Only Love
June 2, 2016
De Clercq was one of the most famous MEPs. At that time, there were a few other celebrities in the house. A real Von Habsburg for example. Or the Finnish world champion rally car racing and a blonde Italian porn star. And Jean-Marie Le Pen of course, who stayed in the Metropole hotel in Brussels and in the Hilton in Strasbourg.
Less controversial, but equally famous was the representative of the Greek conservatives: Nana Mouskouri. Sold eighty million records. Sometimes you would see a pair of black glasses gushing through the corridors, followed by Nana. Without bodyguards. But you could feel it when you would see her move: this woman was larger than life. She was a star.
One of the additional jobs my boss had was patron of the Brussels diplomatic club. In practice this meant organising two gala dinners per year. Every time at a prestigious location, with a well-known speaker. Part of the organisation was delegated to me and soon it was that time again.
Concert Noble was booked; the catering was organised. The invitation was almost ready to be printed; the only thing lacking was a speaker. It was De Clercq’s own idea and he asked her when they were in the elevator. People would not say no to him. La Mouskouri would give a talk about European cultural policy and of course, we all hoped that we could convince her to sing something afterwards.
I had rented a tuxedo that day. Nervous as hell. The boss as well, who was really lenient that day. For the second time in my career, he lent me his Jaguar. With driver and licence plate A-38. Nothing could go wrong, after all, a superstar was our guest of honour.
It was my job to accompany the guest speaker from Parliament to Concert Noble and afterwards back to the hotel. I wore my bow tie and stood in front of the Parliament building. The Jaguar shone brighter than usual. Emiel, the driver, clearly had done his best. The only thing missing was a cap. There came the glasses. I shook her hand. So this is how fame feels. We drove off, addressing each other courteously.
She came across rather shy. That gave me courage and I was looking forward to report this back to “Friesland”. My mother would be so proud and my friends so jealous. I straightened my own black spectacles.
Classic and Regal. Concert Noble even had an announcer on the payroll. I gave him her business card and while I lead her into the ballroom the man pounded on the floor twice and called out in his deep tone voice: “Mr and Mrs. Nana Mouskouri!” Dead silent. A zillion times platinum, associated with Onassis and several presidents. Then the applause hurtled. De Clercq whispered: “did everything go OK, Mr Mouskouri?”
We sat at our tables. Champagne, foie gras, the best meat. Then she spoke. Sixty Ambassadors, who were breathlessly waiting for only one thing. But she did not sing. Throat trouble, acoustics, bad microphone. It was a bit of a downer for Le Corps but the wine flowed nonetheless and five minutes later, they had forgotten about her speech already. That was not what it was about. That was never what it is was about.
She wanted to go home. My boss let her out. “My assistant will take you to your hotel. Kali nichta.”.
Madam Mouskouri stayed at the prestigious Amigo hotel next to the Grand Place and a stone’s throw from my apartment on the Sablon. I held the door open for her and with great aplomb I told the driver he was done for the day. She had to laugh. Twenty-six years old and a pink Jaguar with driver. I laughed back. Told her I would walk home and wished her a pleasant night. Then it happened. “Would you join me for a nightcap in the hotel bar? You have been extremely kind and it is my pleasure to invite you.” Eighty million records wants to have a drink with me. Hello mother?
It turned out to become even crazier. ‘Friesland’ would not survive this. I drank whisky sour. Jazz music playing softly in the background. Another ten people in the Amigo bar, I counted. Everyone looked. Breathless. We talked about music and politics. About Greece and the Netherlands. Then she said: “It was mean right? The fact that I did not sing in front of those Ambassadors? I just did not feel like it.” “Well,” I said, “Ms Mouskouri, you were invited as a politician, not as a singer. You are not a monkey that does circus tricks on command.”
I took a big sip. She looked at me intently. Beckoned the waiter; another whisky? Yes, that too, but the music had to be turned off. Nana stood up and took my hand. The world stopped revolving. This was a ballad. She sang! Just for me. Only Love.
The businessmen in the bar swooned in their seats. I floated. Only Love and only for me, the little Frisian cow boy in a mundane five-star hotel bar.
“Now I did feel like it,” she said. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and walked away. To the elevator. “Efgaristo.” I could not sleep that night. This had to be shared. First in Chez Richard with the Brussels’ regulars. They were proud and together with me in the woozy clouds. They did not begrudge this for me at all. And there went another round for Whitsky Mouskouri! How different would my friends up north react.
I will never forget the gap between the reactions of my Belgian friends of taking pride and truly feeling happiness on my behalf and that of Dutch envy and jealousy. My Dutch compatriots quickly made it seem as if I had been fantasizing and that being abroad had completely gone to my head. “Arrogant minister assistant, act normally, please”. Parakalo. At home on the couch, totally sobered up, I thought: I am so happy to be living in Brussels. An arrogant Frisian monkey. If only they knew. I looked up the song and put it on. Just before going to bed I thought with melancholy about my childhood and that evening. Only Love.

