I had only been there a couple of days and I was already in trouble. On the far end of St. Clarastraat I had found myself lost. I was so used to getting lost that it was becoming difficult to find streets that I didn't recognise. Nevertheless there I was, not where I should have been. Remy's Bar seemed sociable enough even for a foreigner, like me, needing directions. Dishevelled enough to not quite be a tourist, but speaking completely the wrong language.
The guide book said they didn't have bars like that in Bruges. I'd assumed it was quaint little gaff for the locals to stop and have a few beers, pass the time, maybe talk about the latest Ptanque scores..... but no. Right then I was trapped in the wrong bar, trying to speak French to an unwanted Flemish audience. So long as I kept talking I could get out of there. It was like those bombs in the war, so long as it kept whistling there would be no trouble. But when the bomb dropped you could be sure that the whole street would know about it.
Asking directions of course was not too difficult as Miguel, the barman, spoke quite good English. The impression given was that they all did, but were playing dumb to wind up the British guy who was clearly in unknown territory. So getting the desired response was proving difficult. First it was the sniggers and then the free drink. Already half cut and more than a little tired it took a while to notice that all eyes were on me, the hapless tourist. Fortunately Miguel didn't want trouble and perhaps he'd seen this game played once too often. He'd utter something Flemish and guttural at anyone moving too close, well, too close for my comfort at least. But the questions were still being thrown at me in both my own and their languages. I didn't know wether I was simply to be the butt of this evening's jokes or if I would make it back to my hotel alive. What had become apparent very early was that they disliked my insistance on speaking French. So I switched to English, muttered an apology, though I didn't know what for, and turned to my drink.
"Look, Miguel," It was all getting too rustic, " I came in for directions. I've been pressured into buying drinks, which I can't afford, been intimidated by locals and I still don't know where my hotel is. So, while I finish of this wonderful, localled brewed, export, you can give me directions back to Laangramstraat. Ok?"
"Don't worry Mr. Morgan, that one's on the house, I'll get some of these guys to see that you get home, to your hotel."
I got the idea, no blood on the bar, but he was quite happy to see me frog marched into an alley way and robed of all I owned. Not a lot as they would find. Time to depart, I felt, just as another drink was placed in front of me.
"Nah, look I've had enough, give it to Slackjaw over there, I'll find me own way home."
"Mr Morgan, this was from a lady, her at the end of the bar."
This changed things...
She was all right. Yeah, in a baggy pullover, striped, lots of colours. She'd have looked like the foreign student if she wasn't in her own country. The hair was mousy and long into a loose bun. The stool beside her was pointedly empty. I took the drink and joined her. Bruges wasn't half bad and the Bruggellians were getting better all the time.
Her name was Gunni, she didn't say she had a surname, but she said I looked as though I was having trouble. Aah, pity it was then. I told her,
"I'm Sean Morgan, hopeless mapreader, and a loser, in that I've lost my hotel."
"And your map by the looks of it."
OK, so like a typical bloke I hadn't even the pride to find a map, and too stubborn to admit it.
"Well I'm on a holiday and needed an adventure of some sort, getting lost in an new city. I'd thought I'd seen most of the city by now, but I keep finding new streets to walk down. Your English is very good. You been to England?"
"Not yet, but everyone speaks English here, you're not that far away. Most of the original guildsmen did their trade with London. Twenty kilometres to the sea, the eighty kilometres to England. Old trade routes and all that."
I was somewhere between impressed and another place,
"You're a walking guide book too, " I said, " I knew you were a student."
"Actually I'm not, but my father does the canal tours during the tourist season. He knows all that, you should go on one of his tours, you can see the best parts of the city by boat."
Dammit! I knew she was trying to sell something.
"How about you give me the guided tour as I walk you home?"
A very cheap shot I know but the chances are I wouldn't see her again so it was worth a try. I didn't expect her to laugh so raucously and spontaneously though.
"You must be joking," she giggled between gasps for air, " With your sense of direction, who'd walk you home? It is alright, I shall walk you back to your hotel and then I shall walk home. This is not your East End, Sean, I will be safe on my own. So don't try the concerned man line, in won't work. Besides by the looks of these guys you shouldn't be alone for a second."
Well at the very least I got some more time to work on my charming act as we walked down the romantic, cobbled streets of the city. Each street lit by moody gas lights. Things were certainly going my way, I could tell. One of the advantages of my getting lost was that after three, or four, times I was beginning to recognise the same streets. We were taking the scenic route. She was in no hurry to leave my company, but in no hurry to reach my hotel either. We eventually ended up by the Van Eyck statue at the end of one of the main canals.
"This is a beautiful city, I can see why you stay here."
Gunni was quiet at this, but I just assumed that the breeze had stolen my words, it was getting chilly.
"I said, it's a beautiful city."
"It is, I do love it here, but sometimes it is too small, you can walk across it in half an hour."
"But I get lost in it for days."
At least her silence broke and she laughed with me at my own incompetence. Her whole face changed when she laughed, like she was using muscles that didn't often get used. Don't misunderstand, she was great to look at per se, but when she laughed she was beautiful.
The waters looked black as we walked by in the lamplight, there were no cars, very few people. I was a big city boy, I didn't know how a city could be silent and still very much alive. Like a magnificent creature in repose. It took a pretty girl for the place to seem like this, someone who took my mind off being lost, I'd even sobered a little since we'd walked. More sobering was reaching our destination, a unlooked for eventuality.
"At the end of this street you'll find your hotel. It's been nice Sean."
"Wait, don't you want coffee, or anything?"
Dumb move, Sean, I thought.
"I can't Sean, it's not that I don't want to. I won't explain." She looked sad again, the beautiful smiling creases of her face had sunk beneath the depths of tired eyes. "Down the end of the road, your hotel." She kissed me and ran down the road past St. Giles church and vanished into the gloom.
"Goodbye."
She had been and gone, a good Samaritan, taking pity on me. Damn the self pity, she had liked me. Enough to smile at me, she'd even kissed me. Something held her back, I don't think it was arrogant of me to think it. Something held her back. First thing tomorrow I'd set about finding her, and hopefully it wouldn't involve hanging around that God awful bar again.
A vicious hammering woke me the next day, my head did ache and I had missed breakfast. Time to stumble into my clothes and go looking for Gunni. But if it was a case of 'cherchez la femme' then I'd have time to clean myself up a bit. Besides my first port of call would be to find the girl's father and if I was meeting the parents for the first time I had to look respectable.
Even shaved and washed I would never look tidy, but there is only so much that can be done.
There were various spots that did guided tours on the canals, so I picked the main one and started asking from there. Most of these guys spoke English, this wouldn't be too difficult. The difficult bit would be explaining to her father that my intensions were honourable, when it was blatant that they were not. I was pointed to a boat that was just rounding a bend and coming towards the jetty. The man steering with one hand hand and gesturing with the other looked quintessentially British down to the flat cap and green sensible weatherall. I began down the steps to the boarding platform, but was stopped by a big bloke in Flemmish demanding money.
"Oh sorry mate, how much? Look, I've only got a thousand francs, you got any change? I don't really want a trip I just need to speak to him." Pointing to Gunni's father. "I'm a friend of Gunni's."
I noticed with my trained eye that this seemed to cause some amusement. This was getting tedious. Forcing money at the ticket seller, I waited as impatiently as I could for the change, then stomped down to the jetty.
Surrounded by Germans we were all herded onto the tourist boat, I didn't have a chance to begin speaking to Gunni's father. He simply gauged my nationality with a quick 'Hello there!' before breaking into a gabble of fluent German. He certainly knew his languanges.
Wedged in the seats at the stern common sense advised me to enjoy the tour and catch up with Pops at the end. It was certainly a bit more noncholant.
Gunni had been right you could see a lot more of Bruges by boat; the hospital of St. John, the convent, the old prison buildings. Half submerged gothic architecture loomed here and there. It seemed like you couldn't move for churches and spires. Moving in and out of the dialogue was the belfry, the old watch tower that dominated the central marketplace. A tribute to the cities people; a watch tower rising above all the steeples.
When the tour ended I heavily tipped the guide and introduced myself.
"I was impressed, you speak many languages very well, where are you from?"
"I'm from Bristol actually but I have always lived in Bruges, more Bruggellian than Bristolian now."
"I met Gunni the other day, she seems local though."
"No her mother is from around here, how do you know my daughter?"
His eyes narrowed as only a father eyes can when his children are concerned. Half curious and half threatening.
"Actually she was following in her father's footsteps and offered me a tour of the city. But I lost her address, then I remembered that she told me of your boat trips. I thought there was a perfect excuse for a canal tour and I could get in touch with her at the same time. Is she at home today?"
"She is where she always is, not at my house but God's. She is up at the convent, you know the one you passed on the tour. But I don't know if you be able to see her. I'll take a message if I see her."
Somewhat baffled I took out one of my business cards;
| Morgan
and Heeley Investigations Investigations for any situation |
And I wrote my hotel address on the back,
"Here she can find me there, I'm sure the number's in the book. Tell me does she work at the convent Mr. ..."
"Burune, " chuckled Gunni's father, " Of course she works at the convent, she's a nun dear chap."
His laugh was most ridiculing, something was holding her back. Nice one Sean.