Zaid, a short story from Belgium.
In the autumn of 2004 I found myself suddenly relocating to Belgium, at the expense of an attractive job offer in Italy. It was one of those major forks in the road, the kind of big decision that could transform a life. Which, for better or for worse, is exactly what it did.
“Mister Lie-ton, so nice to see you!” he purred, in his thick, sticky toffee pudding voice. Extending his hairy, ape-like arms towards me, he locked me into that familiar bear hug. An endearing staple of any Zaid visit. “Happy Birthday!” I cried and he could only chuckle in reply, his cheeks turning just a touch red. “Thank you Lie-ton, thank you”.
It had been a few months since we’d last seen each other and there was much to catch up on. S and I were not long back from our honeymoon and I was keen to bore him with the photos I’d taken in Morocco. But knowing Zaid as well as I did, I understood that the first order of business was beer. Not one of those miserable Aldi brand cans that filled his fridge back in Leuven. But a proper Leffe Blonde, the giant bottle that always made his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Show me Morocco!” he exclaimed.
“Ah, Lie-ton” he grinned, delving into his man bag for the cigars I instinctively knew he’d brought. “Please” he smiled, extending the open pack in my direction. He knew I didn’t like them much, but tonight was a special occasion and it simply wouldn’t do for him to smoke alone. “Show me Morocco!” he exclaimed suddenly, wide-armed. “As you wish” I replied, grabbing my laptop as we made our way out to the balcony.
I’d forged some really close friendships during my time in Belgium. But nobody compared to the enigmatic, confusing, entertaining, benevolent Zaid. He was the first person I met when I moved into the student house on J.B. van Monsstraat after my breakup with Lucie. I’d just come back from the supermarket with a bag of groceries and was poking around in the communal kitchen to see if I could claim a cupboard. “Excuse me hello, you are new man yes?” he inquired, with an inquisitive smile. Not at all in the mood for small talk, I nodded, giving him no more than a curt ‘‘yes’’. “I am Zaid”, he said, “I am from Iraq”.
Zaid, a short story from Belgium.
This revelation admittedly stopped me in my tracks, a carton of eggs seemingly superglued to my hand. I’d never met an Iraqi before and my immediate thought was: what the hell is he doing in Leuven? Having introduced myself, Zaid eagerly beckoned me into the chilly hallway. “This is my fridge!” he told me, swinging the door open to reveal shelf after shelf of beer. The side compartments stuffed with chocolate bars and cold cuts, a joyous carnival of sliced chicken, corned beef and blocks of cheese. “Any times you feel hungry or thirsty Mister Lie-ton, please help yourself!” “Thank you” I said, a little bemused. “You are very welcome here,” he beamed, throwing me a chocolate bar.
“Ah, Morocco look like good time” sighed Zaid, puffing away on his cigar. It was a surprisingly warm Brussels evening, hence for a while we just sat there enjoying it in comfortable silence. On the day of his 38th birthday, I wondered if Zaid was at all reflecting on his life journey thus far. On everything he’d been through to get to Europe. And his removed existence in Leuven, the quaint little town that must have felt like light years away from his old life in Baghdad. I guessed he missed his father, who called often from the homeland. Not to mention his dear old mother, who for reasons unknown lived with an aunt on the outskirts of Dubai.
“Lie-ton, what movie tonight?” he asked excitedly, jolting me from my thoughts.
Zaid and I had watched countless films together. And to his credit he was always game, no matter what the genre. However, seeing as it was his birthday, I decided to go for something with a decent amount of action. Not a leave your brain at the door kinda flick, but something with social commentary that packed a punch. “Falling Down” I told him, after a bit of thought. But before I could say Michael Douglas, he’d scuttled off to the living room to dig the DVD out of my collection.
I was a bit of a hermit during those first months in the student block. My breakup with Lucie was fresh and I didn’t feel much like going out. Most weekends, the Belgian girls that occupied the other rooms went home to their families, which left the run of the place to Zaid and I. He would often invite me down to his room for a drink, offering me Doritos and dried apricots. Maybe some humus-dipped Turkish bread from the local Kebab house.
“Lie-ton, I met Scotch man one time, but I cannot understand him”.
During these soirees he’d hit me with a barrage of questions about UK culture. Moreover, he wanted to know about my family and the adventures I’d had in Qatar, Slovakia and India. “Lie-ton, I met Scotch man one time, but I cannot understand him. You speak so clear and why I never see you in the skirt?” Poor old Zaid, I’d told him several times that I wasn’t Scottish. That my family was from London, but now lived in Scotland. It made no difference though, he just couldn’t wrap his head around it.
“This fucking language so difficult, Lie-ton”.
Zaid and I became such good friends I ended up knocking on his door most evenings after work, just to check on him. He rarely went out and as far as I could tell had only one friend, an older gentleman of an unknown Arabic persuasion who dropped by once a month for a chinwag. The walls were paper-thin, so I could hear their loud, often animated discussions rattle back and forth for hours.
Whenever I popped my head through his door, he’d be listening to the BBC World Service with a beer. Or sat at the little wooden desk hunched over his Flemish studies. Zaid spent hours trying to pick up the language. But his attempts proved even worse than my own, his pronunciation at times indecipherable. “This fucking language so difficult Lie-ton” he complained one day, cracking open another beer. “But if want stay here, I must learn”.
One night the two of us got really drunk and I finally plucked up the courage to ask him how he ended up in Belgium. Suddenly, the room went deathly quiet and for a second or two I felt sorry I’d asked. Like I’d perhaps crossed the proverbial line. “Lie-ton” he slurred sadly, staring into his beer. “Life in Iraq very bad and I had to leave or… very bad”. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to” I said, desperately hoping he wanted to talk about it. “Maybe one day I tell you” he replied, taking a long swig. “But is not good story and you will be shock”. As much as I wanted to hear every last detail, I decided to drop it, figuring we could always revisit the subject later on.
Zaid, a short story from Belgium.
“…and now you’re gonna die wearing that stupid hat” grinned a bespectacled, shotgun-carrying Michael Douglas, looking down at the dying old man before him. “Ha ha ha!!!” howled Zaid, slapping his knee. A splash of beer hitting the carpet at his feet. Falling Down was proving a real hit, just as I’d hoped. It was obvious when Zaid was really into a movie, from the way he leaned forward in his seat to the regular yowls of childlike approval throughout.
I’d learned a lot about him from our movie nights. Like the time we were watching The Exorcism Of Emily Rose. It was the bedroom possession scene and we were both gripped. The little box of pens moving across the bedside table. Emily’s blanket sliding off her body and that awful, deathlike creaking sound. “Lie-ton, the pause button please,” he requested. It came so suddenly and urgently that I found myself as much creeped out by it as the movie itself.
“Noisy thing moving and shadow man, everything crazy”.
“You believe this thing?” he asked, placing his beer down on the table. “Uh… not really” I answered, wondering where he was going with this. “At least I’ve never…” “You should believe Lie-ton, one time this happen to me in Iraq. Noisy thing moving and shadow man, everything crazy”. “What did you do?” I asked, not at all convinced I wanted to know. “Nothing”, he said, stony-faced. “Just lie still, close eyes, wait and finally it go”.
Another time, halfway through American Beauty, Zaid was visibly disgusted to see Annette Bening’s character Carolyn embark on an extra marital affair with her sleazy cowboy business rival Buddy Kane. “If I am married and my wife does this, I kill her” he said quietly, fixing me with a grim glare. “Kill her with my hands”. I was so taken aback I didn’t even respond. I just grabbed a handful of peanuts and turned my attention back to the film.
Zaid, a short story from Belgium.
It was a May evening in 2005 and I was about to leave for Time out on the Square to watch the Champions League final. As usual, I gave Zaid’s door a quick knock before I left to see how he was doing. I could tell something was wrong the moment I saw him slumped over his desk. Head in hands, half a dozen empty beer cans lined up on the windowsill like tin soldiers. “What’s the matter?” I asked and he certainly wasn’t shy in answering. “I spend many hours study the Dutch but is no good,” he declared glumly. “No improve”. Poor Zaid, I had just started giving him the old “don’t give up, you gotta believe in yourself” shtick. But he was already moving on to additional woes.
“If my mother know, she feel great shame”.
“And I am bad Muslim Lie-ton. I drink beers and watch videos about fuck womens. One time, I even try the pork. If my mother know, she feel great shame”. I’d never seen Zaid like this, he was really down in the dumps. So I dragged him out to the pub with me, giving him the background story on the game we were about to watch between Liverpool and A.C. Milan. “I see” he said, clearly happy to be distracted. “So Liverpool is like underdog?”
There was such a fantastic atmosphere in the bar that night. Consequently, Zaid’s mood lifted and he began chanting along with everyone. Moreover, for every beer I drank, he guzzled two. “Oh Lie-ton I am sorry” he shrugged, as Milan made it 3-0, ending a catastrophic first half for Liverpool. The game had been no contest at all. In fact, it had been so disappointing I suggested we call it a night. But Zaid wouldn’t hear of it, slapping me on the back and ordering another round of Stellas. Then came the second half and a flutter of polite applause as Liverpool pulled a goal back. Minutes later, a genuine sense of excitement rippled across the place as Vladimír Šmicer’s long range drive flew in for 3-2. Zaid and I could only look at each other with raised eyebrows. “Lie-ton, what happening?!”
“Unbelievable!!! … unbelievable!!!”
There was barely time to answer before Steven Gerrard got chopped down in the area and Liverpool had a penalty. Moments later it was 3-3 and the whole bar erupted in delirium. Except that is for a group of shell-shocked Italians in the far corner. “Unbelievable!!! … unbelievable!!!” cried Zaid over and over. Hugging me, hopping from foot to foot, ordering more beers with wild abandon. Of course Liverpool went on to win the game on penalties and we celebrated long into the night. Although he’d never been much of a football fan, it had been a truly magical night of escapism for Zaid and I’d never seen him happier.
With Falling Down’s end credits rolling, I figured it was time to give Zaid his birthday present. “Lie-ton, too kind” he hummed, as I produced the orange package from its hiding place behind the Lonely Planet guides. I’d been stuck for ideas that year, but figured one of the giant gingerbread men from The Grand Place would be good for a week’s worth of nibbling. “Happy Birthday!” I said again and he wasted no time in getting started, breaking off a piece of its chunky head.
When I began dating S in the summer of 2005, Zaid couldn’t have been happier for me. “Lie-ton, you must marry her!” he exclaimed, a devilish twinkle in his eyes. By the end of the year I’d left the student block to move into the apartment on Muntstraat and Zaid insisted on helping me out. In fact, he pitched in with bubble wrap duties and carried dozens of boxes out to the van.
Zaid, a short story from Belgium.
Over the next months we saw much less of each other. But we did at least begin our movie night tradition, which took place once a month. In the meantime, on my 27th birthday, I was touched to receive a giant cake made to order from a local bakery. Zaid had even gone the extra mile and asked them to write Happy Birthday Leighton across the top in chocolate icing.
When the suicide bomb attacks hit London that year, a distraught sounding Zaid called me up to personally apologise. “This is not Islam Lie-ton,” he whispered morosely. “These peoples make me shame to be Muslim, please accept my regrets”. I tried to tell him he had nothing to apologise for, but he just kept saying he was sorry.
The following year S and I reluctantly moved to Brussels to be closer to work. Leaving Leuven behind was tough and although it was just a half hour train ride away, I knew I’d be seeing even less of Zaid. Nevertheless, we kept the movie night tradition alive. And of course he was there in the crowd, suited and booted, when S and I got married in September 2007. “Lucky, lucky Lie-ton” he said, hugging me on the dance floor.
“You know Lie-ton, these days I feel more like wanna see my parents”.
“Good night” said Zaid, standing in the doorway, the gingerbread man clamped under his arm. “See you later” I replied, as he turned away. Moving down the hallway towards the stairs, he stopped and turned to look back at me, just as I was about to close the door. “You know Lie-ton, these days I feel more like wanna see my parents. But Iraq too dangerous, so maybe go to Dubai and find my mum”. “Wow” I said, “that’s exciting… a big decision”. I had so many questions, but he’d caught me off guard and somehow the words just wouldn’t come. In any case he was already off down the stairs and slipping around the corner out of sight.
A month or so had passed when I suddenly thought of Zaid, that it was high time to invite him over for another movie. I was also excited to share our big news. That S and I would soon be leaving Belgium to go and teach English in Beijing. But when I called his mobile, I got an automated message saying his phone was switched off. When it stayed like this for over a week, I began to worry. So I decided to send him an email. Hey Zaid, have been trying to get in touch. But it says your phone is switched off. Is everything ok?? It was a few days later that I got his reply.
As I told you on my birthday, I wanna meet my parents. That why my phone is out of service. Anyway, we meet with the next few weeks.
Big kiss to S,
As great as it was to hear from him, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that something wasn’t right. Had he gone to Iraq or Dubai? How had he financed this? Sadly, I would never find out. I have no idea if he made it to The Middle East, nor indeed if he ever came back to Belgium. In fact, I never heard from him again. I sent emails and tried to track him down on social media, but nothing ever came of it. Some years later one of my emails bounced back, with a message saying the account was defunct.
It’s now been over thirteen years since the night we watched Falling Down. And while I occasionally fear the worst when I brood over what became of him, it does comfort me a little to think of Zaid as forever thirty eight. A cigar in his mouth, roaring with laughter as Michael Douglas holds up the Whammy Burger joint. Standing in my doorway with a giant gingerbread dude under his arm. A man with a plan he couldn’t share with his friend. Wherever he is, I can only hope he’s well and that he knows how much I cherish those Belgian days, which already seem so far, far away.
‘Zaid’ is the sixth and final chapter of my short story collection Based In Belgium.