street of the candlesticks
Wednesday
I’ve started to count the men pissing outside my window; he’s #18. Neither he nor the previous seventeen have any shame, unzipping with the drunkard’s sway. I know the call of cloudy Belgian beer well, but the stench outside my window brings out the scowl in me and I practice my Flemish with a harsh bark that sounds utterly at home in the language: "Wat doe je daar, schramoelenbak?" He looks over his denim into the darkness, grins up at my silhouette, and shrugs as he blames the beer. I push my thick amber bottle of Duvel back into the shadows of my windowsill.
Thursday
She’s appallingly young, with expensive boots and a menthol cigarette: I see its pale butt glint in the twilight. I hear her before I see her, and sneak to the windowsill with a practised gait. She’s crying in deep bursts, the howls starting down low in her chest and raking my skin as they erupt from her throat. The tremor in her voice slays me as she croaks into the phone “Je ne suis pas encore prêt pour rentrer à la maison,” I’m not ready to come home yet, and I close my window. I wish I could throw words of comfort onto the cobblestones, but my French isn’t strong enough yet.
Friday
My street is not made for speed, and the cracked cobblestones are sending them sprawling with a regularity that makes me wince. Eight Irish backpackers are racing up and down the alleyway with bloated jowls and yelps of cheer, beer bottles placed for safekeeping against the burgundy walls of my narrow medieval house. My need for connection makes me sprawl on the windowsill and laugh with them, their slang so familiar to me and their mood infectious. They beam up at me with crooked teeth and yell cheekily “Can the winner not get a kiss from you, cailean?” I answer with a grin, and realise it’s the first time I’ve spoken to someone in days.
Saturday
The thunder jolts me awake and for a moment, I can’t recall which country I’m in. Then lightning sends pale flashes across the blood red walls and I know I’m in the street of the candlesticks, in a five hundred year old house with rotting precarious stairs and a cellar so sinister I keep its doors wedged shut with a broomstick to lock its Hieronymus Bosch demons within. I clear away the empty bottles of black cherry beer and notebooks from the windowsill and open my window to the night. I can taste the storm in the cool air that rushes in over the medieval rooftops of Brussels, and as I breathe it in deeply, I almost feel at home. I sit, and let the rain splash against my hands.
Sunday
The alley cats all charm me, but I have a special place in my heart for Little Black Creature. He is young and wary, whiskers unmarred and ebony fur still lush, and only ventures out at night when the footsteps have died down. I throw down globes of goat’s cheese from my window, and laugh when he creeps away with golden smears on his nose. I worry about where he sleeps when snow piles up on the cobblestones, and each time I see his little lion’s nose peer around the alley, I sigh my relief. I croon endearments in the tongue I’m slowly acquiring...maa crotje, mijn schattebolleke...and try not to register the burn in my throat that I’m uttering them to a cat. But in this city I now call home, no-one has ever said my nickname.
Monday
I think I should call the police. My window gives a bird’s eye view of the tiny pub on the corner of Rue de la Samarataine, a typical Bruxellois brown café with one hopeful table on the pavement outside. I often perch on my windowsill to swill red wine and spy on the customers, but it’s the owners who give the show tonight. His beer belly is gargantuan and slows his gait as he stumbles drunkenly towards his wife, who shakes her head in disgust and spits in his face. I’m just reaching for another glass when I see him emerge from the pub with a sword so huge he can’t even lift it, and I have to clutch the window frame to stop from falling out. I watch his breathless attempts to lift it with a mixture of dread and amusement, and when the sirens get louder, I’m relieved that neighbours without my visa issues have taken action. I already know that if I hold the curtains at a certain angle, I can still peer out.
Tuesday
Her moans wake me and I know not to turn on the light. He has her pressed up against the bricks, his thigh between hers, a hand on the back of her head. No-one ever thinks to look up at the windows. He pushes into her and her hips grind back in a circular motion so slow I draw in my breath. It’s 3am and there’s no moonlight, but I can hear the hunger in her moans. He twists a handful of her dark hair around his fist and pulls, hard, and I can hear his demand float up to me: “Ouvre ta bouche”...open your mouth. His words, their sultry arrogance and smoky tones, make me ache. I can’t look away, but in truth, I don’t even try.
I’ve started to count the men pissing outside my window; he’s #18. Neither he nor the previous seventeen have any shame, unzipping with the drunkard’s sway. I know the call of cloudy Belgian beer well, but the stench outside my window brings out the scowl in me and I practice my Flemish with a harsh bark that sounds utterly at home in the language: "Wat doe je daar, schramoelenbak?" He looks over his denim into the darkness, grins up at my silhouette, and shrugs as he blames the beer. I push my thick amber bottle of Duvel back into the shadows of my windowsill.
Thursday
She’s appallingly young, with expensive boots and a menthol cigarette: I see its pale butt glint in the twilight. I hear her before I see her, and sneak to the windowsill with a practised gait. She’s crying in deep bursts, the howls starting down low in her chest and raking my skin as they erupt from her throat. The tremor in her voice slays me as she croaks into the phone “Je ne suis pas encore prêt pour rentrer à la maison,” I’m not ready to come home yet, and I close my window. I wish I could throw words of comfort onto the cobblestones, but my French isn’t strong enough yet.
Friday
My street is not made for speed, and the cracked cobblestones are sending them sprawling with a regularity that makes me wince. Eight Irish backpackers are racing up and down the alleyway with bloated jowls and yelps of cheer, beer bottles placed for safekeeping against the burgundy walls of my narrow medieval house. My need for connection makes me sprawl on the windowsill and laugh with them, their slang so familiar to me and their mood infectious. They beam up at me with crooked teeth and yell cheekily “Can the winner not get a kiss from you, cailean?” I answer with a grin, and realise it’s the first time I’ve spoken to someone in days.
Saturday
The thunder jolts me awake and for a moment, I can’t recall which country I’m in. Then lightning sends pale flashes across the blood red walls and I know I’m in the street of the candlesticks, in a five hundred year old house with rotting precarious stairs and a cellar so sinister I keep its doors wedged shut with a broomstick to lock its Hieronymus Bosch demons within. I clear away the empty bottles of black cherry beer and notebooks from the windowsill and open my window to the night. I can taste the storm in the cool air that rushes in over the medieval rooftops of Brussels, and as I breathe it in deeply, I almost feel at home. I sit, and let the rain splash against my hands.
Sunday
The alley cats all charm me, but I have a special place in my heart for Little Black Creature. He is young and wary, whiskers unmarred and ebony fur still lush, and only ventures out at night when the footsteps have died down. I throw down globes of goat’s cheese from my window, and laugh when he creeps away with golden smears on his nose. I worry about where he sleeps when snow piles up on the cobblestones, and each time I see his little lion’s nose peer around the alley, I sigh my relief. I croon endearments in the tongue I’m slowly acquiring...maa crotje, mijn schattebolleke...and try not to register the burn in my throat that I’m uttering them to a cat. But in this city I now call home, no-one has ever said my nickname.
Monday
I think I should call the police. My window gives a bird’s eye view of the tiny pub on the corner of Rue de la Samarataine, a typical Bruxellois brown café with one hopeful table on the pavement outside. I often perch on my windowsill to swill red wine and spy on the customers, but it’s the owners who give the show tonight. His beer belly is gargantuan and slows his gait as he stumbles drunkenly towards his wife, who shakes her head in disgust and spits in his face. I’m just reaching for another glass when I see him emerge from the pub with a sword so huge he can’t even lift it, and I have to clutch the window frame to stop from falling out. I watch his breathless attempts to lift it with a mixture of dread and amusement, and when the sirens get louder, I’m relieved that neighbours without my visa issues have taken action. I already know that if I hold the curtains at a certain angle, I can still peer out.
Tuesday
Her moans wake me and I know not to turn on the light. He has her pressed up against the bricks, his thigh between hers, a hand on the back of her head. No-one ever thinks to look up at the windows. He pushes into her and her hips grind back in a circular motion so slow I draw in my breath. It’s 3am and there’s no moonlight, but I can hear the hunger in her moans. He twists a handful of her dark hair around his fist and pulls, hard, and I can hear his demand float up to me: “Ouvre ta bouche”...open your mouth. His words, their sultry arrogance and smoky tones, make me ache. I can’t look away, but in truth, I don’t even try.
