The Lowlands - Antwerp

Winston Harrison George III  better known to his close friends as "Winnie" or simply "Winn" had slept about as well as one could be expected in one of Antwerp?s "rustic and quaint? hotels minutes from the grand River Scheldt with its picturesque waterfront promenade. He had called a cab for 6:00 AM because he knew it would take him at least five to eight minute by cab to Antwerpen-Centraal, Antwerp's Central Train Station, thus leaving him plenty of time to catch a direct train to Brussels, Gare Centrale, the main train station, one of three in the capital. Stepping outside his hotel, after quickly finishing a strong cup of coffee and a croissant, on a late September morning, it was as if he had stepped back in time; it could have been any Flemish late 19th Century painting: the fog was thick and damp and seemed to act as a blanket covering up noise; Winnie could barely discern see the shadows of bicycle riders bundled up with their coats, scarf?s and hats on their way to work or school. Every so often he heard a occasional bicycle bell ring or a guttural Goedemorgen meneer, or good morning sir in Flemish. The quiet was interrupted by the diesel engine of a Peugeot taxi with its yellow headlights cutting through the fog and screeching to a halt in front of the hotel.  Winnie jumped in the back seat of the cab and told the driver, mustering his best Flemish, Centraal station, alstublieft, Central Station, please.



Winnie or ?Winn? George had arrived the night before and without too much difficulty decided that for dinner he would treat himself to one of his favorite meals whenever he was in Antwerp. There was a little Brasserie Restaurant right off the Groenplaats, or the Main Square that was well known by the locals and thought to have some of the finest mussels in town; they were served at your table overflowing in a large pot and drowning in a white wine, mussels and garlic broth along accompanied by the obligatory overflowing basket of pomme frites allumettes or french fries. This meal was best washed down with strong dark Trappiste beer, made famous by the Trappiste monks. It was the way he remembered it so long ago and now he found himself back in Antwerp, his old stomping grounds, where he had been posted for his first assignment. It felt like a time warp.

By day, this part of town in Antwerp attracted the usual mix of meandering tourists visiting the Kathedraal van Antwerpen, the Cathedral of Antwerp, or those out for a pleasant walk on the promenade by the docks. At night, Antwerp?s riverfront took on a decidedly different atmosphere.  Bars and assorted dives, closed tight since early morning, suddenly would come alive as if switched like the bright Stella Artois beer sign prominently displayed in most of the windows. An edgy, seedy and rough world had come alive in this part of town as the jukebox kicked in with loud music and clouds of blue cigarette smoke rose and settled comfortably over the oblivious heads of the patrons. The establishments that hugged these quaint little cobbled side streets catered to a high-end clientele of rough merchant seamen, well worn painted women, local drunks and an occasional stray tourist who quickly figured out this wasn't Kansas and retreated to the safety of his hotel. One mostly heard Flemish and Dutch being spoken but it was not at all unusual to hear Polish, Norwegian, Danish, and Russian or for that matter even Chinese.  It was a hard, colorful mix of merchant seamen, sailors, stevedores, factory shift works and street girls selling company; it was a clientele of people who drank heavily and smoked continuously and minded their own business because they valued their lives.

Winnie met his contact, Rhune Martens, at the Café Plantin - a seedy dive chosen by him and one hardly befitting its namesake that of the famous 16th Century Flemish printer, Christoffel Plantijn. The Café Plantin's manager was Martina, a formidable woman with an even more formidable Rubinesque figure. Martina was of undetermined age, some said she had stowed away from somewhere, Russia perhaps, then jumped ship in Antwerp; she ruled her bar with an iron fist and was more than willing to show her scars to prove it. According to Rhune, who always had good local knowledge, Martina had a collection of knives, switchblades, a butcher knife and other crude instruments of death which she had been obliged to confiscated. With a 4:00 AM closing time, the later the evening wore on the more unsettled things could become.

 

Rhune, by virtue of his position in the Port of Antwerp was privy to considerable commercial information of interest to Winnie was already waiting at the designated rendez-vous, sitting at a discrete side table, puffing away on an ever present Belga cigarette. Over the raspy sounds of some aged English rock star's blaring from the jukebox, Rhune quickly briefed Winnie on recent arrival and departures of certain foreign merchant ships, along with their general cargo as well the comings and goings of persons of interest, Captains, First Mates, or anyone else. Rhune was one of Winnie?s first asset or agent that he had successfully recruited and trained. His agent had surprisingly remained in place because of his value as a deep asset; this despite Winnie?s unsuccessful attempt to argue up the chain of command from Brussels to Washington that it was time for a change. Meeting concluded, Rhune got up and left by the back kitchen door while Winnie finished his Stella then he went out the front door.

 

Outside business was brisk; the frites stands open 24/7 were serving heaping portions of French fries in paper cones and topped with your choice of mayonnaise to a line of late night hungry customers; across the street, tattoo parlors were busy, the noise of the electric needle patiently making its way down a girl's lower back while her boyfriend watched in fascination; further along a few windows outlined in garish red, green and pink lights revealed young scantily dressed ladies sitting in armchairs looking bored, reading or knitting and patiently waiting for business to pick up again. A side door opened onto the street and music screamed out as clouds of smoke billowed out along with a few unsteady bar patrons from Le Tic Toc Club. As he made his way back to the hotel, Winnie could hear from somewhere the sounds of night club hucksters peddling their establishment and it's unique special menu of dancers, attentive pretty bar girls, and other services available, at discount prices but only for tonight. It was all here in Antwerp, whatever you wanted whatever you desired; you didn't have to look very far.



The 6:43 morning train to Charleroi, making several stops in Brussels, slowly glided out of the station passing over Pelikan Straat, or Pelican Street, one of the major diamond centers thoroughfares of the world. Winnie gazed down as he watched the street below him slowly come alive: a Hasidic Jew walking his child to school, another briskly walking carrying a bulging leather briefcase wanting to waste little time in reach his destination, most likely a diamond cutting and polishing establishment, other merchants were opening up for business as they slowly wound up the metal shutters, cabs were beginning to line up in front of the station. Winnie recalled an operation he ran in the diamond district many years ago. It had turned out messy.  The train picked up speed as it left the Antwerp city limits. Winnie picked up his copy of Le Soir then settled instead for the sports section of the Herald Tribune.(to be continued)