In Brussels the red light district is located in the area around the Gare du Nord. Getting lucky takes a simple nod at the ladies, getting an interview takes a lot more. After being turned down more times than a spotty four-eyed teenager in a discotheque, finally a Nigerian woman named Monique agrees to speak to me. The front room, the one with the large window, is where she spends most of her time, waiting for a customer in a big, worn out brown leather armchair. The middle room, divided from the front by a semi-transparent curtain, has two chairs and a small table in it, you might call it the reception room.
The backroom is where Monique earns her money. The bin next to the bed is full of dirty toilet paper; electricity cables lie crisscrossed through the room. It smells a bit musky; the only fresh air comes from a half-open door that leads to a small patio.
In the corner of the room stands an old-fashioned heater with a pot on it. In her reception room, Monique offers me a glass of water. She has a very frail posture, and her limbs are oddly long.
Seven years ago she moved to Brussels, the capital of Europe. Can I call you that, what do you prefer? Monique shrugs her shoulders and takes a sip of her Spa bottle. Monique looks at me frowning, a bit disturbed by this obviously stupid question.
In Africa, you find that interesting, especially when you see white people on television. I only had a bad customer once, a long time ago. It was a Chinese man, or something. He came in for the regular stuff, so I said yes. Then, he asked me to do more for him. I had a black eye but I tried to fight him.
