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1 Chapter 1 What’s behind me, is my arse Great Flemish poet and politician Bart De Wever was sitting in the car with these three women: my adoptive mother, a friend of hers called Lucienne and her daughter Kathleen. While I was lying with my head on Kathleen’s lap, I could barely stand the smell coming from her crotch area. We were all heading to a town the exact name of which I will never bring myself to reveal. Should this town ever gain some recognition through my writing, I can only say that that was not my intention. It does not deserve the slightest publicity; rather, it should forever remain in oblivion. However, I am aware that it would not be that difficult to locate. For now, let me just say I am talking about a region that is home to a species of human being with whom I have never felt comfortable or really liked: the Flemings. I had been in a hospital for a throat operation in Duffel, a region of Antwerp. My parents had been taking turns staying over at night so I would not feel lonely. On my last day in the hospital, my mother had been proudly showing me around the hospital ward. However, a certain nurse must have taken offence at such scenes of tenderness. I could see her going into a drawer, and as I rightly guessed, she brought out a suppository. I hated it! Normally, she was not the one who administered them to me. I guess she also wanted to take part in the action and have a souvenir of her own. After all, it might take some time before she saw a black arse again. I cried, fidgeted, and tried to block her with my hands, but she persistently slapped them away with her fists, right in front of my parents. It offended them, but they thought it best to sit there and do nothing. Anyway, it was over now. I 2 I had been adopted, but somehow I never bore my adoptive father’s name. I think my parents hesitated to go all the way with the adoption procedures because of a concern that my biological parents might crop up and try to contact me. It took decades before I got any sign of my siblings again. Originally, my older Bruno and I were abandoned at a nursery. Actually I do not think that the right word is “abandoned,” we were just never reclaimed. As far as my early beginnings go, that is as much as I know. I never knew how on earth my older Bruno and I ended up in a nursery in a god-forsaken town called Brussegem in Flanders. The Flemish sounding name of this town must have been an omen of things to come. Apparently, the woman in charge at the nursery we called “mami” had mistreated us; our mistreatment eventually became public and turned out to be a major case of child abuse. I said ‘apparently’ because, thankfully, I do not have any recollections of this alleged wrongdoing. My memories of that period are just too vague. When I got a bit older my parents told me that I had been severely malnourished and that they were not allowed to feed me in the beginning just like any other kid. I do remember going to school there with Bruno, holding hands and other things; but that’s just about it. I must have been three or four years old at most. Whenever she came home, Kathleen, who worked there as a caretaker at the nursery, would always complain and cry about the way we were treated. This time however, my future dad happened to be around. He was a close family friend and was carrying out some repair work. He was very moved by what she told him and told her that he would see what he could about it. At first we were invited to come along for a weekend; then we were invited again and again thereafter. Eventually, after some administrative wriggling, they obtained the right to keep us as theirs permanently. After our time in the nursery, Bruno and I went to a boarding school somewhere in Dilbeek (Brussels), then later to a care home for children in Oudergem. It was called Home Empain. The name was derived from the name of the Baron-Empain, a rich Belgian businessman. He had been kidnapped in Paris and held...

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