She was waiting for me on the landing, leaning over the railing. First, I noticed her expressive eyes and the dark curls framing her face. When I reached her floor, I saw her in full, my height, slim body, a regal posture. The apartment suited her. A long living room with window walls at both ends and balconies. One of the balconies was as big as a room and overlooked Rue Haute. I imagined our evenings there, both of us doing our own thing, her child playing, perhaps the huge flat TV screen is on, a family idyll. She offered me tea. Later on, she would only offer me wine.

As we had the tea, I tried to introduce myself briefly. Who I am. What I do. Why I am here. What my hobbies are. She seemed to be listening attentively.

She showed me the room. It was spacious with a king-size bed in the middle. A white cupboard with boxes and drawers covered one of the walls. There was a small table, a thick carpet in autumn colours and a big standing mirror in a white frame. Another one hung on the wall facing the bed. The room had a high ceiling with a triangular cone. And windows over my bed. I would have the starry sky and the moon all for myself at night.

‘I like you,’ she said in her English with a French accent, ‘But let me wait until tomorrow. I am like that. I always need to think about things.’

But on the following day, her phone was switched off. I tried a few more times and left her a message. The hope and enthusiasm I had felt after my visit vanished. My search had to continue.

A few days later – a call. She said her phone had not been working. She wanted to rent me the room but first needed to discuss a couple of things. A sequence of messages and calls followed in fruitless attempts to arrange to meet. But, somehow, it never worked out.

I had been seconded to the Commission from the Ministry of Economics in Zagreb. The Ministry was paying for a hotel for a couple of weeks until I found a place. I didn’t know anyone in Brussels. I planned to rent a room for two to three months to I give myself a bit more time to look for a proper flat. But finding a place with acceptable conditions turned out to be a challenge. There was a huge demand and not enough availability.

After spending two hours on a rainy evening queueing to visit a tiny studio next to Flagey, whose tiny toilet-bathroom had no door but a curtain, and after hearing the conditions of the owner – a three-year contract and three-month rent deposit – I quickly confirmed another flat, comprising a kitchen, a salon and a large bedroom with a single bed. Destiny had it that it was situated in Rue Blaes, very close to where Diane lived. The room full of light coming through the large windows facing the street did the trick. I left a five 204 hundred-euro deposit with Hasan, the Moroccan guy who rented it out, and we shook hands.

A week later, I was moving in. When I entered the flat, Hasan was there.

‘Listen,’ he said, ‘My situation has changed. My girlfriend and I’ve just broken up, so I had to move back in. But don’t worry, you can use the room. I will adapt the living room for myself.’

I stared at him, looking for signs that he was joking. He wasn’t. ‘And what if I don’t agree?’

‘I’m afraid I will have to keep your deposit. There’ve been many people calling since you confirmed. I cannot afford to pay all the rent myself at the moment. I’m broke.’

I went into my room and attempted to close the door behind me without much success. I went back to him, ‘It’s impossible to close the door.’

‘I know… I’ll fix it.’ ‘When?’

‘As soon as I can.’

I sat on the bed and looked at my unpacked luggage. How had I found myself in this situation?

I took out my pills. Two for emergencies. The doorbell rang, and I heard another male voice, followed by a knock on my door.

‘Sorry, but it will be noisy in the next couple of hours. We are building me a hut in the living room. Let me introduce you to my friend, Andrew,’ said Hasan.

Andrew, who looked European, stood next to him with some timber in his hands. I nodded and went back to my room only to change, grab a book and leave.

It was Sunday lunchtime, the weather was dry, and the flea market at Place de Jeu de Balle, around the corner, was at its peak. People moved slowly, in lines, between the sheets, spread straight on the pavement, with all sorts of objects on them – from porcelain figurines, old jewellery, clothes, accessories and books to furniture. It was a treasure trove of organised chaos. I could lose myself in its richness, observing and holding the objects, imagining that they could take me to other times and places. The cafés around the market were full and a jazz band was performing in the usual corner. I was taken by the bohemian and carefree air. I loved that imaginary oasis of sweet

amnesia about the existence of other places, people, and times. The Marolles is full of surprises, Iris would later say in an article. This I already knew, finding myself trapped in a flat with a Moroccan man.

Her article compared the Marolles to the Underland of the fairy tales in which the hero is taken by a black ram. There he experiences different challenges or finds magical objects, which would then help him go back to the Upperland (again on the back of a ram, but this time, for a change, a white one) to triumph over his enemies and win the princess. In Brussels, the ram has been transformed into a glass lift which takes you from the luxurious upper world of Avenue Louise to the magical Underland of the 206 Marolles. And now I am this hero and the princess who has to be saved is also me.

I went to the Pin Pon café, situated in the former fire station, and on the spur of the moment sent a message to Diane,

‘I am still interested in the room and happen to be very close to you now. May I come over?’

‘So nice to hear from you! Of course.’, she replied immediately.

By Irina Papancheva.

About the writer:

Irina Papancheva was born in the Bulgarian city of Burgas. She graduated from the “St. St. Cyril and Methodius” high school in Burgas where she specialized in literature, then continued her education at Sofia University “St. Kliment Ohridski” where she earned a master’s degree in Slavonic studies, focused on Czech language and literature, and completed her education at the Vrije Universiteit Brussel in Belgium, where she got a master’s degree in European integration and development, majoring European politics and social integration.

She has worked as a journalist, editor, translator, deputy mayor of Sofia Municipality and an advocate in the Bulgarian and European NGO sectors. Currently, Irina Papancheva is Head of EU Advocacy at Hope and Homes for Children in Brussels.

Irina Papancheva was among the ten Europeans invited by Felix Meritis Foundation to participate in a public discussion in Amsterdam on the topic of the New Cosmopolitan after she won an essay competition on the same topic. She was also among the five nominees in the Fans of Flanders & VIW writing contest (2014).

She is the author of the illustrated children’s book ‘I Stutter’ (Ciela, 2005), the short novel ‘Almost Intimately’ (Kronos, 2007) and the novels ‘Annabel’ (Janet 45, 2010), ‘Pelican Feather’ (Janet 45, 2013), ‘She, the island’ (Trud, 2017) and ‘Brussels Naked’ (Znatsi, 2022), the novella ‘Welcome, Nathan!’ (2019) as well as short stories.

Almost Intimately got the audience nomination in the 2008 Bulgarian national literary competition South Spring (Yuzhna prolet). Annabel has been shortlisted in the 2014 January Contemporary Bulgarian Novel Contest of the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation and Open Letter Books at the University of Rochester. Eight years later ‘Brussels Naked’ ranked second in the same competition (2022).  The manuscript of ‘Brussels Naked’ was also shortlisted for the first Prize Orpheus, 2022, but got disqualified due to meanwhile being published.

Irina Papancheva’s works have been translated into English, French, Arabic and Persian.