Afternoons on the De Keyserlei
A short story by Jeannie van Rompaey
Copyright 2012 Jeannie van Rompaey
Smashwords Edition
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On the café terraces in Antwerp, sit the ladies known as les pots d’eau chaud. Decked out in diamonds and pearls of doubtful authenticity, floral silk dresses and purple-tinted coiffures, they eke out the long summer afternoons with one pot of filter coffee and several pots of hot water.
A waste of time, thinks the waiter. No money to be made from them. They are as mean with their tips as with their purchase of food and drink. A waste of space, think the other customers. They not only take the best seats but sit one to each table.
Waste of time or waste of space, les pots d’eau chaud are tolerated by waiters and customers alike. Why? Respect for their age? Pity for these poor souls who have nothing else to do other than sit here day after day? Or the general belief that, in spite of their reputed meanness, some of these women have considerable fortunes, just waiting to be tapped?
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Saturday afternoon, August, 2010. The young promenade on their way to the Meir to shop. Les pots d’eau chauds sigh, lift their noses in the air and sniff. Their bird-like eyes search the crowds who throng the De Keyserlei in the hope of finding someone to keep them company. How things have changed. It’s all leggings, tight jeans and T-shirts now. Unisex, they call it, the young women dressed the same as the men. Brash, revealing, nothing left to the imagination. In their day, a bit of subtlety was called for. Discretion was the key. Soft flowing chiffon that hinted at seduction.
On the terrace of the Café Hulstkamp, Louisa van de Kerkove flips open the lid of the coffee pot with one be-ringed hand and, with the other, lifts up the water jug and drains the last drop of the not-so-hot water into it. She takes her time pouring the diluted coffee into her cup and takes a delicate sip, her little finger raised in a refined gesture rarely seen in this day and age. She glances at the clock over the bar. It is not yet four and she always stays here or at Fouquets until at least five-thirty. No point in leaving earlier. It only makes the evenings longer.
At an adjacent table sits Katrien de Clerk. More years ago than either of them care to acknowledge, Louisa and Katrien attended the same school and they’ve known each other ever since. They’ve never been friends.
Louisa considers Katrien vulgar. The schoolgirl headband tied around her shoulder-length white hair seems to Louisa an inappropriate fashion for a woman of her age. The orange-tinted makeup on her plump cheeks looks as if it’s been laid on with a builder’s trowel and clashes with the purple lipstick. The woman has no taste at all. And that’s not the worst of it. Huge breasts under a too tight blouse hang down like deflated balloons while her flaccid buttocks sag over the edge of the chair like an worn-out cushion. Katrien has no redeeming features. She’s really let herself go.
For her part, Katrien deems Louisa a scraggy old boiling fowl with her flat chest, skinny limbs and sinewy fingers like the tendrils of a creeping plant. Wisps of lavender-coloured hair scarcely hide the fact that she’s nearly bald. Yet she thinks herself so superior. The faux pearls at her neck and fake diamonds on her fingers are designed to support the rumour about her inheritance, a rumour put about by Louisa herself in an attempt to attract young men to sit with her. In Katrien’s opinion, no matter how rich the gigolos believe her to be, they won’t want to be seen with a dried up old hen like Louisa van de Kerkhove. Men prefer a bit of meat on the bones.