Jailhouse rock

“It all began with a pepper mill,” says Marie-Rose Rowies Trogh nonchalantly, as she leads me into the entrance hall of her home close to the Saint-Gilles prison. From the outside, the house on Avenue Ducpétiaux looks like a perfectly ordinary maison de maître – except for the two windows filled with Elvis Presley figurines and other ornaments related to the groin-gyrating, lip-curling King of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Marie-Rose and her husband Albert are self-confessed “Elvis lovers” who have kindly agreed to provide me with a guided visit of their “little Elvis museum”. In the corridor, I find myself assaulted by a stupendous vision of 72 mugs, three jukeboxes, 15 bottle openers, hundreds of plates, and innumerable busts and magnets presenting Elvis in more costumes and postures than one’s mind can grasp. I think I need a rest.

“A pepper mill?” I enquire, struggling to look professional and not fall over a little reliquary where no less than 18 different Elvis watches tic-tac away. It is almost impossible to sit anywhere: the place is one big shambles of curious knick-knacks, all souvenirs of Big E.

“Oh yes”, says Marie-Rose. “I was a baby-sitter for an American family, many years ago, and when they left, the woman offered me an Elvis pepper mill. That’s when I got the idea, you see?”

Not seeing at all, but smiling, I go on to discover the living room, which a cynical observer might describe as a space of too much kitsch and too little remorse. On a wall clock in the kitchen, each second passes with a languorous wiggling of mini-Elvis’s hips.

Marie-Rose, who was once awarded the crown of “Miss Presley” by a Belgian television channel, humbly leads me through a maze of key chains, angels and teddy bears. She switches on a stand of fairy lights, which illuminates a little shrine embellished with candles, artificial flowers and pictures of the King’s tomb in Memphis. Marie-Rose explains that the shrine is used every year on August 16 to commemorate the anniversary of Elvis’s death. A reproduction of his dressing gown is also on display, hanging off a door next to a folding screen featuring a photographic print of James Dean, Marilyn Monroe and you-know-who. Last year, more than 30 visitors came to the museum, which doesn’t have a plaque but instead prides itself on a solid word-of-mouth publicity.

With simplicity, Marie-Rose, tells how her father – who passed away when she was a child – taught her the basics of rock ‘n’ roll and encouraged her passion for Elvis; how, when she lost her job as a cleaning lady, Elvis’s music cheered her up; how, when her cat went missing, he answered her prayers and lead the kitty back to her mistress; and finally, how she wishes to share her enthusiasm with visitors from all around the world.

We procede to the bedroom, which is so jampacked with cuddly toys and medals and canvasses and trinkets that it takes me a minute to understand that this is, in fact, a bedroom.

“So, for how long have you been doing this?” I ask during my ludicrous attempt to wade my way through the couple’s sleeping quarters. “Well, since he died,” she replies with a quiet smile. ”I’ve been growing my collection for 43 years now.” No wonder she knows a thing or two about Mr Pelvis.

“And where does everything come from?” I enquire further – a little more conversation, you know.

“Oh, it’s all little things”, Marie-Rose says, explaining that very few items have actually been purchased by the couple: most of the carpets, cushions, posters, bags, napkins and tablecloths were crafted by family or given by friends and neighbours. The truth is that Albert and Marie-Rose have never been to Memphis, never even bought anything outside Brussels’ flea markets, and the museum lives almost entirely through the kindness of people who know the couple and are willing to help them acquire new pieces for their collection. And this is the moment when I begin to understand that the funny museum is about so much more than a dead music icon. It is a lesson in tranquil eccentricity and inspiring generosity… à la bruxelloise.

Meet Marie-Rose and Albert, “The Elvis’ lovers” as they call themselves, at 114 Avenue Ducpétiaux, any day – you will need to speak a little French, though, and your voice has to appeal to them before they open the door, so we recommend a little suavity.