. There’s a solitary musician getting ready to play when I return to the bar. 

I spot he’s British from his heavily-accented French. I stay for one song out of politeness. After brief conversation, he hands me his business card, to stay abreast of future events.

It’s back home for Easter Dinner for one; a menu comprised of dishes from Greece and Lebanon (courtesy of a new cook book) and chocolate for dessert.

I’ll spend most of Easter Monday with friends in Schaerbeek. Karin has organised a Resurrection Weekend breakfast/brunch according to German tradition. When I arrive, it’s so busy they can barely hear the doorbell. I’m zealously welcomed by Karin and Felix’ son, Amos, one of his playmates in tow. As I converse with some guests, I feel a rustling of my skirt and a gentle pressure against my calves. I look down to see Evita, the couple’s toddler. I pick her up with delight, her simple, adorable gesture warming my heart beyond measure. Evita always plays coy with me, returning my cuddle before hastening to join her mum in the kitchen.

It’s good to get out. The alternative would be staying at home with my sombre thoughts. The Resurrection Breakfast is a blessing for several reasons. Good food and good company, yes. It’s also the occasion to make my peace with Miriam, a church sister to whom I have not been kind of late. As a recovering Pharisee, I’ve allowed a sanctimonious side to get the better of me. The Holy Spirit won’t allow it. I apologise unreservedly to Miriam and she graciously accepts.

Karin and Felix have more food left over than they know what to do with. I can’t bring myself to eat the boiled eggs beautifully decorated by Karin and the little ones.

As she prepares doggy bags, we discuss a forthcoming Italian excursion. 

TBC.