writingbrussels

Image courtesy of Père Lachaise cemetery

“So,” said George, tottering gently in the middle of the room, staring at Finula in his bed. “I’ll just clean my teeth then,” he drawled, before twisting round and heading back out to the bathroom on the landing.

George felt odd. Amidst the swirl created by the alcohol, he could feel himself both aroused, and disappointed, at the same time. He was clearly suffering the effects of that peculiar confusion, where contrary feelings mix with drink, which drives a person into some sort of anxious, rudderless autopilot. He took up in each hand his toothbrush and toothpaste and stared at himself in the mirror.

“Hmm,” he murmured to himself, brushing erratically while letting the foaming toothpaste dribble down his chin. Events had taken a turn and now there was no going back. Returning to the room, he meekly addressed Finula with a “Hi. You alright?” switched off the side lamp and took off his clothes down to his underpants.

Image courtesy of Metro magazine

As the train sped through Groenendael and headed into the thickest part of the Forêt de Soignes, George reflected that, even then, he understood deep down his nature was to look beyond what he later came to refer to as ‘the inanity of categorising individuals by class distinction.’

George knew no other way than to speak, to anyone he met, on equal terms. If he felt any divide was opening up, he would immediately fill it with an anecdote to try to bring things closer once again. This was where his reputation came from of over-elaborating a conversation, with elements that didn’t seem to have anything to do with the topic under discussion.

His experience that evening with Finula, all those years ago, had been a good case in point.

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