For the centuries, Luxembourg served as a barrier against the invading armies from Northern Europe. The city was surrounded by the thickly forested Ardennes and massive stone fortifications atop sheer cliffs, allowing hundreds of troops to foil the attack of thousands.
Militarists called the citadel the Gibraltar of the North, and in the autumn of 2011 I was appointed the pseudo-resident writer for an embassy overlooking the chasm of the Petrusse.
At the behest of Madame l'Ambassador. We knew each other from London, Paris, and New York. Even Thailand.
"Bring your evening sear. You will have many occasions to sport it."
It was buried in the top floor of the Fort Observatory and still fit, albeit a little snug.
AP was impressed and said, "I haven't worn my tux in years. You want to borrow my tie."
Friends warned Luxembourg was Europe’s most boring city, but the aeroport was only a 15-hour flight from my family in Thailand.
The ambassador’s driver greeted me inside the terminal. Marc explained that Madame l'Ambassador was attending a meeting at the EEU headquarters . I was all right with that.
Madame l'Ambassador had warned how her duties ate up much of her days and evenings. Writers were accustomed to the solitary life and I told Marc, as we walked to the Embassy's Jaguar, I said, "I'm a writer. I'm used to the solitary life. Let's go."
The drive to the residence lasted fifteen minutes in the Jaguar with the flag. A gothic mansion atop a cliff overlooking a chasm. The air was autumnal, and I stepped onto the white pebble driveway, thinking, “Very smart.”
Upon arriving at the residence, Marc guided upstairs to an attic room, probably a servant’s quarter in the past century. The single window had a view of the sky.
"There is no one else here. Only you and Madame l'Ambassador and her dog Dido."
For the first weeks, Madame l'Ambassador and I made the rounds of parties, cultural events, and diplomatic ceremonies. She was the most beautiful woman in that city and good company. I told everyone that we were just friends and that was the truth.
Every day I wrote about a hitchhiking trip in the summer of 1974. Boston-the Rockies-Reno-Santa Cruz-Moonlight Beach-Needles-Tulsa-the White Mountains. 1974 and Cross-Country America were far away in time and distance from the clifftop embassy of 2011.
< p> The city was very orderly. Walking from one end to another took about an hours. Nothing was out of place. The locals’ manner was cold, as if I didn’t belong there. I repeated my daily routine with an appalling sameness. Wake up. The ambassador was already gone by the time I came downstairs. I took my coffee at the next-door cafe. I introduced myself to the staff every morning. They never offered their name. At a week, I just greeted them with ‘chus’ and ordered a coffee. Frosty. This wasn’t Germany.
My regime. Wake up - write - eat - drink - -go to event with the ambassador-sleep.
I tried to enjoy myself in purgatory. Luxembourg had good pastry and the Bitburger beer was cheap.
On the weekends, Madame l'Ambassador and I biked through the nearby forests. Train out. Bike back. Sometimes train out. Train back/ I knew my way around. Luxembourg was small.
We attended openings at the Mudam museum.
During the week, I traveled out of the city. Chateaus dotted the country. The prosperous towns were quiet day and night. No one said 'Addi' the Luxembourg word for hello. Only me.
Strangers were strangers in Luxembourg and I succumbed to loneliness. Writers are used to apartness. We are rarely lonely, lost forever with our thoughts. Dido was a good companion in the embassy garden during the afternooons. She rested her head on my lap, as I wrote in my journal. Nothing of consequence.
To the west lay Belgium. Once out of the Ardennes, the countryside was as flat as Kansas and Jacques Brel had famously sung of his native land, "La plat pay qui est miene."
I knew one person in his ‘falt country that is his’.
Vonelli. We hadn't seen each other in years.
He had been working in Eastern Europe ever since the Fall of Communism. Before too. He said he was dealing art. We all believed him. We had never seen him do anything else.
I called the art dealer, and he invited me to visit him in Charleroi.
"Charleroi?"
"You know of it?"
"Yes."
My friend Fabo came from Charleroi. I knew the oil engineer from Pattaya. The Buffalo Bar on Soi 3 was our home away from home. We called it ‘l'ambassade Belge,’ and Fabo had always said, drinking his Heineken, "I will kill myself before I go back to Charleroi."
I was about to find out why, because I accepted Vonelli's invitation.
He had always been a good host.
When I told Madame l'Ambassador of my impending trip, she said, "Charleroi has a reputation for being the ugliest city in Europe. The painted Rene Magritte's mother committed suicide in Charleroi. I think she threw herself into a canal."
"I'd expect nothing less from the ugliest town in Europe, but as Serge Gainsbourg famously said, "Ugliness has one great advantage over beauty, it is not diminished by the passage of time.”
"And Serge was not a handsome man."
"But Jane Birkin loved him."
"Yes, she did."
The love of Beauty and the Beast.
Madame l'Ambassador's daughter TGVed up from Paris and asked incredulously, "Why are you going to that hellhole?"
"To see a friend."
"Must be a good one."
"You're probably right about that."
"What's he do there?"
"I don't know.
I was good at keeping secrets, if I didn’t know what they were.
People whispered that the Floridian expatriate was a spy for the CIA. Vonelli and I both knew better than to ask questions to which there are too many answers, because Vonelli was never at liberty to say where or why or when or with whom.
We had met in Paris, the eternal city of light. He had been dealing in art. He played piano. I introduced him to two of his loves. He let me crash on his couch in his apartment off Rue Basfroi.
I loved that city and wondered why I left in 1986.
It could have been because of a woman.
Candida.
She was a married woman now.
Her husband was a very successful publisher.
I was still a very well-unknown writer. In some ways I was happy. More often than not. I wished I had a little more money and played the local lotto without any success. At least Dido, the dog, kept me company. Faithful to the bone, although his mistress and family were #1.
I missed my family in Thailand and planned to see them at year’s end. A thirteen-hour flight from Dusseldorf to Bangkok.
Over the next few days, Madame l'Ambassador's dog looked at me funny, as if she seemed confused as to why I would leave her, and I told Dido, "I'll be back for the weekend.
She licked my hand.
Dogs will believe anything.
Madame l'Ambassador's cat couldn't care less about my staying or going. The bed was her throne. She cared as much for me as the bar staff at the cafe next door. Dido was another story.
A day later, I caught the morning train to Bruxelles.
The west-bound train pulled out of the station on time. It arrived at every stop on schedule and left at the minute of departure. This wasn’t Switzerland, but it beat Amtrak in my home country.
Arlon-Habay-Libramont-Namur.
I changed trains at Namur. Charleroi was only thirty minutes away to the south. The local train passed through Floreffe, Solvay, and Chatelet following the Albert canal.
Rusting trains rested in a railyard on the outskirts of my destination.
The rail graveyard served as a warning that we would soon arrive in Charleroi.
Vonelli waited at the station.
A smile on his bearded face.
"Come on, I'll show you some of the sights."
"The city government spent a lot of money on the terminal plaza," he explained, then added, "It's mostly used by junkies and glue-sniffers."
They were everywhere, and there wasn't a single policeman in sight.
Charleroi belonged to the under-classe. The coal mines had been shut down in the last century. Jobs were few and far between
< p> Vonelli explained the politics, "The city tore up the main shopping street five years ago. They never finished it, because the mayors stole all the money. The last four mayors are in prison. The fifth fled the country. Charleroi is known to be the most corrupt city in Europe."
"They did an even better job on the tram. 150 million Euros and counting. No rails. Only graffiti."
"Cool." I sort of liked Charleroi, surviving despite a bad reputation.
It looked a little like the East Village in 1976, although the vacant lots were more industrial-sized. There were no punks. Only junkies and meth heads on permanent drug holiday.
But I understood Fabo's disdain for his hometown.
"Nobody seems to live here," I mentioned to Vonelli, staring at the massive coal mounds dotting the cityscape. Ash heaps too dangerous to move.
"Those terrils aren't going anywhere. Sometimes people climb them and get killed in coal ash avalanches. So don't even think about going to the top of one."
"This town is a wreck," I said with admiration.
"The city collapsed after the closure of the steel mills and coal mines. The only jobs now are graft or welfare or thievery and stealing guns or dealing drugs."
"Like Detroit." I had never been to the Motor City. “Or the Bronx or East Village in the 1970s.
"Only smaller. But heading in the same direction.”
At least the graffiti was poetic.
"Come on, we'll go to my place and have a proper Belgian lunch." Vonelli led me across the Sambre Canal, and we caught a taxi to Montigny.
His house was a mansion on ten hectares bordering an autoroute. I could clearly hear the cars, and Vonelli said, "Charles Trenet, the French singer, said that he thought of the noise like the distant surf. A constant hush of traffic. Actually I'm getting used to it."
"I probably could as well." I was half-deaf in one ear, but I could hear Charles Tenet’s song LA MER in my head with both ears intact.
We walked back to the house. He opened a massive iron gate. Chez lui was a bigger-than-big house with two acres of wooded property.
”This manse had once belonged to a doctor. The rent's a 1000 Euros a month."
""That wouldn't get you a studio in New York."
"Or Paris. So here I am. Charleroi. Your room's the first on the right at the top of the stairs."
The inside temperature was cool, not as chilly as my old house in the west of Ireland. Nothing was colder than the haunted schoolhouse in Ballyconeeley.
When I came downstairs, Vonelli suggested lunch at his local.
"Moules-frites?"
"Exactement."
The national dish was delicious with twice-fried potatoes or ‘frites’ and I indulged in dipping them in mayonnaise. When in Belgium, so I had two golden Duvals along with the wine. Set for the afternoon.
And then I played pinball for dessert.
The total cost of our meals was 25 euros, complete with salad, dessert, and a carafe of white white. I was beginning to like Montigny too.
A friend of Vonelli arrived from Budapest along with the sun. The Charleroi Aeroport was connected with scores of cities throughout Europe. Igor was a good cook and promised a goulash for dinner.
The best Belgium beers came from Trappist monasteries, which had been established in the 17th Century to feed the people and finance good works.
We drank beer on the lawn and listened to the autoroute. It sounded nothing like the sea. MOre like a constant whirling of tires, which what it was.
We ate an early dinner. Igor was flying home in the morning. His goulash was excellent. He drank wine by the living room fire. The setting was so bourgeoisie. Almost enough to forget Charleroi was down the road.
When I woke in the morning, Igor was gone.
"Back to Budapest."
I've always wanted to see that city."
Along with Prague and Vonelli said, " But for now we'll bike around the city and see all the wonders of Charleroi."
"What a delightful idea." No one else was vacationing here.
We rode along the Sambre canal into the city. The bikes were old, but not as old as us.
Vonelli was a good guide and explained, "Charleroi has been peopled since before history, but in 1666 the Spanish built a great fortress, which was passed back and forth to the Dutch, Spanish, and Austrians, until the French seized the city during the Revolution. Napoleon slept here before his defeat at Waterloo."
"I've been to that battlefield. Defeat and Victory are close friends." 1666 must have been Satan's year.
"People came here to work in the mines and mills. It's all shut now. Te coal stays in the earth."
A good thing. I couldn’t imagine the pollution back then.
Now idle steel mills.
The empty railyards.
Nothing and no one seemed to work in Charleroi, and I said to Vonelli, "I feel like Charleroi. In a state of ruins, but you can tell it was something once."
"But not anymore." He gazed south to the range of coal terrils. The coal heaps were the highest mountains in this part of Belgium. "Let's head back to civilization."
Vonelli had a hard time biking uphill to Montigny. We walked a good part of the way. Neither of us was in a rush.
Back at Chateau Vonelli and I dined on left-over goulash, drank Tokaj wine, and listened to jazz by a fireplace. Dexter Gordon.
"Tomorrow we'll have a good walk to the Abbaye d'Aulne. The monastery's abandoned."
"I wouldn't expect less from Charleroi."
I called my wife in Thailand.
Angie needed money for school
She was # 1 in her class.
And my son Fenway was my spitting image.
Vonelli and I spoke about my family.
"You think you will ever go back?"
"In December."
"What about for good?"
My old crowd had left Thailand for Europe and Australia. Some stayed. Fabo.
"Times are tough over there for farangs or westerners. I'd love to leave the West, but I need money to support my kids. Maybe one day."
Only Fabo was working. A dangerous job at sea. While I was marooned in the West. A writer-in-residence without pay.
Seated in a comfy chair, I stared into a fire and listened Duke Ellington on the stereo. Vonelli asked if I wanted to go upstairs.
"No, I'm good here."
Vonelli covered me with a blanket.
And I drifted into dreams.
Paris.
Gabrielle.
The East Village.
Ann.
Sri Racha.
Mem.
My mind sleepwalked around the world, but I woke far from those destinations of my heart.
I was in Montigny. Ten klicks down the road from the ugliest city in Europe. I felt more at home than in Luxembourg, although I missed Alice.
I lay on the floor. A pillow under my head. I had no idea how I had moved out of bed in the night. I rose to my feet. It was almost noon. I never slept this late. Vonelli was in the kitchen, preparing tea and toasting a baguette.
"Good night sleep?"
"Not bad. I was a little haunted by my dreams. Reliving my life without a change. Not one bit. Almost like I was trapped by the past."
""You're not trapped here. Today we'll walk to the Abbeye d’Aulne."
Vonelli explained how the Abbaye had been founded in 657CE as a Benedictine monastery, "In 1147 it became a Cistercian Abbey, swinging between splendor and decadence until it was destroyed by French revolutionary troops."
"Do they brew beer?" I had been brought up a Catholic and had a vague idea of the differences between the two orders. The black-robed Benedictines believed in pray and work, but also good food. The white-robed Cistercians were more severe, but brewed beer to make money.
"A good one."
It was a little past noon, and I said, "Then let's going."
We descended down Rue des Landelies to the Sambre Canal. A train bridge crossed the water way.
"Do we wait?"
"It's faster to walk," said Vonelli.
"How far?'
"About three kilometers and then it's a good meal at La Guinguette."
Less than two miles. Maybe a thirty minute fast walk on flat ground.
"Why don't you go live in Thailand? asked Vonelli. He must have forgotten asking it yesterday.
I was tired of everyone asking me this question, but this afternoon I had a different answer than yesterday.
"I wish I could, but Thailand is not all beaches and Buddhas. Making money out there isn't easy either."
I explained how police had shut my F1 business over licensing. Going back was possible, but life there was tough without money.
Pi Poo or Grandfather Frank had come out to Thailand to see his granddaughter, Angie in 2005. She had been named after my mother. He was one of the two family members who came out to visit. No one elsse asked anything about my family.
The other family member was my cousin, the Bishop. Back in 1999.
No barges plied the tranquil Sambre and geese accompanied us along the towpath. The water arced south. The gaggle waddled into a marshy lake.
500 meters farther along we came to a two-story stone house by a lock.
"More than before."
The ex-spy led me inside La Guinguette.
The dining room was tidy. We ordered beers from the abbaye and moules-frites for the second time in three days.
The beer was strong. The first went down fast. Vonelli waved for another two.
We ate with our hands. The moules were fresh out of the Atlantic. We spoke about his old girlfriend. I had introduced them in Paris.
I had lived with Yorke on Ile St. Louis. Just as a friend. We sometimes called her Cruella, but she was mostly nice to me.
We ordered another round of beers.
"You know I really liked her." Vonelli rarely spoke of love.
Yorke was a good laugh and I told Vonelli, "If I go to Paris, I'll say hello for you."
"You think she'd ever come up here?" He signaled for 'l'addition'.
"To Charleroi?"
"To see the ugliness."
Even ugliness had its beauty. Serge Gainsbourg appreciated that.
"Who can read the mind of a woman?"
We raised our glasses and finished our beers.
.
The lock was filled with green water. The gates seeped the river. In the distance lay the ruins of Aulne. Ancient and at rest from the modern world.
"They really are ruins."
"There hasn't been an Abbe here since the French Revolution. Over two hundred years."
"The Black Robes mustn't have been popular with the mob." Any traces of the Benedictines had been washed away by the deluge of the Terror.
"No, everyone loses touch with people. Few of us have to explain why. Neither do these stones."
The chapel hadn't seen a roof in two centuries. Its desecration made me feel young. I was not religious in the least. Vonelli neither.
But we were not as young as the bride and groom celebrating their marriage at the abbaye's auberge.
Two younger people starting a life together.
We walked away.
Just Vonelli and me.
"There's a bar close by."
Les Caves de l'Abbaye d'Aulne had a terrace. Vonelli and I eyed the ruins. Like us they had been something once.
We ordered more beer.
"I think I have a few more years in me."
"Me too."
Neither of us hazarded a guess about how many.
"This isn't so bad."
"What about Charleroi?
"It has a good hold on ugly," I said in truth.
"And a place of beauty." That was also the truth.
Depending on the light, beauty can be ugly, then again the light is always good after a few beers.
Especially for Fabo, because we both drank beer.
fotos by peter nolan smith, angelina hue, jocko weyland, tom blackwell
