Coming and going, impossible to keep
track
Little
red man. Little green man. He is obsessed with them, at least when
she isnt home. She goes to the shop, there and back: thats four
little men. To the bank: just two. To her girlfriends: thats
ten. He peers out of the window at the people waiting by the bus
stop. His wrinkled hands tremble. In his thoughts, he is with her,
amidst the unpredictability of the little man: green before you know
it and red even faster.
I
see her across the road. She looks up and hesitates. She momentarily
waves her walking stick in the air, and shuffles over the asphalt.
Two steps of white. Two not. Concentrated, she looks at the ground
and heaves herself forwards. She hasnt realised the little man has
turned red until a discotheque on wheels approaches.
The
little men are boss of the zebras. They, too, are newcomers to
Brussels. There were many rats, a decent number of cats and dogs, a
hamster here and there and a few goldfish that had survived the trip
from the fair back home. But no zebras.
Oh,
I suppose the same goes for many things. For metro lines,
skyscrapers, road rage, MP3 players, non-European languages and
people, internet cafés and ironing centres. So much has come, you
cant keep track. And even more has gone.
The
Brussels of her youth became the Brussels of Europe. Appropriated.
Holes appeared in the city, construction sites that swallowed up
whole houses and the lives that used to inhabit them. And the things
that have come in their place make no sense to her.
The
past is gone, packed up, out of reach. No little men or zebras lead
there. Thats the way it is. First the lives disappear, then the
memories.
They
cant complain, she constantly tells him. But it doesnt help.
Coming and going have become a nigh impossible negotiation. In his
steadily shrinking world, there is not an inch of space. No room for
new words or things, or even the names of things and loves gone by.
Everything shrinks, his stature as much as his future. Between the
table, the sofa and the bed, he sails. His world has been reduced to
just a few square metres.
Only
on Saturdays and Wednesday afternoons do they leave the house
together. The taxi driver rings the bell at half past twelve without
fail and they make their way to Chez Madeleine. To the past, that is,
and a few familiar rituals.
They
greet the regular guests with a kiss, one by one. Even before theyve
finished their lap of honour, the dry martinis and the mans
favourite snacks are on the table. Then come the dishes of the day,
the glasses of white wine, two each, and to finish: coffee and cake.
On Wednesdays, they play a round of cards with old friends, on
Saturdays she dances with men more steady on their feet than her
husband.
At
around five oclock, the taxi brings the tipsy couple back home. That
ought to keep us going, she says in parting with the driver, who
helps her husband out of the car.
They
cant complain. Certainly not on Madeleine days and no more during
the week. She says it a bit too often for his liking. She wants
things he cant do. He can rattle on a bit about his hip and his
memories, about the little men, the price of things in euro and the
growing insecurity on the streets.
Things
dont get better. Sometimes its as if the tear-off calendar of
his life has reached its last few crumpled pages but continues to
hang precariously from its hook.
Everything
passes, she says with a sigh. Comes and goes. But they are happy with
every day they are given. Those with and without martinis. Those with
each other.
|