Brussels Noir by Michel Dufranne

Author:Michel Dufranne
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2015-11-09T05:00:00+00:00

The Killer Wore Slippers

BY NADINE MONFILS

Place du Jeu de Balle

Hick in the daytime and pinup at night: that was the life of Jefke Vanwafels, a.k.a Mimi Castafiore after dark. No one in all of Brussels would have suspected this affable retiree of supplementing his pension by giving blow jobs in the Bois de la Cambre, dolled up like a whore in flea-market frocks.

Jefke spent his days in sweatpants and slippers, quietly tending his garden full of plaster gnomes. He was well-liked in his part of the Marolles; the local shopkeepers were fond of him, and he willingly lent a hand to his elderly neighbors. He even helped some of the merchants to pack up their goods at the end of the market day; then they’d go and throw back a few Mort Subites at Willy’s or la Clef d’Or. Since Marcel’s joint had disappeared, they were left to carry on wherever a bit of the city’s soul survived, knowing that one day soon, Brussels as they knew it would be as good as gone, thanks to those asshole real-estate developers. Sometimes, he visited his mother at the Bergamot nursing home in Schaerbeek, and brought her tomatoes he’d grown on his balcony (the garden, of course, being reserved for the gnomes). Oh, little lamb . . .

“You oughta wash your hair with pigeon poo, my Jefke, that’ll make it grow back and you’ll have pretty curls like when you were little,” she told him each time.

But Jefke couldn’t have cared less. When night fell, he put on his blond wig . . .

He’d led a calm life, working at the factory. At forty years old, he had still lived with his mother. Oh, there’d been a woman, but Mrs. Vanwafels hadn’t liked her, because she wore nail polish and that “made a bad impression.” Finally, he realized he preferred football to the ladies. And he became a staunch fan of Standard Liège.

When the time came for his mother to leave their house on rue Blaes, he found himself all alone and, being an insomniac, grew a little restless. He bought a small car, which allowed him to hang out in a variety of seedy bars at night. It was around then that he first saw la Grande Bertha, an ex–truck driver, covered in feathers and sequins, impersonating Mireille Mathieu onstage at Chez Maman, a popular drag club in the city center. Jefke had fallen head over heels. He’d discovered his calling.

And so he’d taken his savings to the shops around place de Brouckère and bought the perfect pinup outfit, from false eyelashes to stiletto heels. With his platinum curls, his rhinestone necklace, his slinky black dress and lime-green shoes, he found himself simply divine. Sure, he had hair on his legs and chin, and his love handles, pinched by the waistline of his dress, formed a buoy around his stomach. But at night, all dreams are possible. You just have to find your corner of the dimly lit side of the room.

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