Chapters

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The back room of Dirk's record shop had become more than just a place for Django to occasionally crash; it was a sanctuary, a classroom, and the crucible where his new musical identity was being forged. Stacks of LPs formed precarious towers around his cot, the faint scent of old paper and dust. He and Dirk had fallen into an easy rhythm. "Django," Dirk would call, "put the kettle on, there's a new Monk record I want you to hear." Or Django would emerge, blinking, after hours with the Gibson, "Dirk, listen to this... I think I finally cracked that chord change from the Ellington tune." The amnesia story had long since worn thin between them, replaced by an unspoken understanding. Dirk sensed the boy was carrying a weight far heavier than simple memory loss, but he never pressed. He just provided tea, records, and a quiet space to be.

One rainy Tuesday, as Django was meticulously cleaning the Gibson, Dirk watched him, pipe smoke curling around his head. "You know, Django," he began, his voice thoughtful, "this music you're making... it deserves to be heard. Properly. Beyond the parks and the commune." Django nodded, his gaze distant. "I know, Dirk. But to do that... to travel, to record for real... a man needs a name on paper. And I'm still just... a ghost."

Dirk leaned forward. "I've been thinking about that. A lot." He paused, then fetched the old metal strongbox. He laid out the worn documents, the faded photograph of Lena and baby Willem. "I told you about my sister, Lena, and her boy, Willem."

Django listened, his heart unexpectedly heavy for this unknown woman and her lost child. "Willem Bakker," Dirk said, tapping the Belgian birth certificate. "Born near Li��ge, 1947. Died an infant in a refugee camp here in Holland, winter of '48. Never officially registered as deceased here, and certainly not in Belgium. As far as the Belgian authorities are concerned, he's a name, a birth. Nothing more."

Dirk looked directly at Django. "You're a few years younger than Willem would be now, if he'd lived. You need an identity. He never got to have one." He pushed the certificate gently across the worn wooden table that served as Django's desk. "What if Willem Bakker finally got to live? Through you?"

Django stared at the document, then at Dirk, speechless. "I could be your uncle," Dirk continued, the plan already forming in his astute mind. "Dirk Bakker. Your mother Lena's brother. After she and your father... disappeared during the war, I took you in. Raised you as best I could. We've been... travelling. That would explain why you weren't formally schooled or registered anywhere else. The Romani way, eh?" He gave a wry smile. "It's a story people might believe, especially with a little... encouragement."

"Dirk... you would do that?" "For you, Django? And for Lena? And for Willem? Yes." Dirk's eyes were surprisingly bright. "We go to Belgium. To Marchin, the village where Willem was born. We get an official copy of this birth certificate. With me as your guardian, your 'uncle,' it'll look more legitimate. Then, with that, we can apply for a Belgian passport for Willem Bakker."

He leaned back. "I have an old friend, a notary in Li��ge, Monsieur Dubois. A good man, helped a lot of people get their papers sorted after the war. He owes me a favour or two from my own wandering musician days. He can advise us. And," Dirk lowered his voice slightly, "I also know some people in the Manouche community near Charleroi. One fellow in particular, name of Pitou, he knows how to... navigate the local mairies. A little money, placed in the right hands, can make old records reappear, or new ones be created with fewer questions." The audaciousness of it stole Django's breath. Dirk, his quiet, thoughtful friend, was proposing a piece of daring theatre, a benevolent conspiracy. "We travel together," Dirk said, a spark of adventure in his eyes that Django hadn't seen before. "Uncle Dirk and his nephew Willem, seeking to secure the boy's future. It has a certain ring to it, no?"

A week later, armed with Willem Bakker's original birth certificate, a substantial portion of Django's busking money (now referred to as "administrative lubrication funds"), and a letter of introduction from Dirk to Ma?tre Dubois, the unlikely pair boarded a train to Li��ge. Dirk, looking more professorial than ever in a tweed jacket, carried a small valise. Django, as "Willem," carried his Gibson, looking like any aspiring young musician.

Ma?tre Dubois, a wizened man with eyes that had seen too much but still held a spark of wry humor, received them in his dusty, book-lined office. He listened to Dirk's carefully constructed story of his "nephew Willem," nodding occasionally. He examined the old birth certificate. "Marchin, eh?" Dubois mused. "A small place. Records from that time... often incomplete. The bourgmestre there now, a Monsieur Grenier, he is... pragmatic." He scribbled a name and a caf�� address on a piece of paper. "Before you go to the mairie, speak to this man, Basile. Mention my name, and Dirk's friend Pitou. Basile will understand the... sensitivities of your situation. He can smooth the path."

The caf�� in a village near Marchin was smoky and loud. Basile was a wiry man with knowing eyes. He listened, accepted the envelope Dirk discreetly passed him, and nodded. "Monsieur Grenier at the mairie in Marchin appreciates when citizens take an active role in community projects," he said with a wink. "I will ensure he knows of your... civic-mindedness. Come to the mairie tomorrow, late morning."

The next day, at the Marchin mairie, Monsieur Grenier was surprisingly accommodating. He listened to Dirk's tale of his late sister and his desire to secure his nephew Willem's future. He made sympathetic noises about the chaos of the post-war years and the difficulty of keeping records. With Basile hovering benignly in the background, the application for a duplicate Acte de Naissance for Willem Bakker was processed with remarkable speed.

An hour later, Django—no, Willem Bakker—held a crisp, official copy of his new birth certificate. The ink was still fresh. Dirk clapped him on the shoulder, his relief palpable. "Well, Willem," he said, the new name feeling surprisingly natural on his tongue. "Welcome to the world, officially." Walking out into the Belgian sunshine, Django felt a profound shift. He was no longer just a time-tossed musician. He was Willem Bakker, a young man with a documented past, however fabricated, and thanks to Dirk, a tangible future. The weight of the name Phralipen was still there, a private truth, but Willem Bakker was his key to the world.

"First, a celebratory beer," Dirk declared. "Then, back to Amsterdam. We have a passport to apply for, young man. And you have a lot of music to make. For yourself, and for Willem."

Django grinned, the first truly carefree smile he'd managed in this strange new era. The ghost of Willem Bakker felt less like a burden and more like a silent partner, his unlived life a quiet blessing on Django's second chance. The future, once a terrifying unknown, now felt like an open road, and he finally had the papers to travel it.

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Story by Alan Bryson, edited and assisted by AI.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional account exploring what might have happened if a temporal quantum event had occurred. While real musicians and historical figures appear within these pages, they exist here in an alternate timeline—a reality that quantum theory suggests was possible, but that never came to pass. All interactions, conversations, and events involving these individuals are entirely fictional, products of a world that exists only in the space between what was and what might have been.

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