That morning, in the short trench of sleep before dawn, Geert dreamt of fires down by the docks. There was no narrative to the dream. No pursuit or puzzle. Only an image of flames and smoke. Then, to wake him, the click of polished boots on the cobbles. He lay in bed a while longer, listening to Inge’s breathing, watching the early November light cool the walls of their room. It was the 11th, a national holiday, so he had no need to get up for work. Instead, he got up for coffee.
“Good day for it,” he said to Laurens, when the boy finally surfaced. Sleepy-eyed, hair like a desert storm, Laurens grunted and began piling up his breakfast. The boy no longer wanted to come to veldrijden [Flemish for cyclo-cross] with his father. Geert understood he would rather stay in bed and watch Japanese films on his laptop. But on this day, every year, Laurens assented to the trip to Niel. Geert hoped that was because the boy, underneath the teenage hormones, had inherited a sense of history.
In reality, it was more likely he came along as a favor to his mother. Geert didn’t push his luck with any further attempt at conversation. The boy would warm up later. Sometimes, when they went to a bike race, Geert could see the old excitement in his son’s eyes. He guessed that, when you spent most of your time staring at a small screen, to be enveloped in a real, three-dimensional sporting event was a bit of a sensory overload. In April, at the Ronde van Vlaanderen, Geert had seen the neurons firing behind Laurens’ pale features. Those moments made the father happy.
The American couple would be there. They were staying until the end of the month, then going down to Spain for some sunshine. Not a bad life. Geert doubted his retirement would look like that.
Geert set about making a stack of sandwiches. Food at the “field races” had become so expensive in recent years. With everything packed, Inge kissed and phone charged, there was just one thing left to do. A daily ritual. Geert unlocked his workshop, a sturdy grey extension on the back of the house, went inside and checked that the safe was secure. He knew it would be. Thirty years in the trade and he’d never had a problem with security. But his father had taught him to check the safe every time he left the house, and it was a habit he couldn’t drop. Nor did he want to.
He guided the old Toyota out of the village, nodding to a couple of dog-walking neighbors, braved the Antwerp ring road, then drove south on the dead-straight A12. The sky was a vivid white, streaked with pink where the sun might be. A good day. It wasn’t even cold. Laurens had his hood up and his headphones on, but Geert talked, nonetheless. He told the annual story. Your grandfather could have fled in 1940. He had options, but he chose to stay in Antwerp. Kept working, kept resisting the Germans. Everyone was starving. Dying, so slowly. Sometimes, the meaning of bravery is just continuing to live your life.
That’s not what today is about, Dad, Laurens had replied last year. Different war. To which Geert had shrugged and said, all wars are the same. You remember one, you remember them all. So, every year, we remember the fallen by going to watch people race bikes around a muddy field? Belgium truly is a weird place. Geert couldn’t argue with that.
THE FULL STORY IN PRINT
