“Hours?” Bianca repeated, shocked. “What you do for hours?”
“Wait for death,” I replied with a grimace. “It’s all rise, kneel, rise, kneel, toe the line, at attention!”
“No thank you,” she said. “Who cares about the ceremony? It’s the party that matters!”
“And that’s why I love you,” I replied cheekily. She paused a moment, then led me outside.
We crossed the street and spread out in a wide, grassy park. The dark clouds above were beginning to spit rain as the requisite group photos were taken. Though there was much joy in the air, I noticed that almost nobody smiled. What was it about Europeans that they thought bland stoicism was the only dignified way to celebrate momentous occasions? The bride Oana, in particular, was indeed the ice queen Bianca indicated. She was exquisitely beautiful, with porcelain features, flowing black hair, and a divinely trim figure. Her sculpted lips never once wiggled into a smile, though her finely-penciled eyebrow perversely shot up plenty. The photo shoot came to an end when Corina and her friend both stormed off in a huff, bored and tired of posing. Some things are universal!
It began to rain, so all commenced across the street to the dinner hall. I was informed that this was the nicest place in town for such gatherings. After all, Oana was tough enough to be a female judge in a heavily misogynist society, and subsequently highly prized. Beauty or no, she was the last judge I would ever want presiding over me.
The hall’s entryway immediately surprised me with shallow, wide steps. Such steps were rare in America, where accessibility takes precedence over design, and—even more taboo—a candle burned on every step. It was a very simple, classy presentation, but one begging for a lawsuit in America, whether family or friend or not!
The hall was divided into two sections: a series of terraced tables filled the dark back, while a single row of six-foot tables hugged the wide dance floor. Piti and Lucky remained in the upper reaches with their good friends, the elder Mieres—surprising since they were the parents of the groom and so far in the back. Bianca also chose seats with Mieres—in this case Sorin and his wife. Horribly, however, they were also right next to the dance floor.
“Ah!” I cried, offering my hand. “The Mustard King himself!”
“Yes,” said the short man in a dark suit and tie, as he shook my hand. “Is pleasure to meet you.”
The Mustard King was in his mid-thirties, balding, somewhat portly and very smiley. I immediately recognized Corina’s prominent nose on him, though he had grown into his, of course. In English, he introduced his wife, Moni, an equally smiley lady with long brown hair.
“I’m glad we can give Bianca a break,” I said to Sorin. “She must be tired of translating.”
“I study English,” he agreed with a charming humility. His voice was very endearing, sounding like he was ready to giggle at any moment. “I do not speak well... but I understand all.”
“So why are you called the Mustard King?”
Sorin laughed heartily at the question, but had to pull Bianca in to translate the answer.
“He has a mustard factory,” Bianca explained. “It’s very successful, supplying mustard to most restaurants in Brașov and selling in stores in half of all Romania. He’s going to college now to learn more about business, which is why he’s learning English. He’s branching off into cola, too.”
“Oh, wow,” I replied, impressed. “Good luck competing with Coca Cola. They seem to have a monopoly here.”
“Correct,” Sorin said. “I want to... offer local product. I hope... to show you my factory.”
Speaking of local produce, țuica was immediately served, as was a Romanian beer called Ursus. Sorin introduced me to Romania’s fine wines, which I discovered were quite good—and not in a ‘Piti’s basement’ manner. The first course of dinner was brought out, a series of smaller items in tapas-style. The assortment was reminiscent of Lucky’s breakfasts, though also included sarmale. Soon afterwards dinner was served, an expensive river fish sautéed in a sweet white wine. Conversations waxed and waned. The very second we were through eating, Bianca was urging us to the dance floor.
“Uh, I think I need to digest this a bit first,” I said.
I hated dancing, but knew that sooner or later I would have to do it. Later sounded preferable. After copious amounts of țuica sounded even more preferable.
“Dancing is how you digest,” Bianca countered.
“But I ate similar pig!” I protested weakly.
“This is only the first course, you know,” Bianca warned. “That’s Romanian-style celebration: food, dance, food, dance, drinks through all.”
Bianca rose and headed out to the dance floor. When she saw I wasn’t following, she barked, “Sorin!”
Sorin gave his wife a painfully insincere look of apology, actually looking more like he was about to giggle, and Moni waved for him to go. He was gone in a blink. They began moving in an apparently Transylvanian version of ballroom dance. Bianca looked radiant in her sleek purple dress, shimmering under the mirror ball, her hair a mess falling over her eyes so that all you saw were round cheeks and perky lips. Sorin looked like a potato in a suit next to her—a very happy potato, to be sure. Moni gave a good-natured grimace and poured me another drink. We toasted each other, then watched our partners slink across the floor.
Alas, after the next round of food was served and devoured, I could hardly stall any longer—or hardly stand any longer, for that matter. Țuica was powerful stuff! So Bianca lured me onto the dance floor when the music changed to a funky 80s pop with non-English vocals. Though I had never heard any of the songs before, I was of course familiar with the disco genre. Classic hits like ABBA’s ‘Dancing Queen’ melded naturally into Romanian and Italian pop.
To my absolute shock, I found dancing with Bianca exhilarating. A part of me had always wanted to dance, for I can feel the rhythm of music flowing through me, but don’t know how to let it free. I knew the adage ‘dance like no one else is in the room,’ but was always too scared to try. Yet I was beginning to realize that, for Bianca, I would try anything.
Courtesy of lots of țuica, vin, and bere, I was ready to go out on a limb. This was fortunate, for the music soon changed to traditional Romanian, bringing the entire crowd down to dance. I didn’t want to be rude, so I felt compelled to try the traditional dances. Transylvanian dances, I was informed, were particularly slow and laid-back. This allowed me to keep up with the simple, almost leisurely moves. But it was not to last, for the bride’s family was from another area of Romania, called Moldova. The Moldavian dances were mind-numbingly fast and immediately caused durere de cap. We fled back to the table, content to down more booze and watch the completely uninhibited Piti and Lucky tear up the dance floor. They moved like they were still teens, as they were when they first fell in love. It was charming.
As Bianca had noted, the night stretched into a long series of food, dance, food, dance, with drinks throughout. During one break, while sitting at the table, Bianca received a delicate tap on her shoulder. We turned and saw little Corina, adorable in her pink dress. With a very shy smile, she asked Bianca something in Romanian.
Bianca replied slowly in English, “Would you like to dance with me?” She repeated it again, while Corina stumbled over the unfamiliar words. The girl then blushed and looked down. Bianca, smiling, encouraged her to try again. A moment later her bravery swelled, and Corina turned to me and asked in broken meter, “Would you like to dance with me?”
“Yes,” I said, and thusly was soon dancing with a young Romanian girl. I, of course, was completely unfit to lead a dance, but being that I towered over her, we just held hands at arm’s length and spun to the music. As we spun, I noticed Lucky dancing nearby, and she gave me a generous grin. The song died, and even as I thanked the girl for the dance, I was bodily snatched up by Lucky for the next one. I was suitably awkward, but she was patient. When through, she gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Then, spontaneously, she stuck a finger
in my dimples, before fleeing as nervously as Corina.
Time passed, as did yet more courses and dances. I was really enjoying myself. At one point Bianca and Lucky left for the restroom, so I took the opportunity to sit next to Piti. We immediately downed shots of țuica and laughed together. Just then a particularly lovely example of Romanian beauty sashayed past, and we both stared like, well, drunk men.
“Frumos,” I commented. He nodded deeply.
“Frumoasa,” he corrected kindly. He pointed at me and said, “Frumos,” then moved his hands into an hourglass shape and said, “Femeie: frumoasa.”
We scanned the crowd and started pointing at various exemplary samples of the female persuasion. There were numerous such, and we identified a dozen in rapid succession. The ladies returned and we quickly dropped to silence.
“What are you doing?” Bianca asked, surprised at catching some talk.
“Oh, your father and I were just having a conversation.”
She laughed. “Oh, really?”
“Yes,” I replied solemnly, demonstrating by pointing to nearby babes. “Frumoasa, frumoasa…”
“Check!” Piti suddenly blurted. He pointed to Oana as she approached, and quickly received a smack atop the head from Lucky. But there was more to Piti’s observation than just the most frumoasa lady in the room.
She was kidnapped before our very eyes.
Oana strode past us, eyes straight ahead and not deigning to glance down at her fawning admirers, when suddenly a group of men rushed her. They snatched her up as she kicked and screamed, then bodily carried her towards the front door. One of the abductors was kicked in the head and tumbled into the door as they passed through en masse.
“What the hell was that?” I blurted, standing up. But the Pops were all laughing and conversing jovially in Romanian.
“Hey, bamboclat woman!” I said to Bianca. “Should I be rushing to her defense, or not? What’s going on?”
“They are stealing the bride,” she answered simply.
“You think?” I replied sarcastically.
“No, no, you don’t understand. It’s a Romanian tradition to steal the bride from the party. Most women look forward to it, but I’m not surprised that Oana would protest. Oui, papa, I would be scared to abduct that one!”
“Where are they taking her?”
“Probably out to the car.”
A cry rose from near the entrance, and soon swept through the entire hall. A spokesman for the abductors, hair still mussed and panting from the resisted arrest, limped in. He held above his head a trophy: one of Oana’s white shoes. Hoots and hollers followed his progress down to the dance floor. The music stopped, and the groom was called up to verify if this was, indeed, proof of life from his missing bride.
“They usually ransom the bride for drinks,” Bianca explained. “But sometimes money. If it happens before midnight, the Godparents have to pay up, but after midnight it’s for the groom. I think they waited this late to get some of Flaviu’s lawyer cash.”
There was a lot of good-natured ribbing that Flaviu was so careless with his new wife. When he finally pulled out his money clip, there were many jeers. The abductor reviewed the dollar amount with skepticism, then held up the shoe to the hall, seeking consensus of whether or not it was enough money to fulfill the ransom. Boos answered. Reluctantly, Flaviu dug deeper into his pockets until he emptied them entirely. The spokesman triumphantly took the money and limped back outside.
“Sometimes they force the groom to do some embarrassing act to prove his love,” Bianca continued. “But Flaviu has no sense of humor and wouldn’t do it. Oh, I wish I could have seen Oana fighting those thieves outside! A fight for the ages, like Achilles and Hector.”
Moments later the bride was ushered in on the shoulders of half a dozen men, none of whom appeared untrammeled, one even bleeding. Oana was returned to Flaviu, and the music flared up for a slow dance to rejoice their reunion.
As the night continued, I found myself slow dancing with Bianca—a lot. I felt very comfortable getting close with her, and though I moved horribly to her lead, we both seemed to fit very well. I hugged her close as we meandered about the dance floor. Song after song was now slow and romantic, and love was indeed in the air. I caught a glimpse of Piti stealing a kiss from Lucky nearby. I leaned forward and told Bianca how much fun I was having, even with the dreaded dancing for the first time in my life. She just laughed and held me close. We spun about, and I found myself whispering into her ear what few Romanian words I had learned already—any excuse to get closer.
“Frumoasa… sarmale… durere de cap…Strada Lucky-yodeladyhoo...”
She closed her eyes and smiled, and before I knew it, we were not lost in the dance, but in each other.
The night finally began to settle down. To my shock, it was already past 3 a.m. Piti and Lucky wanted to leave, but Bianca fought resolutely to remain. Her parents left in Albișoara, leaving Bianca and I to walk home. Bianca disappeared to change into jeans, and I found myself looking for little Corina. There was something I wanted to say to her. I spied her once on an upper balcony, playing with her blonde friend in white, but by the time I got there they had vanished. Bianca returned, and the dancing resumed.
Suddenly I found myself among a small circle of men who were surrounding the bride and a basket on the floor filled with money. Bianca handed me a Romanian bill with a long string of zeroes on it, and informed me that it was a dollar dance.
“That’s one hell of a dollar!” I commented. “But then, Oana is pretty damn hot.”
“30,000 Romanian lei to the US Dollar, remember,” Bianca chided wryly.
I was nervous to dance with the ice queen, but soon found myself doing so. Oana joined me with extreme composure, holding her head high, revealing a flawless, milk-white neck. In faltering Romanian I asked if she spoke English, “Vorbiți Englezește?”
She replied with a flat, “Nu.”
“No problem,” I said, and we danced in silence. Really, who needs words when dancing with such a staggering beauty? I was not bruised by the end of the song, as her abductors were, but I think my hands were frost-bitten.
Unfortunately it was only another half an hour of slow dancing with Bianca before everything came to an end. When we returned to our table, the Mieres were preparing to leave. Little Corina looked very tired. I made my way over to her, dropped low to be at eye level, and whispered in her ear what I had been wanting to say to her. I’m not sure why. I don’t particularly like kids. I guess Oana wasn’t the only cold one. But something about little Corina thawed me a bit.
“Foarte frumoasa,” I said.
She smiled weakly and perked up a bit, but soon Sorin was hefting her up and carrying his sleeping daughter to the exit.
4
Bianca and I both expressed a desire to walk home together, not wanting our closeness to end. Unfortunately it was raining when we left. That may have felt refreshing, had it not been cold enough to clearly see our breath. Thus we opted for a taxi, which was a mistake. After the amazing night of beauty, a nasty Romanian cab killed the vibe. We were so distraught over the filthy vehicle that we asked the driver to drop us off a few blocks before we reached our bloc.
Arm in arm we rushed home, exhilarated to the point of giddiness by fatigue and the cold shower. We settled in the kitchen, Bianca upon a stool beneath the pig-dog mural and I beside her. The quiet of the little chamber thundered in our ears. Though still cold, we shared a cup of cold tea because we were too tired to heat it. She appeared pleasantly tired, but was far too excited to sleep. I felt the same. We conversed about the night, our words luring us into a heady, relaxed state. She leaned a bit forward and was narrating something. I, too, leaned forward, but wasn’t listening at all.
As she spoke, I moved in closer and kissed her lightly on a rosy cheek. It was still cold. She paused in her speech. I stayed close, and teased her cheek with another few delicate kisses. Then I leaned even closer and kissed by her ear, our ch
eeks pressing together, finally warming.
Now she was completely silent, and I nudged her chin up so I could gently kiss her neck. My lips slid down slowly, exploring for a few more desirable spots to taste. I held the last, light kiss upon her delicate throat for a long moment, eyes closed and face pressed into the sheltering curve of her chin. Satisfied, I finally leaned back.
We locked eyes for a very, very rewarding moment.
“W-why you do that?” she asked brokenly. Her voice was quiet but playful.
“Do what?” I asked, returning close but pausing an inch away from her mouth. I cocked my head to the side and stared at those ruby lips.
“Make me forget my words…” she replied. I cut her off with a kiss, a real kiss, our first. It was light, soft, and very warm… and it lasted.
When I eventually pulled back, I asked her innocently, “What were you saying?”
She gave me a playful frown, but her smirk was wriggling into place.
“You always make me lose my thoughts!” she accused, her Romanian accent husky and thick.
“Oh,” I said, giving her a smile. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” she whispered back.
We enjoyed another few warm and gentle kisses, then acknowledged that we needed to go to bed. Alas, we both knew that we couldn’t continue with what we wanted to, not with her parents nary five feet away. That, unfortunately, meant I would sleep alone and she would be with her parents. But when I drifted into dreams, I was far from unhappy.
Chapter 5. The Worst Birthday Ever
1
Aaah... Sighișoara. The Old World hamlet will always be a special place for Bianca and I; a place resonating with a deep sense of peace and belonging; where we fell hopelessly in love; where we loosed unbridled passion with a ferocity most can scarcely conceive; where we beat our first Gypsy girl.
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 7