Max’s House

I first met Max on Saturday night of my first arrival to Brussels. After Lukas had finished his band practise, he picked me up from his parent’s house and we walked a few metres to the right and crossed the road to meet him; he was one of Lukas’s oldest friends. As we walked up to his front door I noticed the silhouette of a small sailing boat’s hull gleaming in the moonlight by the garage. A door bell rung, a door opened. A pair of wobbly blue eyes stared into mine:

“Oh darling, how wonderful to finally meet you!”

Max’s house reminded me strongly of trips to old Soviet artist studios that my mother had taken me on as a young girl when we visited family in St. Petersberg. There were canvases everywhere: up on easels, hanging from walls, stacked on the floor. Besides the paintings and signs of craft: paintbrushes, easels, palettes lying about – the flat was full of musical instruments. There was a black upright in the corner to which Max had affixed one of his abstract, fantastical paintings; a large contrabass standing in one corner and a number of wind instruments such as clarinets and flutes lying upon shelves. The kitchen was small and decidedly the dominion of a bachelor: with jars of olives and plates of sausage waiting about on work surfaces and a few dishes hastily stacked in the sink. But the flat was not messy – it was of course bohemian and full of signs of artistic expression – but it was also elegant, washed in warm cream paint, with rugs on sofas and things in their proper place.

Max was also of course, a perfect host. As soon as he arrived three glasses of red wine magically appeared on a small table and a packet of strong cigarettes cartwheeled into our hands. We were made to feel immediately welcome and at ease. The conversation turned almost immediately to music: besides art, Max’s greatest passion. As Max talked in English – clipped and full of the archaisms of a Waugh novel (divine, darling, awful etc.) – and Lukas nodded and laugh, I took my opportunity to observe him a little.

Max was not a young man – perhaps in his late sixties or seventies. That he had lead a very colourful life was immediately obvious from the catalogue raisonnée lying on his desk: born in South America to nomadic parents, PhD in philosophy, he set up an English school, was a published poet and now, had finally taken up painting. Max could speak five languages fluently and he was to me, both in the way that he lived in Brussels (morning coffee with paper, evening soirées with artists and musicians) and his commitment to the arts, both a stereotype and living embodiment of European intellectual culture. But he was also the kind of person who rejoiced in bringing people together. He was someone who cultivated the society of people that interested him and made it his duty to introduce like-minded people to each other. He was a host, a patron, a great promoter, but also of course, an actor. I was obviously delighted by his flat, his lovely poetry, his naïve painting style – most of all his commitment to the maxim that we should live exactly as we wish and in a way that increases the joy of those around us.

Max may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but was a well-known and well-liked character in the neighbourhood. Like many of the young hopefuls that Max cultivated in the society around him, he was a source of encouragement for Lukas and perhaps something more: a mentor, a father-figure, an island. Therefore, I was not at all surprised that Lukas took me to him almost immediately after visiting his parents. Part of my understanding Lukas was interpreting his relationship with Max and the central importance he had in Lukas’s life.

That evening had no end – like all the evenings I spent in Max’s house. New people came and went, the wine continued to flow, bounteous, cheap, fruity. The piano lid shot up, Lukas’s elastic jolly hands scurried to meet that handshake of ivory keys that he already knew so well. One introduction followed after the other; if not to real people in the room than to others, part of the extended coterie of Max’s vast artistic acquaintanceship, that he carried about with him always in his mind:

“Oh you must meet this lovely little clarinettist I know from Hungary. She plays for the Brussels philharmonic. Just wonderful and so friendly. You’ll get on like a house on fire!”

Of course there was no reason that I would have anything to share with this young Hungarian woman but it was the thought that counted – and the metaphor that it enshrined; Max’s house was always open: his house, his friends, his life, sharing was the essence of what it meant to be alive for him.

After I’d had enough plonk to forget my shyness I agreed that Lukas could spin the album that we had just recorded together in his bedroom. There was suddenly a circle of silent listeners, I felt self-conscious. The murmur, the flat note, the held one, the long one: each intonation had become so known to me, an audio landscape that we had investigated in detail like mortuary experts, two weeks before. It was an assessment, but Max was in a benevolent mood. He inclined his head, nodded now and then, others in the room were encouraging.

“Why it’s good!” Max said to me. “It can be improved but it is a great start. Really, if it was bad I would say so immediately.”

His eyes widened.

“Perhaps you and Lukas can play together at my dernisage next Saturday? Get a few songs together, you know…”

And so I was in. I was part of Max’s set. It would be my first gig in Belgium, and actually, if I’m honest, ever.