03

We had made great plans for the weekend but nothing came of it. In the end I found myself roaming the Antwerp night alone waiting for anybody; waiting for anything. I lost my connection to the world in a matter of seconds. This happened to me quite often in those days and I knew there was nothing to be done. I would very soon start to think there was no beauty in things, I was a failure, life was a hoax. I decided to go home but as always when haunted by such dark reflections the river drew me to her. A silent watcher - I used to love to quote Melville on this subject - I stood staring into her vast blackness for all eternity and imagined it was made out of the earth's blood. The lights and the stars reinvented themselves on the ominous surface, amorphously dancing to its gentle rythm. When I finally looked up I saw the deformed skyline of the Left Bank, with its permanent dawn, caused by industry's infernal flames. Soon it would start raining, but I felt no urge to find shelter. It seemed impossible for the clouds to cross the river. As if a giant metaphysical wall rose up from the deep, protecting the city against all evil. I had always felt safe in the black water's vicinity. It generated a certain calm which seemed to drown the entire population in blissful nodding. The Schelde didn't feverishly flow through the centre but lay by its side, as a lover. For me it felt as if I was five again, lying in bed between both my parents; the safest place in the world. I knew it wouldn't take the river much longer to comfort me. The steady stream cleared my head and carried my troubles out to sea. I turned to face the world again. It started raining. In a romantic mood I had once said Antwerp wasn't built by man, but carved out of the earth's grey surface by a great cloudburst. Rain, unpleasant though it may be, simply suited this city. As I wandered back into the streets I slowly regained my hunger for life. "O Cathedral", I shouted, "O, great heavenly Stalagmite. Embrace me with thy nightly Shadow! " I laughed silently and walked anywhere.
Later that night I met with Tom and we had a blast.

02

Tom calls me at seven asking me what am I doing. I was making dinner for Joe and my cousin Barbara, who I was living with in a nice house in a quiet Antwerp neighborhood. I said I was going to a bar where my man Tim was working round about then, to which he replied ah've got a car let's drive there. I said alright. Tom had to get up at dawn and I was not planning to go home before then so just in case I brought my book as I knew there would be bums over there looking for a chat and I was not in the mood. Off we went. As always we got happy being on the road towards another one of them grand summer of '09 nights. The massive new Marine Museum in northern Antwerp, which was still under construction, made for an impressive beacon towards our goal. Tim's bar was right on the border between the red light district and the Isle, a fancy young neighborhood surrounded by the docks. Tim and I had studied Illustration together in Antwerp. He was a tall, slender fellow with a crooked nose, and all the girls either loved him or hated him. As for me, they just liked or disliked me. I started out alone at the academy so from the first day I just hung around him and his friends because we both knew some girl Mary, who neither of us really liked. It wasn't until we went to a club, got drunk and found out we both loved the works of Gogol we decided to become brothers. And Antwerp became the playground for our mad adventures. In the years that followed the city was ours. We didn't go to bars; we just went out, dancing in the streets, climbing statues, cranes, cathedrals, not going home before the sun threw us out. And we drank, howled to the moon, to the city and its inhabitants. A crazy bunch they were, and we knew all of them, friend and foe, sharing our whiskey only to throw the empty bottle at their heads. Those days were gone now. Tim and I changed and so did our beloved town. We went on with our lives unable to shake the feeling we had lost something. Perhaps we realized we had passed the years in which brilliant young minds usually develop themselves into whatever brilliant old farts they are meant to be, thus realizing we weren't that brilliant all together. Anyhow, Tim was working bars nowadays and I pretty much just sat there with him, two 25 year olds reminiscing instead of looking forward. We had great fun though, and we were surrounded by a fantastic family of friends. Upon arrival that night I saw Bill, a guy I met there once or twice before, sitting at the bar with his buddy Emile. Bill worked in the shipping business travelling round the world to check his cargos, and had always told me the craziest stories about those travels. Tonight he was drunk. Before we had a chance to even say hi to Tim, he grasped me and started telling me how my paintings made him wanna put a bullet in his head, and how I, like all artists, probably felt superior to other people. I told him I resented that remark and turned my back to him. He wouldn't let go though and called me an arrogant Neanderthal. Now I know I have got a few of the Neanderthal facial features but Bill shouldn'a said that. Just because I knew he was a fighter and twice my size I let it go. I returned to my own company and tried my best to ignore Bill. Lucky for me he tried to make some girl, failed miserably and silently disappeared shortly afterwards. "Back in the days," I said, "back in the days, I would've punched him right on the nose!" We all knew that wasn't true.

01

At six Tom calls me up. He asks me if I'd like to have dinner with him and his grampaw. I had been starting all day finishing nothing and was getting bored and hungry so I said why not. We met in a fancy little Italian place and had ourselves a fine two course meal. We drank red wine on and on into the cool night. The old man paid for it all. He was a joyful basterd who told stories all night long and they were damned fine ones too. He used to be a real jerk to his children, as Tom told me later that evening, but had now learned to enjoy himself and his family. Everytime one of the waitresses came over for another refill, he made some witty remark that made them giggle, whereas we just sat there sheepishly gazing at their beautiful curves. I started to like the guy. A few empty bottles he turned to me and spoke emphatically. "Maestro, you know you're a lazy fool, so why don't you stop your lying around and start painting your ass off. Not tomorrow, tonight. I have to go now and leave the night to you children." He left and Tom and I ordered whiskey and coffee and went out for a smoke enjoying the starlit freshness of a post-heat wave night. We babbled ourselves straight past midnight. Dominic the sous-chef, a rasp-voiced workaholic who we knew from old, joined our table and soon others did. There was Lynn, a tall pretty gal who used to pour us drinks through the night in the bar accross the square, Valentina one of the waitresses who was mad as hell, Guido the boss, an english speaking Italian who had lived most of his life in Germany, and to whom I took an instant dislike, and finally a friendly young African waiter, who left moments later to start working in some other bar. Tom had decided to befriend Guido in order to get a good price next time and was making crazy efforts to laugh at his jokes asking all kinds of questions. Not getting the reaction he was hoping for he started asking the other waitress, Galana, a beautiful young girl, out with us but received naught but silent smiles. Meanwhile I was sitting there all enigmatic, drinking one beer after another and slowly slipping into a slight nausea. Listening to the continuous ramblings beside me didn't help one bit. Everybody was all over Lynn, and she was constantly challenging us to do so, Guido, whose wife just three days earlier had given birth to their daughter Julia, included. The whole thing made me sick so I went into the restroom to freshen up. Coming back out, determined to go home, I saw the whole gang was getting up, ready to move on. I moved on with them, of course. We went to the bar where Lynn and Dominic used to work and sat on the stools closest to the kitchen. It was the same crew we used to drink here with all night during previous summer, and for a moment we all felt like that again. I started to enjoy myself and poured some more alcohol in me. Daniel, a new bartender and rockabilly stand up bass player, always filled me up with too much Glenlivet, and I expressed my sympathy for it. The Glenlivet is a fine, fine whiskey.