Chapter 3
Greeted by the lush mint splashed walls, almond scented candles and grated granite grey slabs under my feet I waltzed into my apartment. Its walls ranked high, the space scarcely adorned with furniture. Although this city is valued for its beauty, apartments were cheap to maintain. The lack of attention towards reinforcing strength to the army sanctions, racked the zone as a possible target during wars, many took great precautions to avoid living in the city. It's been eighteen years since Germany’s surrender during the second world war. Eighteen years in which this city has been recovering from the aftermath of the Siege of Namur 1914, when German took a victory home with the takeover of Delwiche on the 25 of August. Delwiche, as the city had been named before, all though no one really knows whether the name is meant to end with an ‘e’ or no 'e’. Delwich. It had only been officially named Namur in 1962.
Residents in Namur had been forced to join the Nazis, most tried to flee and paid with their lives and that’s what the Namur population would have preferred. Germany hadn’t tried to take over any land past Namur for many years, but on the 28 of May 1940 Germany began its invasion to take occupation over the entire Belgium.
New news sprung up that the Germans were going to attack again if the Belgium tried to resist, so my father and around a thousand others walked to the Nazis to join their armies in the hopes it would be enough to keep them at bay. No one in Namur had seen it as bravery though, they saw it as treason and a mockery of our country's strength. Although we could argue that losing control of the country was a lack of strength. My father hadn’t been one for war, he was reluctant but amenably he joined the army to protect his family. To protect me. Which didn’t help the heartache of losing a father anymore than it already did. After the war ended the Germans responsible tried to hide behind one mask or another, my father must have been one for his was not one of the millions of deaths recorded. Where he’d gone, I didn’t know, no one did, no one believed he was alive either but that hope would flicker a flame in my heart for many years to pass.
I moved to Namur once I turned eighteen to work. Our money had begun to dwindle, as we had lived off my fathers money, he’d been a well known, praised entrepreneur in Brussels with plenty of riches. That's what made his ‘betrayal’ to his country sting with poison, the older generations still knew his name and some young like Sakria who had spat at her with venom and Bram who swallowed her name like vile in his mouth. The names of those who walked a path of treason had been released in the local news, a name like her father’s was difficult to forget and sometimes by passers connected the dots for her name was Ann Stromun.
My father disappeared before I was even born, he did know about my mother being pregnant, it was the main reason he had decided to go to war. For the Germans had promised him we wouldn’t be harmed if war came, and so I had little to no personal relations to his actions, but everyone always looked at me as if I had made that decision. Luckily my father left such riches to the family safely signed over to my mother a week in advance when the first news of an attack had reached the harbors. He had owned a few businesses and a complex which we sold to live off. Within the first month of being alone my mother had fallen into a depressive state, we could have both died, on plenty of occasions. It scared me to leave my mother alone in the small township I grew up in, but there was no money left, I had to work. I’ve been sending money home every week and visiting her on my off day, Sunday but all I could hope was that the townsfolk cared enough to check up on her and hopefully motivate her in ways I couldn’t.
The first job my father had was at the very same Gesbanosh company although in a different region, which I now worked at, he’d later, when trading stocks for the company went up, bought twenty percent of the business. Those were also the first stocks my mother sold, but his hard work and determination had not gone forgotten and had been the prime reason I managed to get a job there. Although I was currently being paid almost half as much as he had been, and that was years ago.
This apartment was one of the few things we hadn’t been able to sell, and had been the apartment my father’s, parents had lived in. After reclaiming Namur the possession and property that survived were given to the children of its past owners, since my father was claimed to be dead, now it was mine. My mother did want to sell it when I turned eighteen and could legally sign the apartment in my name, but I refused to.
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The windows overlooked the lapping violet blue river, which sang a salty song as the wind swept past. Setting down the bagels, the sour scent seemed to leer from the empty, oak plated countertop, mocking the chef. I scooped up a handful of dry pellets and listened to the clatter as it fell into a round metal steel bowl, lined with red wood. It belonged to the feline, with long calico fur and piercing spider-like eyes, now running towards me. Bumble my cat, she was a year old, I gladly took the opportunity to adopt her, when I’d moved here alone, for I’d always wanted a cat.
On the stooped coffee table lay an unfinished puzzle I’d been working on. The bed in the opposing room, neatly folded and decked however, was the destination I longed for. Carelessly I’m drawn to wandering into the room, hanging the bag, formally wrapped across my chest, upon a little metallic nail slammed into a dark and chalk splattered wall. Notes scribbled from the corner to the edge, birthday’s, a couple of grocery lists and little bits of a personality through fashion ideas, crude sketches and cryptic thought patterns. Oblivion had taken my attention long before my body crumpled in a tight bundle, suppressing the creaseless sheets lain on the bed.
It was twilight when my stiffen bones protested loudly enough to receive a reaction from my swamped brain. Yanking open my eyes I sluggishly rolled over… and landed on the floor with a sharp thud. It was enough to eliminate excess sleep. The wardrobe door screeched as it opened, and quickly fell shut. I’d turned around again to snatch up a thin purple chalk from the bedside. With my sleeve I rubbed away ‘cinnamon, pumpkin, butter, 26 September’ soaked in a pink tinted red, and replaced the space with a rather bold ‘Wardrobe SQUEAK issue.’
This time the wardrobe produced a pair of socks, hills, and something blue wrapped in parchment paper, before swinging shut. A rushed bath, and a manicure session later I found myself staring longingly towards the kitchen and shrugged the feeling, coffee could wait.
The parchment paper unraveled revealing an earnest soft and lavished blue dress. Its sleeved rests hung in five draped beaded straps, the collar dropped in an elegant v, with the fabrics chest lined neatly around the waist before dropping into a faerie style tiered skirt. It was beautiful.
To tell the truth I hadn’t opened this package since picking it up at the post office a week ago. It had torn to reveal the blue, and I knew it was a dress, but the sender had been stamped anonymous, it irked me enough to ignore it. Not today though, I didn’t have a dress fit for the occasion, and this random package had earned a high expectation. Slipping on the dress, however snuggly fit, it unnerved to think of who sent it. The dress highlighted her already crystal deep eyes, and wavy red hair, complimenting her baby blue painted nails, but it was missing something. Picking up the parchment it felt oddly heavy, tilting the bag a necklace rolled out. A gold necklace. Lined with shells. I let out a shaky breath, not wise crying after makeup.
The necklace was perfect, the missing element, but I didn’t like it. It made me feel rich, which wasn’t true, it felt like a lie, a mock, of what could have been. It had to go back to the owner. If I could find them…
This was one of the exclusive parties of the year, it felt like I was invading something I wasn’t really a part of. Never mind the fact that the last time I’d been to a party I threw up, due to my intolerance to alcohol, it was not fun. I ended up drinking too much because of my anxiety to talk to new people. Not that it helped much, I ended up talking on and on about my cat.
Taking the tram to the ball had seemed like a wise decision but in thought, I didn’t expect to be the only passenger riding towards Chateau Miranda (the Noisy Castle). It did make sense for the tram to be empty for most hoped to arrive in a luxury sports car on an evening like this, but It left too much space for thought. One highest on the list was whether the anonymous could be at the ball, and that alone sent her into an uncomfortable anticipation. Unfortunately the driver didn’t speak. I felt rather isolated, which brought up the thought, how did the tram driver get home if he didn’t live near a station nor owned a car? Would his shift end for him to become the passenger as the next driver took over?
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Within seconds it was clear the dark gloom ahead hadn’t dotted a certain spot. The mass of colourful light from the massive cobble structure lined her vision as the tram edged nearer. It felt as if a bubble had popped when voices greeted her peaceful silence. So many voices, so many cars, so many dresses and suits and laughter. This was the biggest event of the year, of any year she had to remind herself. That did nothing to stop the anxiety of build up as she slipped off the tram, swallowed by shadows, she was hidden from sight.
There was still time to run, maybe parties just weren't for her, after all no one had seen her yet, or so she had thought. She froze at the sound of snapping twigs, under feet approaching behind me.
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