Paradis

“In heaven, all the interesting people are missing.” F. Nietzsche.

Some people imagine heaven like a tropical island, with palm trees, parrots and a cocktail open bar. Other nerds, like Borges, imagine some kind of library. I personally think it is much more likely to look a lot like Woluve Saint-Pierre. If you have never heard of it, that is kind of the point. Woluve Saint-St. Pierre is a suburb of Brussels, although in truth it could be a suburb of any northern European city. Instead of palm trees there are pines and willows; instead of parrots, squirrels and instead of bottomless mojitos there are small corner taverns with names like Le Pigeon Rapide. The streets are evenly paved, franked by bikelines, and far from the traffic jams of the rest of the city. There’s only one metro station, but the trams pass on time and often. There are few restaurants, packed together near a couple little squares. No kebabs, no McDonalds.

Woluve is known as a diplomatic quarter, although some family houses are so big that are hard to tell apart from the embassies. Glancing at some windows you can see the living room of your dreams, although glancing is sometimes made impossible by big gardens and tall surrounding walls.The humblest houses are still two- or three-store units, with garden, garage and different styles of terrace. Woluve is hardly the place someone thinks of when they think of Brussels. It is far from the EU quarter and the trendy areas preferred by young expats. When it is time to form a family and get into the Belgian housing market, however, many eurocrats head to Woluve to mingle with well-to-do Bruxelloises.

I’m spending time in Woluve due to life circumstances, thanks to the generosity of a friend and her family. The stay in the suburbs is making me consider my life choices. Having recently decided to throw my personal finances under the bus and leave my job, it’s really hard to imagine a better presentation of the cost of opportunity. What Woluve-St. Pierre is saying, in other words, is: this could have been you. If you work hard and continuously, invest carefully and play your cards well, it could be you one day behind those walls. A wife, a cat, children, maybe even a car. A good life.

Maybe I still can go back to work. Say I was sorry. Say it was a joke. They know me, they know I say silly stuff. Screw my dreams. And what are those dreams anyway? Be a rock star? Be applauded? Be smarter than everybody? Create? Be cool? Leave a trace? Inspire someone? The only truth is, I have no idea.

No way. There has to be something, right? Doesn’t everything happen for a reason? I don’t see how determinism is going to help me here. Besides, can you really be someone in show business if you live in Woluve Saint-Pierre? An accomplished accountant, maybe, maybe even a Director General of the European Commission. But not an artist. Can you imagine Woody Allen living here when he was starting? Rowan Atkinson? Dua Lipa? There is no way.

This is what was going through my mind when I wandered into the Parc des Deux Sources. The park features a big central pond surrounded by dense woods. It is one of those spaces in Brussels where were it not for the sound of traffic, you could think you are out in the forest. The park looks a bit abandoned. Both runners and ducks seem to prefer the bigger and nicer Parc de Woluve, next door. Three young men benefit from the peace to fish in the pond. A couple walks a dog. A swan swims away. I walk around aimlessly for a while. I notice I have passed a certain deformed tree for the second time, and looking past it I recognize the silhouette of a building. It appears to be a house. I have seen houses facing parks in Brussels before, their backyards open to the woods, but this one is further in, and more isolated. It is a big house, although nothing compared with some of the mansions outside. It looks old, but recently renovated. A wall separates the house from the park, but the gate is not closed. I am unemployed and the truth is, I have nothing particular to do, so I decide to get closer. After all, this is a public park, isn’t it?

I cross the front garden and approach the window to take a look inside. I can see a big room. On one side of the room there is some sound equipment. A keyboard. Some drums. A microphone. A couple of shelves full of vinyls, and some posters on the walls. Michael Jackson. Benny Moré. A beautiful one of Jacques Brel. The other side of the room is covered of full-body dummies wearing colorful suits with baroque patterns, and exuberant hats of different shapes. .

―Tu cherches quoi? ― I hear a voice behind me.

I turn around. There is a man giving me an irritated look. His skin is dark, he’s skinny and bony. And he is tall, quite tall, an impression accentuated by his hair tied in a bun. An impressive presence. And a not unfamiliar one. I know this man. We have seen each other before. Or rather, I have seen him well, and he has seen me along with other hundred thousand people, give or take, all dancing ecstatic at the beat of his music. It was one of the best concerts of my life. If there was one person I had not expected to meet deep in the woods of Woluve St. Pierre, it was Paul van Haver. Stromae.

―Are you looking for something?― he says

―No… I wasn’t looking for anything. I was just looking… I got lost… I’m unemployed.

―Oh, I’m sorry.

―Eh? Oh no, it’s not like that. I quit.

―Oh, good for you.

―I’m trying to be an artist, you see.

―Oh dear. Don’t tell me you wrote a song for me.

―Eh? No, no

―Your little brother is my biggest fan and he’s sick

―I don’t…

―Or is it your girlfriend?

―Eh?

―So, you just came to give me your good wishes

―No. Well, yes, of course. Wait, what are you doing here?

―Well― he hesitates―. I live here, sort of.

―What do you mean here? Here, here?― I point to the house.

―Here, yes. But don’t go around telling everyone. I fear word is already out.

―What are you doing in Woluwe-Saint-Pierre?

―What is anyone doing anywhere?

―Well, fair enough, but that doesn’t really answer the question.

―I don’t know, man. I wanted to lie low for a while. Go somewhere quieter. But where am I going to go? Flanders? Hell, no.

―Oh man. I love your music so much. You are amazing. I had tickets for your concert, it’s so sad you canceled it!

―Yeah it sucks for you. I am fine, thank you for asking.

―I’m sorry, you are right. Are you better?

―The body is better. But up here ―he says, pointing to his head― is still so-so. There are bad days and good days.

―Like those songs of yours Bonne Journee / Mauvaise Journee.

―But worse. It’s funny, when you write about a feeling and it becomes even more real. So, anyway, I come here on some bad days to not pay it with my family.

―But why Woluwe?

―It’s quiet, it’s nice. Don´t you like it?

―It is good for some people I guess.

―I don’t know why I chose this, to be honest. I don’t know why I do most things― he says.

―I can relate to that.

―You said you are an artist?

―A comedian

―You don’t seem too funny

―I get that a lot

―Are you famous?

―Only in the smallest and lamest way you can imagine

―I don’t know, I know some pretty lame shit.

―How is it, actually being famous? Like, being Stromae.

―It’s weird. Like, very weird. But also, it gets normal. Now I almost don’t remember how it felt before. I started singing very young. I got famous before really having time to consider if I really wanted it, you know? This is just normal life for me now. But it’s also not normal. I mean, I love being Stromae. But sometimes I would just want to be Paul. Take a normal walk. Get a normal drink. Scream at someone from my car.

―So, you don’t recommend it?

―Of course I recommend it, dude. Just don’t expect it to solve all your problems. Or any of your problems, really.

―I guess first I need to get out of Woluwe. I can’t get anywhere from a place like this.

―To get anywhere it’s more important to know where the hell you are going, and that’s the hard part.

―You´re deep!

―Plus, there’s more than one way to end up in Paradise, as you can see― he says, looking at his house.

―I guess so. By the way, what are all those dummies with clothes you have in there? Sorry for peeking…

―That― he says with a new spark in his eyes― is my latest fashion collection. I’m designing now, you know? My wife got me into it. I love it. And I think I’m damn good at it. You should check our website. We are releasing some new stuff.

―Sure, I will. But, are you going to go back to music, too?

―Sure, some time. Now I just don’t feel like it. I want a pause, you know? Take a break from all that. I´m entitled, right? Maybe I don’t want to sing forever. Anyway, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, those hats are not going to sue themselves. Before, though, can I have some of what you are smoking?

―Oh, have the rest, please.

―Thank you. Oh, and good luck with the novel.

―Novel?― I say, confused. But he has already disappeared behind the house walls.

#Bruselas