A play, in three acts.
Act I. A bedroom in Ixelles; and, the Chausee d'Ixelles.
You are standing in the middle of your room. It is a little chilly, because heating is expensive, the ceiling is high and thus the room is drafty, and because you're only going to be here a little while longer so turning on the heat isn't worth it. You look at your dress in the mirror. It is a commonplace, everyday black knit dress. You slant your eyes critically. It is not theater-appropriate attire, you think. The Theater, for you, is an Event, a reason to get dressed up in a pretty dress, to invest in an overpriced coffee or wine beforehand, to take senseless photos of yourself and your friend before and after the play. Never mind that your ticket cost less than a movie ticket. You should wear your new black dress, the fancy one you bought for orchestra concerts and holiday fetes.
Yes, that's more like it.
You are bundled up. You leave, intending on taking your scooter. You realize that it is raining rather hard and could ice. You think better of it. You realize you do not have your umbrella. You return. You realize you do not have your ticket. You return again, mentally kicking yourself. You are now, officially, running late. You text your theater-going friend. Pre-theater photos are not happening. Dommage.
The 71 bus is nonexistant. Mais qu'est qu'il se passe?
Fellow frustrated passenger 1: Mais il y a les petites fleches, il devrait etre ici, merde!
Fellow frustrated passenger 2: Mais c'est quoi cette histoire du transport en commun? Il sert a rien ici a Bruxelles!
FFP 3: Mais c'est fou! Moi je dirai qu'il serait mieux de marcher meme jusqu'au Porte de Namur!
You agree with FFP 3. Since you are late, you begin running up Chausee d'Ixelles in the rain, in your dress. You soon realize why the bus is nonexistant. A car is flipped upside down in the middle of the Chausee, its wheels spinning helplessly, its underbelly charred. Burnt cars mean one thing: les manifs. And, indeed, just ahead are the Storm Trooperesque riot cops, round shields in hand. You are secretly glad to see them, and secretly really angry at the manifesteurs, who you somewhat irrationally blame for your lateness (since they, after all, were not responsible for your dress, the rain, your forgotten umbrella, or your forgotten tickets). When you realize that these are the same manifesteurs protesting the same Congolese elections with the same tired chants, you become irritable. When you realize that their rowdy behavior and spontaneous bonfires have closed your metro stop, sealing the Porte de Namur entrances tight, you become positively livid. Trudging through the rain to Trone, you realize that this is a wild night; not only are several storefronts smashed on Chausee d'Ixelles, manifesteurs also attacked stores on the way to the European Quarter.
You would be a little frightened, but you're more worried about missing the play.
Act II. Theatre Le Public, Quartier Saint Josse. Salle des Voutees. You are sitting in a chair on the front row of a black box theater.
The play begins. It is called "Georges Dandin en Afrika." It is confusing at first; youtube videos mingle with blogs mingle with Belgians in African dress and Africans in Louis XIV-era costumes. Moliere is dense, and the added breaking-of-the-fourth-wall element they're trying to introduce makes it harder. You almost regret deciding to watch this.
Then something clicks. You realize that this is about a group of Belgian actors, funded by some sort of humanitarian grant, who are trying to put on the Moliere play Georges Dandin in central Africa (probably Congo, definitely a former Belgian colony, they never specify which). There is a scene- a rather moving one- where the handsome black man playing Georges Dandin, a servant, refuses to kneel before M. Clitandre, a nobleman, to pray his forgiveness for something he did not do. The actor insists that this action, required by the script, forces him to look subservient, and brings back baggage about colonialism and slavery. This causes a row in which the white director finally yells "Yes, I'm white, and I'm Belgian, but I wasn't even born when we liberated the colonies in 1960!" Later, another black actor proclaims, "The next terrorist will be from sub-Saharan Africa. Forget the Belgians; I want a bomb on the Paris metro. The French women should know what it is to lose a son, to weep for senseless violence!" And, later, a middle-aged Belgian actress mourns, "I don't know what I'm doing here in Africa. Everywhere poverty, big dirty eyes, flies swarming. All I know are images. I don't have names."
The play is very good. You are conflicted about the end, though, in which Georges Dandin is face down, supposedly frustrated and conquered by his cheating, devious, intelligent wife. At this point Georges Dandin has become a clear metaphor for Africa; the wife, for a West who gives token aid with one hand and requires interest on debt with the other. The play makes Africa's situation look hopeless. You don't like this.
You leave, and are on the metro, and sigh. Is Porte de Namur closed? If so, you'll have to get off at Louise and walk 15 more minutes in the rain. You are kind of sick and this will make your cold worse.
Darn manifesteurs.
Act III. Chausee d'Ixelles, three hours later.
Porte de Namur is not closed, thank heavens. You get out of the metro, reveling at the sight of the wacky Hector Chicken sign which signals a short walk home. It's then that you smell the remnants of burning rubber. The place is still lurid with blue police light, but almost no one is there. Instead, a huge blue sign hangs on one metro entrance. It is written half in French, half in Lingala. You gather than the Matonge manifesteurs are angry, still, about Kabila. You feel tired and sad, reading it. No one is standing by the sign except a few policemen. The party, such as it was, is over.
You start walking home. You then notice that almost every store front has a hole punched in its window. The street is littered with small, round, clear-green balls of shatterproof glass. You realize that you were here, in this sports store, two days ago, buying much-needed thick socks. You were in this Zara looking at dresses a few weeks ago. Today, this afternoon, you walked by Maison Doree, whose doors are now nonexistant.
It is frightening to see this commercial artery crippled, quite literally shattered. You think, sadly, that their "ouverture exceptionnelle" (they will be open Sunday for perhaps the only day of the year to accommodate procrastinating gift-buyers like you) will be very difficult.
You trip on something. It is a soggy cardboard sign. On it is written this: 800,000 dead. 5 million raped or homeless. Didier Reynerds (the Belgian Secretary of State), why will you put up with Kabila?
This, too, is sad.
You pick up the sign, thinking about taking it home. You are not sure why. You do not think about the fact that the police might look askance at a wool-coated girl carrying a sign associated with the violent manifs of this evening. You do not think about the reaction of the few manifesteurs who still wander the streets. What you do realize, though, is that the sign has no place in your room, with the black dresses, and the books, and the duvet from Ikea. You realize that you do not wholly agree with Reynerds, but you don't agree with the smashed windows, either.
You realize that the reason the end of the play bothered you was that it felt too little like a play, and too much like real life.
Act I. A bedroom in Ixelles; and, the Chausee d'Ixelles.
You are standing in the middle of your room. It is a little chilly, because heating is expensive, the ceiling is high and thus the room is drafty, and because you're only going to be here a little while longer so turning on the heat isn't worth it. You look at your dress in the mirror. It is a commonplace, everyday black knit dress. You slant your eyes critically. It is not theater-appropriate attire, you think. The Theater, for you, is an Event, a reason to get dressed up in a pretty dress, to invest in an overpriced coffee or wine beforehand, to take senseless photos of yourself and your friend before and after the play. Never mind that your ticket cost less than a movie ticket. You should wear your new black dress, the fancy one you bought for orchestra concerts and holiday fetes.
Yes, that's more like it.
You are bundled up. You leave, intending on taking your scooter. You realize that it is raining rather hard and could ice. You think better of it. You realize you do not have your umbrella. You return. You realize you do not have your ticket. You return again, mentally kicking yourself. You are now, officially, running late. You text your theater-going friend. Pre-theater photos are not happening. Dommage.
The 71 bus is nonexistant. Mais qu'est qu'il se passe?
Fellow frustrated passenger 1: Mais il y a les petites fleches, il devrait etre ici, merde!
Fellow frustrated passenger 2: Mais c'est quoi cette histoire du transport en commun? Il sert a rien ici a Bruxelles!
FFP 3: Mais c'est fou! Moi je dirai qu'il serait mieux de marcher meme jusqu'au Porte de Namur!
You agree with FFP 3. Since you are late, you begin running up Chausee d'Ixelles in the rain, in your dress. You soon realize why the bus is nonexistant. A car is flipped upside down in the middle of the Chausee, its wheels spinning helplessly, its underbelly charred. Burnt cars mean one thing: les manifs. And, indeed, just ahead are the Storm Trooperesque riot cops, round shields in hand. You are secretly glad to see them, and secretly really angry at the manifesteurs, who you somewhat irrationally blame for your lateness (since they, after all, were not responsible for your dress, the rain, your forgotten umbrella, or your forgotten tickets). When you realize that these are the same manifesteurs protesting the same Congolese elections with the same tired chants, you become irritable. When you realize that their rowdy behavior and spontaneous bonfires have closed your metro stop, sealing the Porte de Namur entrances tight, you become positively livid. Trudging through the rain to Trone, you realize that this is a wild night; not only are several storefronts smashed on Chausee d'Ixelles, manifesteurs also attacked stores on the way to the European Quarter.
You would be a little frightened, but you're more worried about missing the play.
Act II. Theatre Le Public, Quartier Saint Josse. Salle des Voutees. You are sitting in a chair on the front row of a black box theater.
The play begins. It is called "Georges Dandin en Afrika." It is confusing at first; youtube videos mingle with blogs mingle with Belgians in African dress and Africans in Louis XIV-era costumes. Moliere is dense, and the added breaking-of-the-fourth-wall element they're trying to introduce makes it harder. You almost regret deciding to watch this.
Then something clicks. You realize that this is about a group of Belgian actors, funded by some sort of humanitarian grant, who are trying to put on the Moliere play Georges Dandin in central Africa (probably Congo, definitely a former Belgian colony, they never specify which). There is a scene- a rather moving one- where the handsome black man playing Georges Dandin, a servant, refuses to kneel before M. Clitandre, a nobleman, to pray his forgiveness for something he did not do. The actor insists that this action, required by the script, forces him to look subservient, and brings back baggage about colonialism and slavery. This causes a row in which the white director finally yells "Yes, I'm white, and I'm Belgian, but I wasn't even born when we liberated the colonies in 1960!" Later, another black actor proclaims, "The next terrorist will be from sub-Saharan Africa. Forget the Belgians; I want a bomb on the Paris metro. The French women should know what it is to lose a son, to weep for senseless violence!" And, later, a middle-aged Belgian actress mourns, "I don't know what I'm doing here in Africa. Everywhere poverty, big dirty eyes, flies swarming. All I know are images. I don't have names."
The play is very good. You are conflicted about the end, though, in which Georges Dandin is face down, supposedly frustrated and conquered by his cheating, devious, intelligent wife. At this point Georges Dandin has become a clear metaphor for Africa; the wife, for a West who gives token aid with one hand and requires interest on debt with the other. The play makes Africa's situation look hopeless. You don't like this.
You leave, and are on the metro, and sigh. Is Porte de Namur closed? If so, you'll have to get off at Louise and walk 15 more minutes in the rain. You are kind of sick and this will make your cold worse.
Darn manifesteurs.
Act III. Chausee d'Ixelles, three hours later.
Porte de Namur is not closed, thank heavens. You get out of the metro, reveling at the sight of the wacky Hector Chicken sign which signals a short walk home. It's then that you smell the remnants of burning rubber. The place is still lurid with blue police light, but almost no one is there. Instead, a huge blue sign hangs on one metro entrance. It is written half in French, half in Lingala. You gather than the Matonge manifesteurs are angry, still, about Kabila. You feel tired and sad, reading it. No one is standing by the sign except a few policemen. The party, such as it was, is over.
You start walking home. You then notice that almost every store front has a hole punched in its window. The street is littered with small, round, clear-green balls of shatterproof glass. You realize that you were here, in this sports store, two days ago, buying much-needed thick socks. You were in this Zara looking at dresses a few weeks ago. Today, this afternoon, you walked by Maison Doree, whose doors are now nonexistant.
It is frightening to see this commercial artery crippled, quite literally shattered. You think, sadly, that their "ouverture exceptionnelle" (they will be open Sunday for perhaps the only day of the year to accommodate procrastinating gift-buyers like you) will be very difficult.
You trip on something. It is a soggy cardboard sign. On it is written this: 800,000 dead. 5 million raped or homeless. Didier Reynerds (the Belgian Secretary of State), why will you put up with Kabila?
This, too, is sad.
You pick up the sign, thinking about taking it home. You are not sure why. You do not think about the fact that the police might look askance at a wool-coated girl carrying a sign associated with the violent manifs of this evening. You do not think about the reaction of the few manifesteurs who still wander the streets. What you do realize, though, is that the sign has no place in your room, with the black dresses, and the books, and the duvet from Ikea. You realize that you do not wholly agree with Reynerds, but you don't agree with the smashed windows, either.
You realize that the reason the end of the play bothered you was that it felt too little like a play, and too much like real life.
You discovered a face of Brussels I had never seen it but all this is true. Reality is somehow harder than what we can take. By the way the minister is called Reynders not Reynolds or whatever :p.
ReplyDeleteHope you enjoyed Christmas and New Year. I'll see you soon!