r
- The first time I entered
Bruxelles' dark basement was a gloomy
Autumn evening, the half-deserted city
streets were rain-dampened and slick with
motor oil, the shops were mostly closed
and shuttered, a few late-workers hurried
home under umbrellas, their collars up. A
newspaper seller on the corner of Suffolk
Street, shuffled from foot to foot.
The zodiac mirror on the lower landing
reflected John's and my attempt to look
older and cooler than we were or felt as
we passed beneath the pavement slabs into
unknown territory. In our nervousness,
the descent seemed dizzying,
disorientating, though only two short
flights. They stopped, abruptly, outside
a toilet door.
Left and right were murky bars, pale
lamps cast an uncertain light at
intervals through the smoke. Rock music
from a generation removed blared out from
unseen speakers, smothering the noise of
the packed punters whose numbers spilled
over into the entryway. Pint glasses
perched precariously on shoulder-high
mouldings of the panelled walls, or
crouched, like their owners, on the sand-coloured
floor underfoot.
Long-haired, hard-bitten drinkers glanced
at us in disinterest, or, it seemed, in
near hostility. Somewhere in the distance,
a glass toppled and smashed to the sound
of raucous cheers. Motorcycle helmets
piled like the trophies of some ancient,
bloody conquerer filled one whole corner.
But we'd come this far... Alcohol and the
slight possibility of female company were
too close now for us to turn tail. We
took a deep breath, sucked in balls and
bellies (the one for courage; the other
for the look of the thing) and wound
through the press to the nearest counter.
A dog-faced, hump-backed barman filled
our order wordlessly. We counted our
change. There wasn't much; town was
expensive. But we'd arrived! And we
planned to stay.
| |
 |
|
| |
Ann-Marie
sports the style
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
