On a murky November evening in 2011, Madame l'Ambassador and I attended the opening of the "Dream' exhibition at Luxembourg's Mudam Museum. Scores of artists presented works pressing our faces against the surreal. Mudam's budget was small as opposed to its neighbors, but the museum was adept at seeking out new and daring paintings, videos, and scupltures overlooked by other art institutions. The patrons, guests, and artists were happy for a night on the town. Champagne flowed freely. Conversations were glib and cheerful. I wandered the halls bemused by the many works. A stranger to all. Madame showed the flag for her nation and bailed early for a formal affair. I had not been invited to the dinner, but I accompanied her outside as a gentleman should a lady.
"It's a diplomatic thingee." Madame l'Ambassador explained, as we walked through a thickening fog to the embassy's waiting Jaguar.
"I understand." A writer-in-residence had to accept his place in the scheme of European politics, although the CIA at the American embassy had fingered me as a spy. I knew nothing.
Francois, the driver, opened the right-hand rear door for Madame l'Ambassador. It was the safest seat in the car. He asked, if I needed a lift back to the city. The museum was located on the opposite side of the Wollefsschlucht or Wolf's Gorge running below the central city. I had traversed le Petrousse through the ancient battlements many times on foot during the day and waved his offer.
"You go with Madame. I'll be fine." It was a good foggy night for a walk through the ancient battlements adn I was dressed for the damop in cashmere..
The Jaguar rolled off to the French embassy. I lingered at the soiree for another half hour. More as a fly on the wall. The young curator waved to me. The amiable Italian was chatting to an aristocratic couple in their 70s. Museum patrons were much more important than a well-unknown writer. I put down my champagne and ordered a Duval. The Belgians know how to brew a good beer.
The bartender poured the triple-strength beer into a special glass with reverence. Mittel Europe worshipped its beers. I leaned at the bar and studied the passing faces. The queue at the bar seemed contently unconcerned by the chaos confronting of the Euro. Greece was on the verge of bankruptcy. The birthplace of democracy was far from this city’s worries. Luxembourg has the highest individual income in Europe, and even the poor are rich in comparison to the underclasses of America.
The first beer was downed quickly and I ordered a second. No one commented on the speed of my drinking. The grand duchy had been awarded the designation as the highest beer consumption per capita in 1993 with an unbeatable score of seventeen beers for each man, woman, and child in the tiny country. A light-weight in my late fifties, I called it a night after my third beer.
I had a good walk ahead to the upper city across the canyon of the Petrusse. Better a walk than a s stumble.
After a few steps the Mudam Museum’'s I.M. Pei structure had been shrouded by a spectral fog. I recalled my High School German teacher's translating the word for fog for our high school German class.
"Nebel." Bruder Karl at Xaverian High School had spoken the word with the muted thunder of someone, whose wrist bore the tattoo of the camps.
Nebel coupled with Nacht became night and mirrors, a mystical combined intrigues of the Gestapo’s nocturnal actions against enemies of the state.
Luxembourg had been occupied by the Nazis during World War II. Over sixty years had transpired since the collapse of the Third Reich. Walking through the murk, I heard no jackboots and descended into the reconstructed fortifications into the night's cold damp.
The Mudam soon disappeared into the gray murk. I followed the switchbacking trail like a man going blind. A southbound train sounded its whistle on the tracks below. It was the 7:43 from Troisvierges. I was familiar with the trains coming and going, especially on the rails to Germany. Triers on the Moselle was only an hour away. The city had been a city during the Roman Empire. A pleasant sojourn from dour Luxembourg. The staff of the cafe at which I had a coffee every mornign had yet to gereet me with a 'chus' or hello to a 'Stranji' or stranger/
During its reign as Gibraltar of the North, Luxembourg had housed thousands of soldiers. It had twice suffered siege by the French. Shelling and hunger had brought on surrender. Mostd of its existence was spent in armed peace. On a night in the 18th century, I imagined the path from Fort Thungen travelled by hussars, dragoons, and mercenaries. The tramp of boots. Guns over shoulders. Now only me. No threat to anyone.
My footsteps ricocheted unanswered against the stone ramparts of Fort Obergrünewald. I thought about a movie that an actor friend had made here several years ago. Bill had played a blood-lusting Nosteradu supping on the cast of a vampire movie. The city's medievalism had lent the exterior scenes an unexpected aura of horror. Even more so in tonight’s fog.
I was all alone.
While I no longer believed in God, I had seen enough vampire movies to know that I offered a fairly easy target for a bloodsucker. Werewolves were not a worry, because the moon was in the middle of the synodic month. A twig cracked in the surrounding woods. Something was out there in the forbidding shadows. I wished for a sword in my bare hand. There was some truth to all legends. Even those about vampires.
A single pinpoint of light broke through the swirling overcast. Venus, the Evening Star, like me, was alone. I salvaged a little bravery from my fears with the sighting of that familiar planet in the night sky. A lisping wind scraped through the bare branches to chant an incantation from a time before the invention of electricity. Magic and sorcery haunted the dark. This was not Kansas adn I wasn't Dorothy.
I imagined meeting a woman. A camp follower from another century. That was too much to ask from this evening. This was Luxembourg and not Paris' Rue St. Denis nor the 18th Cecntury.
My pace accelerated through the stygian tunnel underneath the outer bastion. A shiver razored against the skin of my spine. My cellphone dimly illuminated the black stone passage. Running would have been a sign of fright to creatures of the night preying on the weak. I had to be strong.
The 7:45 northbound train to Wiltz raced beneath the steep embankment. The smooth cobblestones gave way to gravel. The trail bore the ruts of wagons and the trace of horseshoes. The lights across the gorge were electric not candlelight. They shimmered in the mist. An illusion from another time.
A rusting grate blocked the tunnel under the railroad tracks. I hopped over the metal fence and bushwhacked through the underbrush to the tracks. I looked both ways and clambered across the steel rails to the other side. Safe from a train. I reached the paved street ten seconds later.
A streetlight glowed overhead. The fortifications along the Petruche hoved into sight. Burgundians, Habsburgs, Spanish, French, Austrians, and Prussians had the pleasure of defending their walls against their enemies. Few tried their luck against them. I had stormed them without incident.
My cell phone rang.
It was Francois, the driver.
He asked, if I was all right.
I had reached the safety of the old city and .
"Okay." The word meant the same in English as in French.
"Sure?" Madame l'Ambassador was concerned that something bad might have happened to me. She was a longtime friend.
“Fine, I'll be back at the residence within fifteen minutes. Thank the ambassador for asking."
It was a nice feeling to know someone cared and also that a good scare made a man feel alive, which is 100% better than being killed by a vampire any night of the week.
