“In light of worsening relations... In light of this, in light of that …” scoffed Lupu. “What’s with this jibber-jabber? Why can’t diplomats ever use normal, human language? Although, to be honest, is there such a thing as non-human language? I don’t mean purely hypothetically. I mean concretely, of course, even somewhat empirically speaking—”
And at this point the speaker, a lover of high-flown verbal formulations, completely confused himself and bent down to get back to work. Marian Lupu was hoeing a potato patch. This too was part of his program of returning to the simpler life. And, curse though his wife did, she still sacrificed a few meters of earth from underneath her flowers to her husband’s potatoes. Of course, it was the gardener who cared for the flowers, but she put so much heart into them, the poor thing, that the tongue just couldn’t call them anything but her own. And with praiseworthy stubbornness, her husband watered his potato patch with his sweat. He took heart in the hard peasant’s work, which stretched his every last muscle and in which the true son of Moldova, our speaker, found repose. At least, that’s what the state press service reported about Lupu’s weekends.
From time to time, when his wife stayed over in Chisinau, Lupu conducted raids in his potato patch. He never sprayed his plants to protect them from Colorado beetles; he preferred to collect the striped sons of bitches himself, by hand. His hands turned yellow like the poet Mayakovsky’s jacket, about whose work Marian wrote his dissertation, and he would get a faraway look on his face. Collecting an entire jarful of beetles, Lupu would fall into a trance, so it seemed, and slowly make his way around the house, to the paved driveway. There, he would sit down on the curb. One by one he extracted the beetles and butchered them with a small hatchet. At first rarely, then more and more frequently, the speaker would chop off the beetle’s head with one blow and watch from the sidelines as the headless, striped, barrel-like little thing—the beetle’s body—scampered madly across the pavement for a few moments.
“Hey there, Iurie,” he said in a mechanical voice to a huge beetle. “Iurie Rosca!”—this was the name of the leader of the nationalist opposition party—“How are you?” Smack! “Oh! What’s happened to Mister Rosca’s head? It flew bye-bye? And who do we have here? Mister Victor Stepaniuc himself, alive and in person …” Stepaniuc was a member of parliament representing the Communist Party. Smack! “Opa, we missed our mark. The spine is sliced but the head’s not chopped! All covered in booboos, but alive, like Marx’s doctrine, ha ha ha!” Smack! “Oh, Marx! Hello. How are things with you? Opa! Oh no, for you even the axe is too good. We’ll just use our foot again.” Smack! “Oh, just look at that. Mister Serafim Urechean, alive and in person! Former communist, pan-Europeanist!” Swish! “There goes half the torso!” Smack! “Farewell, head. And you, sir, you must be President Smirnov, I presume.” Crack, crack. Smirnov was the president of the breakaway republic of Transnistria. “Oh!! Such a meaty one … so healthy … President Voronin! Alive and in person! For you, it’ll be a match under your belly!”
Toward dusk, Lupu would sadly toss aside his hatchet and wash his trembling hands in the silver basin beside the southern wall of the house. The metallic sliver of moon in the Moldovan night would come to a point and scratch the side of Lupu’s face, and he’d come to. Then he’d scrub and scrub the yellow guts of the murdered beetles off the road and carefully rinse the jar. And toward morning—bright-eyed, happy, fresh-faced—he would return to Chisinau, where he’d live quietly for another year. Until his body would start to ache again, his lips would burn, his temples would blaze with heat, his heart would beat madly, and reason would tell him it was time to go back to the country house and start gathering those Colorado beetles …
But that’s all in the past – or the future. Right now, the Speaker of Parliament Marian Lupu has tilled his potato patch and is admiring his wife, who is carrying the sweet water in a rusty steel bucket. The water is tastiest from the well, the speaker knows. He waits until his wife approaches, carefully grabs the bucket from her hands and hoists it up to his head. He doesn’t like drinking from a cup. It feels ungenerous. And before he is able to swallow, he looks up at the sky and plops right down on the patch of land, as if afraid of something, yet without spilling a single drop of water. His wife looks at him with surprise and heads home to summon the doctor from the speaker’s security detail. The doctor will be the one who later on spreads various rumors for which the authorities will dispatch him to the province of Kagul as a veterinary inspector. There, he will happily drink his life away. And from time to time he’ll take to swearing that Lupu, before falling asleep, whispered the words: “A tractor! A tractor flew over my head …”
17
THE GUTS OF THE TRACTOR HAD TO BE RIPPED OUT, VASILY explained. In its place, they installed the airplane motor from the first Soviet replica of the Wright Brothers plane—who knew which Wright Brothers plane, exactly?—which Lungu had saved all these twenty-five years of his willed exile from aviation, when he worked as a tractor mechanic. They installed the machinery, the wings, and even put in a small tank of combustible gas. They made no changes to the body of the tractor, which was made of light, thin sheets of metal. This way, they would “completely disorient the anti-aircraft defenses of the countries lying en route to the destination,” Vasily explained.
“And now what?” yelled Serafim, slapping Vasily on the back. “What’s next? We don’t have playing cards, or anything!”
“We’re approaching Chisinau,” Vasily said, manipulating the controls. “We’ll discretely circle over the airport, fall in with a plane going to Bucharest, and fly on its tail. Then we’ll repeat the tactic and fly to Budapest. And then, on to Slovenia. From there it’s only a stone’s throw from Italy.”
“Genius!” roared Serafim and embraced the embarrassed Vasya. “Goddamn genius!”
“Yeah, but you know, it’s a shame we didn’t think of this before,” Vasily said again. “My wife wouldn’t have had to go hang herself … ”
He put the aircraft on autopilot and the friends drank a glass of wine in honor of poor Maria’s soul. Then they drank a glass in honor of their happy takeoff and a happy landing. They ate a few snacks and drank again, this time just because. Then Vasily turned back around in his pilot’s seat and steered the craft into the clouds.
“What are you doing that for?” said Serafim. The pressure was messing with his eardrums, and he was confused. “It’s all damp here, like in a water-filled basement.”
“When we’re above cities we’ll always go into the clouds,” Vasily explained. “This way we don’t call any extra attention to ourselves.”
“Smart thinking,” agreed Serafim. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”
“Let’s drink to Italy!” Vasily suggested. “To Italy, home of the Fiat!”
“And to Italy, home to Venice and its bridges!”
“To our Italy, the only one, different and inimitable for each person, the way only a true lover can be!”
“To Italy! Vivat Italia!”
The heavenly tractor, rattling along, plowed its propeller unhurriedly through the fog and the friends dozed off.
18
VLADIMIR VORONIN, PRESIDENT OF MOLDOVA, SHIFTED his weight from left foot to right foot and nostalgia set in. It had been three hours since he was supposed to have kicked his shoes off and been highstepping through the grass near the Dniester River. Fishing, inhaling the smoke of a bonfire and drinking cognac strong as righteous tears. Instead, he was standing on a podium in a suit that choked him, his feet in shabby socks squeezed into narrow shoes. And it looked like he’d be standing there for a while.
“You couldn’t find me any other shoes?” the president asked the office manager who was dressing him for the meeting. “I look like a trader from Azerbaijan at the outdoor market!”
“That’s who we bought them from!” the office manager stupidly concurred. “They say, these are the socks of President Aliyev of Azerbaijan himself!”
“Aliyev,” the
president mocked, stuffing his feet into the shoes. “And you believed them, you numbskull!”
And he set off for the meeting regarding the adoption of the Moldova – European Union plan, which had zero meaning but was being publicized to distract the people from their poverty.
“Keep harping on about how Europe’s close to accepting you,” the American ambassador to Moldova suggested coldly to the president, when the latter came to ask for a loan. “They’ll grab onto that like a rabbit after a carrot. But I’m sorry. I can’t give you any money.”
Speaker Lupu was the one who should have been speaking. He was younger and more eloquent, but, the president was informed, something had happened to the speaker. He’d gotten overheated while working in his garden and suffered a heat stroke. He mumbled some nonsense about flying tractors or floating trucks, nobody could make any damn sense of it. The president sighed and began reading:
“The expansion of the European Union, initiated on May 1, 2004, signifies an historic change to the EU in political, geographical and economic directions, strengthening the future political and economic partnership between Moldova and the European Union, nnn, nnnnn, nnnnnnzzzzzzzzzzz … ”
“Mister President, Mister President, you’re snoring,” whispered the head of the Foreign Ministry, tugging at his neighbor’s sleeve.
“Ah, mmmh. Excuse me.” Voronin shook his head and started reading again to the three thousand people gathered on the square.
“This presents an opportunity for advancement consistent with harmonization, raising the level of economic integration and the deepening of political cooperation. It is incumbent upon the European Union and Moldova to take advantage of the proposed opportunities for the strengthening of mutual relations and the promotion of stability, safety and prosperity. Our unique and shared characteristics, and our current partnership will serve as the basis for this development, and its enactment will initiate future growth in the strategic partnership between nnn, nnnnn, nnnnnnzzzzzzzzzzz … ”
This time his neighbor didn’t even have to intercede, for the President woke himself up with his own snoring. And, as always when he was half-asleep, he was pissed. To hell with them all!
“And now, to tell you about the immediate future of Moldova in Europe, is our Minister of Foreign Affairs,” he exclaimed. “I’m sorry for the microphone malfunction. Clearly, our technicians, too, want to be in Europe so badly they’ve all set off without waiting for the end of their president’s speech!”
The crowd laughed and the president walked toward the steps, behind the backs of the ambassadors, ministers and advisors who weren’t leaving. “Let them stand there,” the president decided, “I’m going fishing in the Dniester.”
Voronin looked bitterly at the backsides of the milieu. “ To hell with them. Let them get wet,” he said tersely.
But after taking two steps, he thought about the political opposition and sighed. Once again, they’d blame him and the ruling party for all of Moldova’s troubles. The headlines flashed before his eyes: “Communists Say They Want Europe, but Soak European Representatives in the Rain,” or “President Voronin Subjects the Representatives of European Integration to a Humiliating Sojourn in the Rain.” And, sighing yet again, he decided to issue an order to disperse the clouds. He sighed a third time, thinking about the reaction from the Russian Ambassador. The President could almost hear the notes ring out:
“The government of Moldova’s alliance with supporters of so-called European values is completely incomprehensible. In their desire to oblige their allies, the Moldovans even went so far as to inflict violence upon nature, chasing clouds away in an easterly direction (incidentally, of course), stopping at nothing … Meanwhile, the government of Moldova has lost sight of the fact that … Sincere apologies … Absolutely incomprehensible, provoking consternation on the part of the Russian Federation … ”
And what about the reactions of all the autonomous, breakaway regions? What would they say? And how about the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe? The only side that wouldn’t sling mud would be the newspaper The Communist, and even there they’d whisper in the corner that—Have you heard?—the president has strayed from party ideals … And where are they, these ideals? Ah, sons of bitches, all of them!
Biting his lips, Voronin understood he had to choose. Reflecting for a minute, he recalled that the Russian Ambassador Rybov had already not been giving him loans for a year. And in general, the man was condescending and unpleasant. The American ambassador, meanwhile, was quite friendly, though he also wasn’t loaning any money. But in contrast to the Russian ambassador, the American had never been in the habit …
“Oh, kiss my ass, all of them,” Voronin said to the mayor. “Shoot the clouds a few times to disperse them, but no more. I don’t want anybody to be able to raise a stink. Is that clear?”
The mayor leaped into action and the president, settling into the seat in his Volvo, took off his shoes and socks and began wiggling his numbed toes with great pleasure. He thought about how nice it would be to change the government in Chisinau. A very obsequious chap, that mayor. Not like his predecessor, who Voronin had had to fire for obstinacy. Change the bureaucrats and then it would be smooth sailing for the president, a man whom even seedy Italy had barred from entering its territory for three years running. “Oh, they can all kiss my ass!” Voronin repeated to himself.
Toward noon, the cloud the tractor had been sailing in was pierced by a bullet. Serafim and Vasily were saved thanks only to the ejection device, and touched ground right in the forest surrounding Chisinau.
“Well, at least we tried,” said Serafim. He wiped the blood off his beat-up face.
And thus, a meeting about European cooperation became an insurmountable obstacle on the path of two Moldovans on their way into Europe.
19
THE OLD PEASANT TOOK A SEAT ON THE DOORSTEP OF HIS house and groaned.
“Well, sonny boy, they say whoever goes to Italy never comes back! But the people who’ve made it – they don’t complain, just like a bunch of daisy pushers. Italy, it turns out, is just like heaven! And there’s no road back for whoever makes it up there.”
The young man was entranced; he sat on his haunches beside the old peasant and wrote down the man’s words in a lined notebook. On the notebook’s cover, a madeup Britney Spears stretched open her mouth in a silent scream. The elderly peasant was clearly confused, and Octavian Gonts, a student in the Philological Department at Moldova State University, was ashamed of the young, debauched singer who was exposing herself on the cover of his school notebook. But there was nothing to be done, he hadn’t been able to find any others at the railroad station twenty miles from Larga. And, as usual, it slipped his mind to take paper and a pen with him from Chisinau.
The dean of the university, a famous Moldovan poet, had offered words of encouragement to Octavian and three other students:
“You’re setting off for the far-flung corners of Moldova, where the barbarian hand of Moscow never touched our people’s difficult and complex soul. There, you’ll find the Moldova of Stefan the Great. You’ll talk with people who remember their roots and know where they came from and why. Be vigilant, and work tirelessly.”
And the mini-expedition of folklorists from the Philological Department set off on their journey. They’d been in Larga a week now. The trip, intended to last only a few days, had been extended and the students were excited. The dean had proved right: they’d never before gathered such an amount of folklore material in one population point in Moldova. What was especially gratifying to the young researchers was that in Larga, new myths were being intertwined with old legends.
“For example, just listen to the stories about Italy!” Octavian exclaimed enthusiastically, sitting around the campfire at dinner. “The old superstitions about heaven and St. Peter from the times of the Turkish occupation have been fancifully woven together with notions of the promised land these poor plow-pushers have today.”
Elena Syrbu interrupted Octavian. “I’m hearing echoes of the eschatological drama of the beginning of our era, the drama at the birth of Christianity.” She was a standout and the favorite student in the course. “And such thrilling observ—”
“And this village,” said the student Lipan, looking dreamily up at the sky, “has given birth so many parables, philosophical ideas, so many, shall we say, delineations.”
The young people were ecstatic. Having awakened early in the morning, they dispersed throughout Larga, each one with an enormous notebook and several pens, to harvest the oral vineyards of the peasants, to reap the fragrant fields of their fantasies, to humbly water the seedlings of the ambitious residents, seedlings which were breaking their way through a thick stratum of mistrust. Now there was something to really be proud of! The entire folklore expedition had taken an interest in these stories.
There was yet another reason why Octavian wanted their expedition to last forever. He was hopelessly—and secretly (although the entire department and half the university knew about it)—in love with his fellow student, Elena Syrbu. Alas, the feelings weren’t mutual. She was as unwelcoming toward him as the barren land near Balti, as prickly as the blackthorn in the gypsy fields near Soroca. She tormented him with her mockery like the summer sun burns the wastelands of Gagauzia. But she didn’t spurn him completely. The attentions of Octavian, so full of hope, were flattering, after all.
“I’d marry a guy like that in a heartbeat,” Elena’s roommate in the dormitories told her excitedly. “He’s handsome, passionate, a young genius!”
“But he’s got no backbone,” parried Elena. “If he encounters any insurmountable obstacles, he’ll drink himself to ruin, like all geniuses.”
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