What did women wear to the office? When Charlie decided to take Cara window shopping, he realised that he had never really paid attention.
Depends on the woman, Cara replied, and depends on the job. And that seemed to be the sum total of her expertise.
What Cara didn’t know about dramatic gowns and tall wigs would fit on a mascara wand. But work outfits for a traditional setting? Suits? Blazers? No blazers? Stand out? Blend in? Trousers? Skirts? What cut, what length? What about bags, accessories, shoes? And would Charlie last a full day with the pads and the wig?
He worked for a notary, in a small practice that had served many a local family for many a generation. Just that morning, he had advised a client on the sale of a house whose acquisition had been handled by the current notaire’s grandfather, half a century ago.
Poor, flustered Mme Goossens with her sparse grey curls, her flesh-coloured compression stockings and her constant sense of impending doom. She had a follow-on appointment for the next week, for advice on her will.
As usual, she would agonise over each word, second-guess every decision. Somehow, he doubted she’d have the bandwidth to get her head around Cara as well.
One step at a time, he thought, as he made his way along Rue Neuve in search of a suitable shop, trying not to get side-tracked by sequins.
***
“Someone decided to flush us out,” said Josse as he fast-forwarded through the recordings from the front-of-house camera.
“And we fell for it,” Adelphine responded.
“Well, something’s up, that’s for sure. I’ll ask Azélie to tighten security.”
“I’ll go renew my wards,” Adelphine replied. Had she updated her look-elsewhere spells after the warehouse renovation? It wouldn’t hurt to make sure. Viewed from the street, the full-moon units’ new skylights seemed nowhere near uninteresting enough.
“Good idea. We’ll need a house meeting too. I’ll let everyone know.”
As he returned his gaze to the screen, Minuit shot him a lazy look from where it was resting on a heated desk pad.
“Why don’t you let me do that? It’s not like I have mice to catch.”
True. Why keep an AI cat and analyse data yourself?
“Thank you, that would be great. Do you remember what we’re looking for?”
“Obnoxious guy with an espresso habit. You’ll have to narrow it down a bit…”
Rising from the pad, Minuit yawned and stretched, then snuggled up to Josse’s laptop. A bright blue tendril extended from between the toe beans on its right paw. It plugged neatly into the computer’s USB-C port while Minuit began to lick its faux fur.
***
To Jade’s surprise, Mirko had turned up at Central Station with a dog.
A large one that probably drew on the traits of every breed known to man. It seemed pleasant enough, unfazed by the crowds that rushed up and down the ticket hall’s main stairs as trains left and arrived. Apparently, it didn’t need a lead.
It was love at first sight.
Jade stretched out a hand. The mutt sat, and held out a paw. And that was that.
“This is Zina,” said Mirko. “I’m told she’s a real zinneke.”
“What’s that – a breed?”
“Apparently, it means she’s a typical local, shaped by lots of different influences. Or some such thing. I didn’t get it.”
At the brasserie Jade chose, Zina was welcomed with smiles and a bowl of fresh water. While Jade ploughed her way through a fancy veggie burger and a bowl of hand-cut chips with tartare sauce, the dog observed the other patrons from her vantage point under the bench.
“I need a favour,” said Mirko once Jade had polished off her dessert. “I need to go away for a few days. Can you look after Zina for me?”
She seemed perplexed.
“Why would you trust me with her? Don’t you have friends you actually know and who have actual homes?”
“I trust you with her.” For several weeks now, he had gone bat night after night to watch over Jade. He’d seen her share supplies with other rough sleepers, help new arrivals put up makeshift shelters, show them where to find drinkable water.
Zina would be quite safe – and anyway, she knew how to handle herself. More to the point, Jade would be quite safe, with the dog by her side. He’d missed enough shifts at the bar, and Zina loved feeling useful.
He’d packed up a lead and three days’ worth of dry food.
“Don’t feed her chocolate, ever, and make sure she doesn’t get picked up by animal control.”
“Won’t she run off?”
“No, the lead’s just for show. She hates it, but you’ll need one if some clown insists. Take it off as soon as you’re out of sight.”
He’d written his number on Zina’s collar, just in case.
“I’ll be here in three days to collect her,” he said. “Or you can bring her back to me.”
He gave Jade the address.
“Oh, ‘Jos le Rêveur’,” she said. “I know the place. Is that where you work?”
* When the term zinneke was coined, several centuries ago, it was a very inauspicious synonym for an unwanted dog. Today, it’s embraced as an expression of shared local identity anchored in diversity, or in cheerful acceptance thereof. A kind of “Brussels state of mind”. Of course, reality frequently falls short of this lofty ideal; our city does have plenty of problems. But that doesn’t mean the enthusiasm is fake, or that people don’t try.