Sitting at the living
room table, I sort the mail. A note from Henry, left on his way to work, expresses what a wonderful wife I am. Dear, dear Henry.
A sheet of paper has the building management's logo. The letter, signed by the caretaker, provides recommendations related to the season changeover: the cleaning of balconies and windows, the air conditioning maintenance. It ends with this phrase: days decline, draping windows with crimped screens. I picture the sumptuous, although gloomy, mansion of the protagonist of Bruges-la-Morte, a novel written in the nineteenth century by Georges Rodenbach.
It seems to me that it is not the first time that the caretaker hints at it. I feel the urge to read a few paragraphs again, as the text evokes my native land. I head toward the office and search the shelves, in vain. I flip through the notepad in which I write down every loan, a habit I have not been ashamed of for several years. No sign of an entry for Bruges-la-Morte. Have I misplaced it? Sometimes I move my books around; for instance, cookbooks now lay in the kitchen cabinet on top of the fridge. I call Henry at work, but he does not know the answer to the riddle.
And the caretaker? Why would he quote a Belgian opus that, after all, is barely read today—even less so in North America—and which precisely happens to be missing from my library? I frown. I am not keen on lending things, let alone without authorization. I grab my keys and go downstairs to see him.
Mr. Rodebache is seated at a desk cluttered with documents. His thick brown hair competes with his shameless mustache. Behind him, the wall is covered with hammers, pliers, and saws of different sizes. I address him.
“Good morning, Mr. Rodebache! I am the owner of number 607.”
“Yes, hello. How are you, dear Madam?”
The man has always been friendly to us, so I have to come across gently.
“I just read the memo regarding the window cleaning.”
“Yes, was everything clear?”
“Absolutely, and beyond, as I recognized a marvelous sentence at the end.”
My interlocutor starts blushing. I put that down to the borrowed volume, but I am wrong, as an ample smile brightens his face.
“You give me much happiness, Mrs. Dupuis. For the seventeen years that I have looked after this building, you are the first to notice one of my quotations.”
As I put together the names Rodenbach and Rodebache, it occurs to me that I have set aside several books regarding Belgium, with the intention of arranging literary walks for a trip to come. I visualize the desk drawer dedicated to my previous home. Next to a Brussels public transportation map, the novel by Georges Rodenbach keeps company with Grégoire Polet's Excusez les fautes du copiste, as the latter mentions Uccle, Brussels, and Ostend.
I
accept the cup of tea offered by the caretaker. We bring up his
kinship with the writer, and this country
that we have both left. When the
moment ends, I realize that I am fortunate in my choice, and that Mr.
Rodebache seems to feel the same way.
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