“Down you go, amigo,” Bianca said innocently enough. “Watch your head.”
Not knowing how to get out of it, I mustered myself to enter their underground crypt, where no doubt they had some sort of torture device, or perhaps cave tunnels that led to the caverns below Dracula’s castle.
Squeezing down through the manhole was tortuous. I dropped into a nasty little tunnel, illuminated only by a weak light glowing somewhere afar. Creepy was the only word to describe it. I felt the weight of the building above me, which shuddered at random intervals—presumably from the wind, but possibly from the machinery driving the pendulum over the pit. I was forced to hunch and half-shuffle, half-crawl beside steaming pipes. After a turn, I saw an opening broken in the stone wall, through which the weak light emanated. Piti’s figure occasionally passed before the light, dropping me into blackness.
Once through the hole, I was able to stand erect in a little room—or so I thought. The ceiling was uneven, and I hit my head. Reflexively I swore, which brought gales of laughter from Piti. Bianca came in after me, and Piti immediately spoke to her at great length, sniggering the whole time. Soon she was laughing, too.
“Some friends you are,” I muttered, rubbing my head. “Is this where I say ‘durere de cap?’”
Piti began laughing even louder, but Bianca managed to stifle her tears long enough to explain.
“He didn’t realize you swore,” she explained. “You said ‘Jesus Christ’, but because it’s different in Romanian, he heard ‘Jesus Gras.’”
“Which means?”
She rubbed her round cheeks to suppress another giggle. “It means ‘fat Jesus.’ That’s such an odd thing to say.”
“No kidding,” I commented dryly, “And probably even more offensive than saying the Lord’s name in vain.”
We were in a tiny chamber lined with shelves loaded with wine bottles and miscellaneous wine-making accoutrements. Several huge glass jugs, holding perhaps forty gallons or so, competed with us for the limited floor space.
“This is Piti’s room,” Bianca explained, dusting off her skirt. “Nobody else wants it, of course. Whenever he needs to disappear, he comes here and squeezes his grapes or shakes his apples.”
“I’d like to watch you shake your apples, baby.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s a wonder he ever found it. How exactly does Piti shake his apples?”
Bianca gestured to the large containers and said, “He throws one apple in each, and when it floats the wine is ready. Along the way he gives them a shake to wake them up.”
Piti was humming as he searched the shelves for just the right two-liter Coke bottle. He found what he was looking for, then motioned for me to sit. I squatted atop one of the glass containers, unsure if it was able to support my weight. Bianca came up behind me and rested her arms on my shoulders.
“This is special treatment, you know,” she whispered into my ear. “Radu and Adi, who you’ll meet in Sighișoara, wanted to marry my two cousins but were not allowed into the family until they first came down here and got drunk with Piti. Check, Adi is taller than you, papa! Can you imagine them both drunk as apples trying to get out that tunnel?”
Rather than comment on her phrase ‘drunk as apples,’ my imagination flared. For a second, I pictured myself someday getting drunk down here with Piti. Emotion flashed through me, just for a second. Why, I was actually a bit jealous! Bianca was bewitching, to be sure, but we were just friends. Right?
Piti opened the bottle and took a swig. He concentrated a moment, contracting his bushy white brows and wrinkling his round nose. Finally he smiled and loosed a satisfied, “Aaaah.”
The bulky bottle passed between the three of us, when we were joined by Lucky. It was a surprise to both my companions, and a welcome one at that. Now we were four in a place even smaller than the kitchen! Lucky, who usually avoided drinking wine, took up the bottle as eagerly as the rest of us. It was fun to see her high, rosy cheeks turn bright red with joy.
“Mihaela used to come here, too,” Bianca began, but suddenly burst out laughing. She rattled a long story to her parents in Romanian, and soon the three of them were howling.
“You know,” Bianca explained. “She was always so serious. But one day Piti cut his hand when waking up an apple. Those bottles are huge, and he accidentally hit the wall and shattered it. Mihaela actually fainted when she saw all the blood. She’s the shortest one to ever hit their head in here, papa. And check: she was studying to be a doctor!”
“Mihaela studied to be a doctor?” I asked, surprised. “She works for Microsoft!”
“For two years,” Bianca answered, smirking. “Because her boyfriend was a doctor, of course. ‘You should have a smart boyfriend like me,’ she would say. Rasclat! Well, she quit after that. I guess love doesn’t conquer all.”
“Not usually,” I observed, taking a swig of wine. Then I flashed her a smile and added, “But that doesn’t mean it can’t.”
Chapter 4. My Big Fat Romanian Wedding
1
It was still dark when I awoke the next morning. I was up before everyone else, no doubt suffering the dregs of jet lag. I tiptoed first around the three Pops snuggled in their little fold-out bed, then tiptoed second around the kitchen in Piti’s tiny papuci. The slippers were so small that staying on my toes was the only way to stay clear of the cold floor. It promised to be a cold, drizzly day. I lit the burner with a match and heated a small pot of Lucky’s tea that she always kept ready. Eventually Lucky joined me, wearing her robe, and immediately lit the remaining burners for warmth.
“Durere de cap?” she asked, running her hands through my hair in motherly fashion.
“Nu!” I cheerfully replied, now fully convinced of the superiority of Piti’s wine. She smiled, then hopped about the kitchen preparing a meal, humming happily. She was shockingly talented, with a voice like a professional contralto. I could almost hear the accompaniment by the cello-playing pig-dog.
I sat at my usual spot, which meant my legs blocked access to the kitchen. Eventually Bianca arrived, and, motioning with a rotating finger, curtly ordered me to ‘Roteste’. I rotated. Then Piti arrived yawning—already wearing his cowboy hat while still in his pajamas—and the three of us sounded in unison, “Roteste!”
Piti’s first order of business was always a kiss for his wife and his daughter, and a brisk shaking of my hand. Every morning together was a glorious one in the Pop household. Of course, afterwards Piti immediately planted himself in his chair, rubbed his belly, and began whining for food. Lucky didn’t disappoint, and soon Piti had his little soldiers arrayed on the breakfast plate. For me the most satisfying part of the meal, amusingly enough, was my constant rotating. I was discovering the inherent joy of close physical proximity. In America we have a relatively large culturally-dictated sense of personal space, but I was realizing that it kept people at arm’s length in more ways than one.
After breakfast and its subsequent smoky conversation, Bianca went into the living room to open a large box that had arrived for her the previous day.
“This is another box from Tommy,” she declared.
“A fawning admirer?” I asked.
Her round cheeks turned a bit redder than usual, and her perky lips pursed to say, “The latest suitor.”
I raised my eyebrows, then sat back on the couch to observe. Piti, beside me, leaned forward to stick his rather large nose into everything.
“Tommy is much older,” Bianca explained as she tore open the box. She began pulling out load after load of teddy bears. There were blue bears, red bears, fuzzy bears, cute bears, even a sailor bear.
“Indeed,” I teased. “Just how old does he think you are?”
She gave me a sour face, then removed the final stuffed animal. It was a horrendous looking, shaggy brown thing. Bianca and Piti burst out laughing, then looked to me.
“What?” I said. “It’s not like I sent it.”
“What is it?”
“That’s the original teddy bear,” I explained. “Named after President Teddy Roosevelt. Not exactly as cute as its descendants, is it?”
Surprisingly, Bianca didn’t need to translate that for Piti, for upon hearing me say ‘President Teddy Roosevelt,’ he nodded. For some odd reason, it turned out that the origin of the teddy bear was common knowledge in Romania. They just hadn’t seen one before.
The box contained a total of fifteen teddy bears, two boxes of chocolates, and an oversized Tommy Hilfiger beach towel decorated as a giant American flag.
“Aha!” I cried. “This is where you got the big-ass American flag papuci.”
“Guilty,” Bianca agreed. “This contract, an older man—a guest—fell in love with me, but madly. He promised me the moon and the sun and told me that he will wait for me until the end of time, if I would accept to be his wife. He offered to buy for me any house I want, anywhere in States, and he treated me like a princess. I believe him because I spent some time in his company. He is so respectful and kind, and he didn't touch me anyhow because I had a reserved attitude, and was honest with him. I can't feel for him the way he feels for me.”
“That must have been one hell of a cruise!”
“Well,” she admitted sheepishly. “After we met, he stayed on for two more weeks. He is very persistent.”
She stumbled to add quickly, “So you see, I do in life what my mind and heart desires, and won’t do any compromise—even for money or a Green Card.”
“Or two dozen teddy bears,” I added wryly.
“Oh, no,” she corrected. “These are from Tommy. I’m talking about another one. If Tommy knew he had competition, he would offer me the planets!”
I raised an eyebrow and looked to Piti, who had been staring silently at the pile of stuffed animals. After a quiet moment of musing, he finally shrugged and said, “Jesus Gras.”
2
In the afternoon I joined the Pops in dressing for a wedding. Bianca had warned me in advance, so I brought a good suit for the occasion. I shuffled into the kitchen wearing a dark double-breasted suit over a white shirt with a sharp collar, a pale silk tie, and garish American flag slippers. Lucky gave me a huge smile and clapped her hands to her chest. She was wearing a frilly, multi-colored dress with long skirts.
Bianca, in a body-hugging, vivid purple dress with an open back and even longer skirts, loosed a surprised squeak.
“Oui!” she said, stepping up and sliding an appreciative hand down my tie. “You clean up good. In Romanian we say ‘foarte frumos.’”
“Foarte frumos,” I repeated. “That’s an easy one: rolls off your tongue. Anyway, thank you. I want to make an impression.”
“Oh, you will,” she teased. “As the only one not talking to anybody. You nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“At your first Romanian wedding?” she said cryptically. “I would be. Love is in the air, papa. Check you don’t get caught in some black widow web.”
Piti joined us presently, wearing an old fabric suit of olive green. It was freshly brushed, and the way he presented himself for inspection was decidedly military. Lucky clapped her hands enthusiastically, then immediately rushed up to comb his hair again. He spluttered under her ministrations for a moment, then wisely acquiesced.
As I was tying the laces on my dress shoes, I suddenly broke a lace.
“Damn it!” I snapped.
“Jesus Gras!” Piti added happily.
“Why you Americans so violent?” Bianca asked, half-teasing, half-serious as she slid into purple high heels. “Not everything is a terrorist!”
“Oh, like women don’t have their own cobbling issues?” I mocked.
We were all ready, but Lucky felt the need to comb Piti’s hair one more time, murmuring to him as she would a pet, “Foarte frumos—similar Bree-ahn.”
Piti glanced up at me, in my crisp new suit and a full foot taller, then began flapping his hands to stop Lucky’s pampering. Exasperatedly he cried, “Jesus Gras, femeia!”
Bianca’s perky lips formed her trademark smirk. “He’s found a favorite phrase, I think.”
3
Stalwart Albișoara took us to the cathedral, but not before Piti lovingly washed and squeegeed her windows—despite the spotty rain. We pulled up to a cathedral, ancient, towering, and almost leaning over the curb. The front area was lined with neat rows of plants and wet walkways holding pools of rainwater. Trampling through these puddles were the delicately-clad feet of dozens upon dozens of men and women, all pushing and fighting their way up to the steps of the cathedral. Only upon exiting the car did it strike me that I was about to be overwhelmed.
Bianca dove headfirst into the waves of humanity, dragging me along by the hand. It took everything I had to maintain that grip in the ebb and flow of the crowd. The bodies pressing against me were uniformly well-dressed in their wedding best, varying in age from ten to ninety. A great many surprised and pleased greetings were thrown Bianca’s way. It became immediately apparent that she was something of a celebrity. She was a sort of ex-patriot now, after all. The Pops were universally loved for their charisma, and Bianca was no exception. Deeper we dove.
Words were flung at me, but it was easy to drown them out because I understood nothing. So I smiled a lot, which came naturally enough. Everyone could tell at a glance that I was not Romanian—brown hair aside—and all understood. Bianca took care to introduce me to a number of people upon the steps of the cathedral, apparently her peers. A few greeted me in halting English, but easily a dozen names passed through me without really being caught in my memory’s hole-filled net.
From behind a pillar came two little girls in brightly colored dresses, aged ten or so, arms locked together. They attacked Bianca with enthusiasm, gazing up at her with big, adoring eyes. One was a rare blonde in a white dress, the other a brunette pretty in pink. Bianca gave the brunette a hug, then happily introduced her as Corina, the daughter of Sorin the Mustard King. I thought she was a very pretty girl, though she had yet to grow into her prominent nose and big teeth. The blonde was a friend of hers.
“Corina is learning English,” Bianca boasted. Corina blushed.
“Oh?” I said, giving the girl a grin. “How do you say ‘Mustard Princess’?”
“Prințesa Muștar,” she answered with a giggle. Corina blushed even deeper when she met Bianca’s smiling gaze. To her friend, however, she gave a look of great satisfaction. The blonde responded by sticking her tongue out at her.
We moved off into the crowd, and I shouted questions to Bianca.
“Who is getting married, again?”
“Flaviu Miere,” she shouted back. “He’s the older brother of Sorin the Mustard King. Their father is my Godfather. You’ll meet Sorin inside, but I don’t expect you’ll talk much to Flaviu. Not because he’s getting married, but because he’s cold with everyone, including his family. As a lawyer, this works well for him. The bride Oana is a judge, and the coldest witch ever. They were made for each other.”
Finally we made it into the cathedral. I gazed about in awe at the design, which was very different than anything I had visited before. I was raised Roman Catholic, which placed a premium on expensive decor, but what this lacked in gold it countered with art. Every square inch of wall was lavishly covered by the strokes of reverent artists, from marble floor to gilded ceiling so very, very high up. Smoke from numerous braziers lazily wafted upwards, content to take its time on the long journey to the top. For the most part, only candles lit the huge chamber, such that all was primarily dark.
“Since you don’t know Romanian Orthodox,” Bianca commented, “I will explain things for you. If it helps, think of it as Greek Orthodox, our brother.”
“Not Russian?”
“We have Roman roots, babaloo, not Russian. The country is Roman-ia, not Russian-ia.”
Though tall, the cathedral was not very long. Every available spot was filled with a body, and we struggled into a place a bit to the right of the entr
yway. The front section was corded off, and a ceremony involving four people and one priest was already occurring. While Bianca made conversation with various people, I spied Corina and her friend peeking at me from behind a pillar. Once observed, they threw a shy smile my way before vanishing. They were adorable.
Suddenly a large chunk of people began leaving. We pushed our way closer to the front via the right flank. Those that were here before were not part of our party at all, and the entire pool of humanity rotated in a counter-clockwise manner so our party could make its way to the front.
“Roteste!” I cried as we finally wound our way to the stand directly behind the cordoned front. Already a third group was pushing at our rear.
The bride and groom stood front and center, flanked by another young couple.
“The other couple are the Godparents,” Bianca explained. “When we were growing up, Sorin used to comment that I would be Godparent at his wedding, but it couldn’t happen.”
“Why not? Were you at sea?”
“No, bambo, because I’m not married! Godparents have to be married. Duh.”
“So you don’t individually choose loved ones for however many bridesmaids and groomsmen you want, but have to agree on one married couple to become the Godparents?”
“Of course,” she replied. “What do you mean, however many you want? How many Godparents you need?”
The ceremony progressed with the usual speaking and responding of vows. I heard additional responses to the priest from a chorus, but never saw where it was stationed. And then we were rotating out. Before I knew it, we were outside and yet another group was clambering to get in. Rotate!
“That ceremony was even faster than my drive-thru wedding in Reno,” I marveled. “A short few minutes and ‘move along, folks, nothing to see here,’ even as dozens of others mill around, waiting for you to finish. Roman Catholic weddings can be tortuous, lasting hours.”
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 6