Midnight in Brussels (13 page)

Chapter 21

Amanda spent the next few days walking through the neighborhoods, searching out the historical sites and following the streets indicated on the maps. She spent time roaming through the Saint Saviour’s Cathedral and stopped in the main chapel to listen to the sounds of its huge pipe organ. The terrific, eerie sounds consumed the airspace and she felt as if she was hearing the actual phantom of the opera playing. She and Paula had driven to Los Angeles to see the famous
Phantom
show at the Shubert Center in West L.A. She’d never seen anything like it, had never been to a stage show. And now the exciting sounds coming from this organ brought back that wonderful experience.

But this was incredible, even more astonishing than the show. She felt that maybe this guy was playing a jillion extra notes that weren’t supposed to be in the number. It sounded as if he was pounding on all the keys at once. Incredible! She wished she would have arrived sooner, for it had been a concert and that was the last song.

Amanda learned that the church was built in the gothic style of the fourteenth century and had been continually added to and restored ever since. After a disastrous fire in 1839 a major restoration had been necessary, but the original rusticness still remained. She couldn’t help but stand there and feel in awe for the years the building had been in existence and for the multitudes of people who had passed through its doors.

She also visited an even older church, smaller, in Burg Square which was right next to Markt Square. Its huge rustic-hewn pillars were fascinating. Once inside she touched the irregularity of the stones that had been cut and mortared into place to create the columns that held up the church all those years. If they were flattened out it would resemble the pattern of the cobblestone streets. The columns were huge, she thought they had to be at least five feet in diameter.
Solid as a rock
certainly applies to the Belgian churches
, Amanda thought as she ran her hands over the columns.

Another day during her explorations she was on her way to the Jerusalem Cathedral in the St. Anna section, near where she was staying. The lace museum was at the Jerusalem church where the nuns ran the center and the classes.

But first she wanted to stop by the Craenenburg to have a cup of coffee and talk to Antoine for a few minutes. She’d been going into the establishment every day to visit with him, sometimes twice a day, sometimes over coffee, sometimes over champagne, sometimes over a meal. Sometimes she would sit outside in the courtyard.

Antoine told her about his two little girls, ages seven and nine. His wife had left Belgium, leaving the girls behind with him. They lived in a building down the side street behind the Craenenburg, in an upstairs flat, so he was close by if they needed him. His mother had a house further down the lane and she took care of them while he was working.

Because it was so warm, the doors were wide open at the Craenenburg, so Amanda decided to go inside instead of sitting on the patio on this particular day.

Antoine was busy tending a large group of diners at the back of the room and didn’t see her as she headed for her usual table along the right wall.

When he turned to take the order to the kitchen, he saw her and his face lit up. He waved and hurried into the kitchen.

Antoine brought a smile to Amanda’s face, too. He was always so exuberant and cheerful. She’d not seen him in a bad mood at all. She felt he loved his job and she noticed that he treated all his customers accordingly.

“Amanda! How good to see you!” he called out as he hurried back toward her from the kitchen. He bent down and they kissed cheeks, as was the custom. Amanda was a quick study.

“How did the visit turn out last night?” Amanda asked as she watched his expression change from happy to sad.

“Well, it wasn’t as good as I had hoped it would be. She spent an hour with the children and then left. It’s the girls I’m concerned about, you know. Not Nadia. Nadia is in a world of her own. We were lucky she even came for an hour. The girls cried when she left.” His shoulders slumped and his eyes were vacant for a moment.

“I don’t see how she can do that to them. She’s their mother, ain’t she? Doesn’t that bother her at all?” Amanda asked.

“No, not at all.” His shoulders were slumped.

“I’d love to meet your daughters, Antoine. I miss my little nephew. Maybe on Sunday we can go to the park at the end of Carmmerstraat, where the windmills are—”

“You would do that?

“Yes, of course. I love children.”

“Perfect! We’ll go on Sunday. That is a wonderful idea.” His countenance perked up and he was his usual happy self again.

Chapter 22

Before Amanda headed to the St. Anna’s quarter, she decided to go back to one of the streets that led in the opposite direction from the Markt that was lined with fashion shops - shoes, clothing, jewelry – to find a curling iron. Hers wasn’t working and the adaptor wasn’t helping any at all. She needed one that she could plug directly into the Belgian wall sockets.

In watching the people pass her on the lanes, she had been surprised that the fashion trend was gypsy-like. Layers of colorful fabrics, tufted pants and skirts with vests, scarves and other adornments combined to create the masterpieces. The wearers became walking works of art, actually. Then there were the simply dressed: non-trendy dressers, but stylish, too. Monotoned ensembles in beige, brown, and olive green. She could guess who was affluent and who wasn’t. Most times. Not always. And tans! They all had tans. She’d heard they usually went to Spain and the south of France to beaches to get their tans. Some would go to Florida.

It took her a while, but she finally found a curling iron for her hair. It was very expensive - $70. But she needed it, so she bought it.

The Jerusalem Cathedral was straight ahead of Amanda. She’d made a right off Carmmerstraat on Jeruzalemstraat and walked a short distance towards the Kantcentrum where the lace-making took place. The building attached to the church had the same familiar roofline as most others in Bruges, she noticed. Only this one had ten steps from the top edge of each side wall towards the apex of the roofline.

All the buildings in the St. Anna part of town were of drab stone, not much color. Bruges was certainly a town of stone – streets and buildings. But the original Jerusalem Cathedral had been built of wood, and in the fifteenth century the crumbling wood had been replaced with stone.

What amazed Amanda more than anything about Bruges was that the buildings dated back to the medieval times. To her it was astonishing that she could be standing and looking at a house that someone else had been standing and looking at over half a millennium before. She could be touching a stone wall that someone five hundred years prior had been touching.

She walked through the door leading to the Kantcentrum, whose name meant “lace-making.” The Kantcentrum started up in 1970, as late as that, to preserve the lace-making industry that had begun there in 1717 by the Sisters Apostle.

After she viewed samples and supplies, as well as catalogs and books on lace-making, in the reception shop, she followed the arrows which guided her through rooms of completed pieces of antique lace. She couldn’t get over the intricate work that went into the making of all types of cloths and garments.

The Chantilly laces captivated her most. Their outlined patterns with a flat, untwisted strand of thread, the placard explained, lace made of silk mostly, and usually black. Chantilly lace was originally made in France, but now it was made in Belgium. There were classic Chantilly shawls on display.

What caught her eye next was the Binche lace. And she’d noticed that the center was giving classes on making it, beginning the following week. The patterns were very detailed with animal scenes and figures. And they weren’t outlined as Chantilly patterns were.

Next came the room where the lace-makers were working. There were at least a dozen women of all ages, mostly older, sitting at tables tossing their bobbins, weaving the tiny intricate patterns. One woman was tossing them back and forth so fast Amanda couldn’t believe she knew what she was doing. It looked like she was shuffling the bobbins on the flat cardboard that held the thread and moving her hands lightning-fast just to be impressive. She definitely was impressive. The pattern was taking form right before Amanda’s eyes. She wondered if she’d ever be able to do that. They gave classes to school children, so surely she could master it if they could. She overheard a conversation that one of the makers had just passed away at 102 years of age.

Before she left the center, Amanda enrolled in the class that was to start the following Monday. Happy as a lark, she left the Kantcentrum and walked to a café on Carmmerstraat near the B&B for dinner to celebrate her decision to learn lace-making.

As she walked she thought of her mother sewing and mending clothing for a living in Arkansas. She thought of when she was a little girl and watched her mother use a needle, weaving in and out of the cloth to make such beautiful hand-sewn dresses for other people. She and her sister’s clothing were made from the scraps and leftovers of those dresses. Their mother would piece assorted materials together and come up with such pretty garments for the two of them. But she didn’t do it often, because all her time had to be used to make clothing and to do mending for others so the girls could have food on their table. And sad to say, their mother was not well. She was sickly most of their young lives until the day she died and their grandmother stepped in and took care of them till they were teenagers. Then they married their high school sweethearts and left Arkansas after their grandmother died.

Amanda opened the single door of the small café and was met by a friendly elderly gentleman, who ushered her to a table in front of one of the two windows facing Carmmerstraat. She was the first customer of the evening.

Chapter 23

Rachel O’Neill’s arrival in Brussels brought back all the memories of the last time she was there. Only that time she had boarded a train to Bruges immediately, not taking in the sights of Brussels City. This time she checked into the luxurious, art nouveau, French Renaissance Metropole Hotel, built in the 1800s near the Grand Place—the most scenic market square in the center of Belgium.

The hotel listed among its famous clients Caruso, Albert Einstein, Madam Curie, Albert Rubinstein, and many more … actually dozens and dozens more. Rachel was amazed at the endless list of famous guests on the hotel’s website. She hadn’t seen a list like that on other hotel sites. And of course the Brussels Metropole was a political haven, since Brussels had become the administrative center for the EU, with over a million inhabitants. Including the surrounding suburbs, the population was nearly three million.

She’d always been drawn to the Metropole hotels and preferred staying in them when she traveled throughout the world. It was romantic ambiance that determined her choice of hotels. And the Brussels Metropole was no exception, it was just as she’d visualized. She immediately felt inspired as she stepped through the revolving entrance doors to the right of the well-known sidewalk Metropole Café where sippers and diners were on display in fashionable attire and sunglasses during the warm months and fur coats in winter. A Mecca designed for the beautiful people.

Rachel felt in high spirits and energetic as she always did when she traveled, not a worry or a care in the world. Nothing else mattered but where she was and what she felt at the moment. It was heaven. She was happy to be in Belgium.