I had a long-term assignment with a company based in Brussels. Living in the UK meant I had to take the short flight on Monday mornings to the Belgian Capital and back to London or Birmingham on Friday nights. I had made arrangements with a local taxi driver to come and pick me up from home on Monday mornings to Heathrow Airport, a taxi would wait for me at Brussels Airport to drive me to the office and vice versa on Friday afternoons. I purchased and booked multiple flights weeks in advance to avoid last minute dash for tickets. I also rented an apartment in Brussels and left enough clothes and personal effects there so I didn’t have to check-in luggage twice a week, save for my briefcase.
One Monday morning the taxi ride to Heathrow went well, the flight to Brussels was on time and the Belgian taxi was waiting for me in the usual spot outside the main entrance to the airport hotel. The driver spoke French (not Flemish) and a bit of English. As I settled in the backseat he informed me, as far as I could understand him, that there was a lot of traffic on the highway but he will try alternative minor roads. I had no choice but to let him get on with it and I busied myself reading some papers in preparation for my Monday morning meeting.
He drove on the highway for a short distance and then came off and began his “rat run” through small villages and country lanes until Brussels began to loom in the distance. Finally, we merged with the City morning traffic through the industrial outskirts. The traffic was slow but at least moving. Every now and again, my driver found a nice long stretch of clear road and he put his foot down and temporarily released some of the frustration out of his system. By now I had almost the entire contents of my briefcase out all over the back seat and on my lap. Every now and again I would look up to see if I could recognise where I was but everything looked unfamiliar.
Suddenly, brakes screeched, a dull thud, my papers flew all over the car and my head banged violently against the back of the front passenger seat, then I was thrown back with a minor whiplash. A few seconds of dead silence then:
Driver: Mon Dieu, mon dieu, mon dieu
Me: What happened?
Driver: mon dieu, regarder!
Me: Is it a dog?
Driver: Accident avec un chien
I looked out and around and found we were in a very busy street with car repair shops, spare parts suppliers, a petrol station and one or two cafes. Up ahead of us was what looked like a little white Jack Russell lying on its back with four legs stuck up in the air; no movement at all.
A crowd of mechanics, car owners, waiters, cyclists, and pedestrians gathered round the dog and our car. Conversations ensued in both French and Flemish; explanations were sought and given by people in a random manner. All the while, my taxi driver was still calling upon his God to help him, me rummaging for my precious papers and nursing a sore head and neck. All the while, the Jack Russel was turned over on his back like you would a coffee table to inspect it’s legs.
Me: Did you hit it?
Driver: oui! I did not see him, he runned from zat shop
Me: What do we do now?
Driver: Je ne sais pas
Me: Well, go and see if the dog is ok
Driver: D’accord
He got out of the taxi and walked over to the dog, the crowd came closer to the driver and the dog and all looked, murmured to one another, shook their heads and as one, they all took a couple of respectful steps back. The driver spoke to a couple of random people in the crowd and walked back to the car.
Me: Is the dog alright?
Driver: Le petit chien est mort!
Me: So, what do we do now?
Driver: Ze police, zey will come now
Me: Oh great!
We waited for a few minutes and sure enough, a police car drove from behind and stopped alongside us. The driver wound his window and spoke to a very rotund policeman who had a very impressive handlebar moustache to reinforce my stereotyping of Gaelic gendarme. They spoke for a while and I could glean , mostly from the gesticulation, that the dog jumped across our path and the driver who was driving very carefully did not see the naughty dog (chien Vilain) until it was too late.
The crowd had their versions of events and they desperately wanted to help the policeman with his enquiries. So, the large hairy policeman finally got out of his car and was surrounded by dutiful eyewitnesses who simultaneously downloaded for him at least 57 different versions of what happened 20 minutes earlier. By that point, I had gathered most of my papers and checked my watch to find that my meeting was 12 minutes away and no chance of making it on time. Naturally, my sympathies with the dog evaporated and I assumed my usual self-centred attitude.
Me: can we go now?
Driver: no monsieur, we wait
Me: Wait for what?
Driver: Ze police; he want to check le chien
Me: Is he a vet as well?
Driver: pardon monsieur?
Me: No, nothing
The policeman gathered his evidence and felt he was ready to go inspect the upside down dog. So he waived the gathering crowds away and expertly walked over to the dog, which was not only dead it was in the advanced stages of rigor mortis. The policeman stood over the dog for a second or two, walked round him, scratched his chin, twiddled with his magnificent moustache and finally felt he was ready to touch “le chien mort”.
As the policeman bent his knees and reached over with his two beefy hands, the dog did 180-degree spin worthy of an Olympic athlete and ran across to the other side where he was heading 25 minutes earlier, ploughing his way through the crowd who parted for him like they were enacting the biblical Red Sea scene. Le chien disappeared; the crowd roared their approval with laughter and hand clapping.
My driver called upon his God a few more times, started the engine and drove off.
I got to my meeting half an hour late but highly amused. Brussels never gave me the same level of excitement for the rest of my assignment.
