Waffles! The unmistakable mild aroma of sizzling flour, sugar, and subtle milk when the two were walking back to the centre. Cay thought, Jenna would have love it, here, in Brussels.
“There are two types of waffles here. Liege is shaped round and the content is usually thick and sticky. Brussels waffle, in the other hand is yeast-risen, which is crunchier and thinner.”, Cay remembered what Ella pointed out the other day.570Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUxX1omXlKh
Independent shops and chains selling only respective waffle were as numerous as shops specialised in selling Belgium chocolates, exclusively. Although the two were not interested in desserts of any sorts, the pleasant blend of smell of caramelised sugar and chocolate was hard to ignore. One Euro for a caramelised Brussels waffle Cay had picked, while on the way to the Comic Strip Centre with his Judas holding onto a Liege waffle. It was inviting to be eating amongst the streaming crowd on busy pavements, Cay indulged in its’ pleasure by savoring the sweet and crackling dessert.
The comic centre was located just North-East of the Grand Place near the Saint-Louis University of Brussels. Its’ interior decoration conjured some memories of late within the two as they walked towards the counter. The lady behind it greeted the two and the latter purchased two entrance tickets, then were shown the route through blocks of galleries. Cay saw some familiar characters on the side of the ground floor: Kid Goku from the anime “Dragonball” and Tin-tin with his trusty white schnauzer from “The Adventure of Tintin”. There was a continuation series called “Dragonball Super” since the last remake of “Dragonball Z”, Cay felt proud to recognise some of the characters there.
They walk on one of the ballroom stairs divided by the front desk and led the two to the right, which led them to a showcase of the history of comic strips. A few turns and recognising familiar characters they reached the Pieter de Poortere Auditorium, inside was a cosy rural room decorated with furniture from the past century. A repeating series of “Dickie” was shown on the monitor in front the rows of seats and cushioned-benches. The two sat down to relax from the soreness of their backpacks as well as to enjoy some comical relief played on the monotone-coloured screen.
The adventures of the antihero by Pieter de Poortere Auditorium told the momentous life of Dickie, who had been a gag character since the first appearance in the year two thousand. Has he not done what Dickie had before, Cay thought. The people laughing around and with them probably did not realise the sheer realism the comic series received its’ inspiration from. Men were heavily criticized in a way laughable to its’ viewers, and through Dickie the character brought out the sex’s vulgarity and ignorant pride, with the latter producing a laughable response from the audience every time. It was rare to see a modern artist producing visual works that was both avoidable from scrutiny by overly-sensitive critics and subtle enough to cause maximum damage on masculinity.
Once out of the auditorium, the two were greeted by coloured and monotoned strips of comics from unknown artists to characters unknown only to the unprofessional eye. Cay felt for his band ticket on his right wrist, knowing that it was still there but felt unsure until touching it, he sighed with relief. Large cardboard-cutting of the blueish characters from “The Smurfs” were a popular exhibition for children. Cay never really did like the little blue trolls.
It took about two hours to complete the tour, the time spent mostly on interpreting comic strips with French dialogues. The sky was darkened not with clouds but because the autumn season gave night time an early start. They hurried to Fritland after realising their empty stomach calling out in desperation.
*
The best laughs were unaccounted for, and the saddest tears were concealed from unwatchful eyes. However, Judas was not a sensitive person, at least not normally.
It was a Saturday morning, Haze and Alexandre had been occupied with their near-effortless task. On his tabloid, his father had been reading The Guardian in which he subscribed to for a price of a pound monthly, his mother was reading a short novel yellow by cover by Karen Russel. They had not noticed their son’s descendent, they were suspended in their own time within the confines of the homely kitchen.
“Good…”, Judas trailed off as he was about to speak, but picked up the courage again.
“Good morning.”, he tried again, successfully. His father raised his head in alert, scanning around the vicinity until his verdict was turned against his son.
“Morning, how are you feeling today?”, he tried to sound reassuring but there was worry in his tone.
“Son?”, Alexandre began to speak but wanted her son to say something first.
Judas hated confrontation like that, it was not because it had been uncommon (although it was and probably would still be), he never liked seeing sadness or any sort coming from anyone he knew.
“I’m sorry about yesterday.”, he said without a confident persuasion even though he meant it.
The two-parent looked at each other for a moment, Alexandre began walking out of the kitchen and went for the staircase. Within a split moment, she charged up and hugged Judas, she was petit but was able to embrace her son’s large frame entirely and whole-heartedly.
“It’s alright, moj mal’chik.”, she sobbed andwith her small veiny hands she stroked his back. A motherly instinct.
“You can come down if you like, mom made pancakes and fruit salad.”, he cocked his head briefly towards the table but still had his eyes on him.
“Okay.”, he accepted Haze’s invitation and added, “Mamocka, let’s have breakfast?”. Alexandre nodded and released her grasp from her son. The three sat on each side of the rectangular table.
Secretly, he has always enjoyed his mother’s cooking and her love of reading. It was not rare to come down from upstairs one morning and see her silent figure encapsulated by a book, while occasionally lolling with her clad feet. His father, a more conservative man apparently but mostly a caring father by heart, enjoyed his free afternoon with is wife even when it was just regular time-passing routines.
“Son.”, his father began to speak as he laid down his tabloid, “I’m not going to ask you or anything. But just so you know, mother and I are always here for you.”. A fatherly gaze for just a split-second shone across his hard face.
His mother said nothing but smiled at her son.
At the very moment, Judas broke down in tears and his outer-wall of solidarity. Alexandre embraced him once again, his father reached out his right hand and placed firmly on his broad but empty shoulder.
ns 15.158.61.23da2
