The Union of Synchronised Swimmers

by Cristina Sandu

  The Captain’s sports complex is best known for its footballers, but also for its boxers and runners. Not so much for women athletes and water sports: the pools are calm, the reflections of the ceiling unbroken.

  The girls closed themselves in the changing room, where they peeled off their tracksuits, the harsh light exposing their exhausted bodies. They leaned towards the mirror. One of them took off her piercings, and carefully put them inside a matchbox. With shaking hands, they styled their hair so that not one strand could escape. The hair pins, glittery and as big as spoons, fastened with a click. The nose clips flattened their nostrils. Then the girls stepped into the hall, chins up, just as they had seen on TV. Even the short-sighted one walked straight and assertive. They stopped at the edge of the pool; the electric blue took hold of their reflections. They looked at the chipped tiles and the rectangle of tamed water, which once upon time was probably filled with promises that had now faded into only a hint of past glory. They jumped, for the first time, into water that didn’t belong to the river. Chlorine wooshed into their eyes and ears. Each toe and hair and mole and scar was perfectly visible in the clear water. The tallest of them raised her tattooed arm, whistled, and they began.

  They buoyed up to the surface, then swirled in the water like ducks. Six feet whipped the air, then disappeared. Twelve feet started bending in step, accelerating and splashing until they ceased to be feet. As the bodies swung into somersaults, their bottoms flashed like mussels. Five pairs of hands threw one body horizontally into the air. The girls gathered in a circle which turned, first slowly and then quickly, growing in strength. Their eyelids and hair were covered in a thick layer of glitter, which made them sparkle. Kohl tears ran down their cheeks.

  The coach didn’t wipe his face, wet from the splashing water. Watching the performance — mesmerising despite its flaws — he felt his blood course through his limbs and penis, reinvigorating it to the point of rigidity. Suddenly the water of the pool looked promising to him, too.

  A few months later, the girls posed for a photograph. They stood in a row according to height. Hands on their hips. Hip bones protruding forward defiantly. Their hair flattened by water and pulled tightly back, enhancing the furrowed foreheads that did not quite match their grins. They were wearing so much makeup that at a quick glance their faces looked identical, but after close inspection one could tell that each was terrified in their own way.

  The photo was printed in the newspaper under the title:

  TEAM OF SYNCHRONISED SWIMMERS FORMED BY GIRLS OF CIGARETTE FACTORY.

  BETTY, SAN MARTIN

  The casino smells of bedrooms in need of airing. Unsmiling girls are handing out drinks and cigarettes to the customers at the bar.

  I hesitate for a second as I change the last of my money for chips. They are heavier than I had imagined. The dealer, a small black man, starts to shuffle the cards. The only players other than myself are two tourists I met at the beach: Magnus from Germany and Jeanne from France. Both have sunburnt faces. Jeanne calls over the waitress, who dashes to the bar as fast as her miniskirt lets her and soon returns with a turquoise drink.

  Judging from the expressions on their faces, I’m not the opponent Magnus and Jeanne were hoping for. I try to hide my shaking by crossing my hands over my lap. I check the time: Pappa will be here in two hours.

  Magnus has drawn the highest card. He immediately raises, and Jeanne and I call. When the dealer turns over the first three cards on the table, the corners of Jeanne’s mouth lift cheerfully.

  Jeanne, you’re a bad player, Magnus laughs.

  Jeanne’s face, draped with angularly cut hair, flushes even redder than before.

  I win the first hand with three tens. Arranging my chips into neat piles, I say: I’ve been on this island for a month now.

  A month … Jeanne mumbles. As soon as she gets her cards, she covers them with her palms.

  I’ve been here for a week and I don’t think I could stay for another, she says. I’m leaving after tomorrow.

  Magnus looks at her, amused, and sighs: You’re breaking my heart.

  If I could decide now, I’d never have come here, I say.

  Why did you come then? Jeanne asks.

  It’s a long story … because of a dog, actually. A Doberman puppy.

  I expect intrigue, but both have fixed their eyes on the dealer’s fingers, turning over the cards. Magnus looks excited and raises. I forget to breathe when the dealer reveals the fifth and final card. Magnus shows his two pairs but, instead of looking at the cards, he looks at Jeanne and smiles.

  I do not tell them how difficult the first months in Bucharest were. When I moved there last spring, I thought it would be easy to start a new life. But by the time I met Lux, I was stealing fish heads from a restaurant’s garbage disposal.

  I say: Last spring, I moved to a new country, and lived alone, a complete foreigner, until I met a man called Lux. I moved in with him right away. He sold phones that arrived through his mailbox in brown packages from I don’t know where. I turned out to be a good saleswoman and the business started to grow; the apartment was filled with phones.

  I sip the drink Magnus has ordered for me. The third hand starts. I look at Jeanne. Her expression is still bored. She taps her lower lip with a forefinger. The long, thin nail is perfect in its French manicure.

  Fold, she says, and pushes the cards aside. She relaxes as soon as she is out of the game. She folds her hands behind her neck and leans back.

  I try to read Magnus’ face for information. Will he try to bluff this time? The trace of white fuzz under his nose is quivering.

  I hastily continue: Soon, our business was so successful it made people jealous. One evening, when we got home from the kebab shop, the apartment had been burgled. The thieves had taken the only thing we had, the phones. So we got a Doberman to guard the flat. The problem was that we didn’t know a thing about dogs.

  Poor dog, Jeanne mutters.

  I know! But the breeders who sold us the puppy promised to teach us how to raise it.

  Magnus reveals a straight. I try to look relaxed, but I sit taut like a wick. These chips are all the money I have. If I lose, I’ll never leave the island. The dealer collects the cards and starts to shuffle.

  Whenever Lux and I weren’t busy with the phones, we drove to the suburbs where the dog breeders lived, I say. The place was crawling with Dobermans. We drank beer and watched TV; we had nothing else to do. After the burglary, the phone sales started to drop.

  Fourth hand now. The casino is starting to fill up. A new player joins us: she is a chubby woman with white curls, a revealing neckline, and flashy rings. She is from some northern country. My fingers ooze sweat as I grab the cards. Magnus has already raised, as always. He whispers something to the newcomer, probably about me.

  So, black-market work and dogs! Jeanne snorts.

  Yep, I say.

  I am bathed in sweat. Even my underwear squelches against the chair. The newcomer only raises on the last round, the river. When she wins, her arm scrapes the chips like they are board-game pieces.

  Let’s continue, children, she says.

  I know she’s talking about the game, but I continue my story: One day, a friend of the breeders came to the house. He was happy and enthusiastic. He had just arrived from Saint Martin. The guy announced to us that in Saint Martin there’s work for everyone! The rest of us just listened without interrupting. You leave poor but you come back, if not wealthy, at least wealthier, he said.

  Jeanne giggles. Magnus’ face is also joyful, and he orders more drinks. The dealer yawns theatrically while shuffling.

  The decision to leave happened on a whim, I explain. That same evening, Lux and I counted our savings from the phone sales. There was enough for one plane ticket and the beginning of a new life in Saint Martin. We decided I’d go first.

  I get out of the sixth
hand as soon as I have seen my cards. My bad luck is getting worse. I learned to play Texas Hold ’em long ago, before moving to Bucharest. We used the smallest coins as chips. At first I thought the game was called Texas, Hold Them!

  Why do I always have such shit cards! Jeanne moans.

  Magnus pats her leg encouragingly, like you would the hind of a slow but beautiful horse.

  I tell them how I travelled from Bucharest to Paris with a truck driver who was a friend of the breeders, and then flew here from Paris. Everything started going wrong the moment the plane landed. The man who the breeders promised would greet me was not there.

  Jeanne sighs almost empathically.

  Poor sweetie, the old blonde says coldly, and pushes a heap of chips into the pot. She is already getting bored. She raises recklessly and gazes around, fishing for a different kind of catch. I’m sure Pappa would like this piece of Nordic flesh, even if she’s ancient.

  I looked for a cab and asked the driver to take me to the cheapest hotel possible, I tell them, as I size up the Scandinavian with a stare. The place he took me to wasn’t a hotel. There was a row of little huts. In front of them was a swimming pool, but it was filthy. I had to pay a deposit of five hundred euros, but I didn’t mind. I was sure I’d earn the money back quickly.

  From the disbelief on their faces, I realise they have rooms in tidy hotels, probably by the beach.

  I look at my remaining chips. I try to steady my voice as I say: As soon as I woke up the next morning, I went for a walk along the road. I was sure it would take me some place where I’d find work — a port, restaurants, bars, hotels.

  Magnus shakes his head again and I am sure it is because of his cards, but he says: I don’t believe you! I’m sorry to say this, but … only a crazy person does that.

  Magnus has three sevens, I have a pair of fives, and Jeanne has something she claims to be a straight, but it turns out that she miscounted the cards. The blonde feigns hesitation for a while before revealing her cards: three jacks and a pair of nines, a full house. Magnus looks at her with disbelief and curses.

  The woman laughs: Have fun playing, kids. Then she gathers her chips and waddles towards the bar.

  So rude, Magnus scoffs.

  The ninth hand begins. I take a peek at my cards — they are shitty.

  I don’t know how long I sat by the road for when a car stopped, I tell Jeanne, as Magnus is busy ordering his chips according to colour. Suddenly an old, worried face looked at me from the driver’s window. The voice asked Are you all right?, and before I could answer, the door opened. I could feel the air conditioning. The driver spoke English with a strong French accent. Come inside, for God’s sake, and don’t be afraid. I sat on the cool seat. It was lovely.

  Come on, show your cards already, Jeanne says after revealing her queens.

  Don’t worry, you win, I mutter, disappointed at her blatant disinterest.

  Magnus yawns. I’m scared he will take his stack and leave.

  Then we started chatting! I say, with a high-pitched voice. The man scolded me for being there on foot. He pointed to a guy walking at the edge of the road, who was clearly high and had a shiny object under his belt. I promised I’d be more careful. Every now and then he pointed his thumb at himself and said in a fatherly way Pappa this and Pappa that, and that’s what I started calling him.

  I sip the bubble-gum-flavoured vodka, hoping I’m not boring them. I can clearly see Pappa now, as if he were in front of me.

  He began taking me around the island every day. Sometimes we drove to the beach. He urged me to swim while he sat on the sand watching. When I came out of the water my skin was white with salt; you could barely see the inky patterns of my tattoos. Like a fish in water, Pappa joked, pleased, as I wrapped myself in a towel. One day, he drove us to the casino. Christmas lights hung from the palm trees, pale in the sun, and the hotel and the casino stood side-by-side behind the trees. The hotel was quiet, its windows closed, but when we returned that evening, the building had woken up. Men, locals and tourists, went in and out of its doors. In one hotel window I saw a woman tussling with the curtain, which was possibly stuck or something. She was wearing a thong and I could see a man waiting for her on the bed.

  I swallow many times to get rid of the bad taste in my mouth. The tenth hand is over. Magnus turns to look at Jeanne, who has put her hair in a bun over the nape of her neck. He places his hands on the table, ready to get up.

  I think I’ve had enough, he says. Jeanne, you have no choice, I invite you to dinner. How do fried shrimps sound to you?

  One more game, I squeak.

  I’m tired, honey, Jeanne says surprisingly gently, and tousles my hair.

  There you go, Magnus says, visibly content.

  But don’t you want to know what happened next? I ask, pleading.

  The eyebrows of the dealer rise. Magnus gives Jeanne an impatient glance.

  One more hand, Jeanne agrees.

  The dealer starts shuffling the cards, not at all sluggish despite his night-long shift, but with swift gestures.

  Well, tell us then, Magnus barks.

  Once, when we were driving downtown, Pappa invited me for a drink in this casino, I say quickly. He was very proud of the casino, and of the hotel, too, you know, like he owned both. He told me that men pay a lot for a little fun in the hotel, and he was sure I’d learn the job easily.

  Jeanne seems bewildered: Oh god, how disgusting!

  I realised then that I had to leave this island, I say. But to buy the plane ticket, I needed the deposit money back. I found the landlord in one of the huts watching TV. He got awkward when I asked for my money. Tomorrow, he promised. He said the same thing for three days.

  The dealer turns three cards face up: ten of diamonds, ten of spades, queen of spades.

  I say: Pappa came every day. But I pretended to be sick while I tried to figure out how to escape.

  Fold, Jeanne says.

  It’s just me and Magnus in the pot now. Magnus checks and I do the same.

  The dealer turns the fourth card on the table: a jack of clubs. The lamp above the table blinks but the light does not go out.

  Magnus bets coyly. I call.

  The dealer turns the fifth card over: an ace of diamonds. The dealer glances at me: he has done his part. I feel dizzy, the chair jerks, I thrust my elbows on the table so as to hold fast.

  The ace makes Magnus beam with confidence, like he has already won, and he goes all in. The piles of chips fall and spread.

  I snap-call the bet with my last chips.

  As expected, Magnus has a straight. He crosses his arms all puffed up and looks at me.

  Not bad, Jeanne mews.

  I show my full house: three aces and two tens. Jeanne’s tipsy eyes home in. Magnus looks like he is about to choke and barely manages to swear: Goddamn …!

  The card game is over. I say goodbye to my new friends, collect the pot which is my ticket out of here, grab my suitcase, and leave quickly before Pappa comes.

  The airplane tilts and hurtles between two mountains up in the sky. I pull the blanket up to my chin and close my eyes. I do not even worry that I only have eighty euros remaining after having paid the dealer his share. Somehow, I’ll get to Bucharest from Paris. A friend told me you can find low-cost flights all the time.

  When I wake up, I am already in another country. At Charles de Gaulle, nobody speaks the same French as Pappa. When I ask the clerk, incredulously, if the ticket to Bucharest really costs 190 euros, she starts to lose her patience.

  Mademoiselle, she says, the price of the ticket doesn’t get any lower. Will you buy the ticket or not?

  What about low-cost?

  The clerk doesn’t bother answering. Her eyes move to the next customer waiting in line.

  I stand in the middle of the hall wearing the same summer clothes I had on whe
n I left the island. After a while, the price of the ticket is 210 euros. As I lift my suitcase, I notice it has become very heavy.

  People refuse to look at my stretched-out hand. They’re busy, they have a lot of luggage and children, and travelling makes them nervous. But my hand is bold and resolute, it thrusts itself in front of people and forces them to slow down. The security guard apologises before ordering me to leave the hall.

  The cold immediately enters my bones. If Pappa was here, now I’d go with him. Suitcases rush past me over the frosty asphalt. The doors of taxis slam shut. A soft voice grazes my ear:

  Hey, what’s your name?

  Betty.

  I’ve come far, too, you know.

  He has pulled a hood wide over his ears. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are red. His lips are so chapped they look like scars. He tells me that he knows how it feels to travel alone and penniless. His smile becomes sad when he says: My family misses me too. Betty, I heard you say inside there that you’re on your way to Bucharest. Turns out I’m going there too. I’m sorry you haven’t managed to buy a ticket.

  Get to the point already, I snap.

  The thing is this, Betty, if you help me, I can help you. I’ll pay whatever you need to get on that plane if you run an errand for me.

  Help how? I ask, wiping my eyes and nose with my sleeve.

  He raises his hand. His fingers are holding something in the air.

  Candy, a gift for my folks, he explains.

  Then he points with his foot towards a plastic bag, where I see clothes and more candy.

  If there’s space in your luggage, I’ll be forever grateful, he says as he pats his backpack: Mine is completely full, as you can see.

  I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I am hot and cold at the same time. Then I laugh so hard my stiff face tightens.

  Yes, yes I can do that, I say.

  Together we pack the bags into my suitcase. Then we just smile at each other in gratitude, until we notice that we should hurry if we want to catch the flight. We step into the brightly lit hall.