writingbrussels

St. Gilles was drowning in the darkness of a late autumn evening and damped in a cold rain. That – plus the late pandemic era made the neighbourhood, otherwise lively, a half-deserted place. The pubs were open for those who could flash a safety ticket on the screen to the weary faces of waiters. The clandestine bars stayed more hidden, but that is another story. Sometimes a tram passed with its distinct heavy energy bringing people from a place to a place.

Two women walking down the Avenue Brugmann approached a small gathering of people with drums. Viva Cuba Libre! A young man shouted in a megaphone turned towards the other side of the street. “We are protesting against a recent arrest of opposition politicians,” the man told the women. No windows lit in the embassy building. A building in a row of others, a Cuban flag flaccid, limp, like a male sex organ after an intercourse. How can something so proud, even menacing, like a male sex organ and a flag, turn into a touchingly soft and damp thing? The penises of the protesting guys were safely placed in the warmth of the pants. How many executions, arrests, tortures were going on around the globe in many countries? Despite the sinister cause, the little party of boys and girls here was jolly, eager, and vibrant. Poor weather, good to be out anyway. Viva Cuba Libre. The women talked with them for a while and then continued their road. Towards Parvis St. Gilles; it was lighter and sounder at the square where poetry is read, beer is drunk and buffets serve delicious lamb koftas with slender art-nouveau building looming over the diversity.

The two women entered a spacious lobby of a community culture centre. Out of the rain, into a sharper light. They looked at each other.