Not necessarily in that order.
Though geographically not too distant, getting from Brașov to Sighișoara required some time because the highway twisted through the rugged Carpathians. These mountains stayed the Romans for centuries, forced the Mongols elsewhere, and even kept the Turks at bay—but none of them had stalwart Albișoara. As always, Piti first had to shoo away the children laughing at his doting on the car with a thirty-point inspection. I tried, but concluded there was no chance to secretly ditch the Rambo knife from the glove compartment. It still made me nervous.
Far more unnerving was when Piti signaled that I was to remove my seatbelt. I kept it on, of course, but he actually reached over and unbuckled it! He answered my shocked look by indicating I just need it in my lap to placate passing police, no more. It was unmanly to have it secured, Bianca added helpfully.
The drive was pleasant, past robust forests, tumbling streams and menacing ridges. We passed occasional clusters of farmhouses on steep hillsides with old tiled roofs. I loved them, but Bianca hated them. To me they screamed Europe and romance, but to Bianca they were merely broken down remnants from another era. As we neared Sighișoara, Lucky reached forward and began quietly patting my shoulders. For nearly fifteen minutes she affectionately caressed them, very tender and very sweet. I couldn’t help but smile, and wondered what Bianca had told her that morning while Piti and I were busy downing țuica. Actually, Piti dutifully abstained because he was driving, but I had an appetite to stimulate.
Similar to our entry into Brașov, we first drove through the newer, ugly section of town. We crossed a wide, low river called Târnava Mare, upon whose bank rose a fantastic Byzantine cathedral. A few turns later, past the old stone Orthodox Church of Cornești and up a hill, we finally rumbled along the cobblestone Strada Crișan, which held Bianca’s house. Hers was at the end of the street, beyond which rose a tall, rounded hill loaded with massive oaks old as the city itself.
We idled Albișoara outside a metal wall that blocked our view of her house. Indeed, all of the neighbors had walls and gated yards. While this made the street itself less visually appealing, each home did enjoy a sense of privacy. Bianca pointed to the hill and the thick forest, explaining, “Carpathian bears live there and wander the streets at night. Check those oaks: they are favorite of Prince Charles. When he visited, he begged the people not to kill them. See? We can be civilized sometimes. No city sprawl here, papa!”
Piti became impatient and ordered Bianca to get out and unlock the gates with an exasperated, “Jesus Gras!”
“Câine rau?” I asked, pointing to the mildly weathered sign bolted to the extremely weathered metal wall.
Bianca smiled as she opened access for Albișoara. “Ask Piti.”
The house was absolutely charming. It had lush gardens, courtesy of Lucky’s green thumb, and a great view. I stared over an old brick wall across the top of the forest that snuggled the old town, canopy punctured by numerous spires from cathedrals and citadels. I could easily imagine a morning coffee watching the sun rise over all that awesomeness. The house was a freshly painted, comfortable, single story dwelling that included a three-season porch. Piti followed the two stone tracks set in the grass that led to a shiny new garage. When he came out, I asked him about the ‘bad dog’ sign out front.
“Check,” he said, pointing to the steps leading up to the front door. Wet and bedraggled from remaining outside to stand guard, was a small toy chihuahua. “Ham ham!”
More than just building a garage and refurbishing the exterior, Bianca was also in the process of revamping the interior to modern standards. The floors were all torn up, so the tour was a short one. A small bedroom attached to the kitchen was for her parents, then a short hall led to the living room, a modern bathroom, and a sizable, sunny bedroom for Bianca. When complete, it would be a wonderful place that would allow the family both togetherness and privacy, as needed.
“I feel sorry for the workers,” Bianca commented. “Piti orders them like they are his soldiers. The best part, though, is the cellar. Is huge, and Piti can make mucho more wine.”
Simply put, I would have lived there in a heartbeat. Her parents were so excited it was palpable. The amount of satisfaction Bianca must have felt for being able to provide this for them—after a lifetime in a communist hell-bloc—was unimaginable. She was truly a classy woman.
Piti and Lucky eventually took the car to visit family in the new part of town. Bianca grabbed my arm and said, “Sighișoara is one of the best preserved medieval towns in all of Europe. Is UNESCO World Heritage site, with all its 16th century buildings still living. They say it equals even Prague and Vienna. Shall we wander?”
And wander we did. It was wonderful. All the streets of old Sighișoara were cobbled, the buildings classic, and the vibe one of contentment with the countless centuries. The citadel and subsequent town, which they called Schassburg, were founded by Romanian Saxons in the 1100s. Most of the structures clustering around the citadel were expanded in the 1400s. Striding up to it was a steep ramp, one side dropping into a thicket of ancient oaks, and the other a massive defensive wall of hand-hewn stone, dozens of feet high. Under the dappled sunlight, just before the curve that led to the citadel, I felt overwhelmed by the romance of it all. There, in the middle of the road, I stopped Bianca and kissed her.
“I like this spot!” I said.
“I do now,” Bianca agreed with a chuckle.
“I declare that this spot shall forevermore be designated for mandatory kissing.” It was painfully unmanly to think such thoughts, let alone speak them, but I was overcome by the romance of the place.
We strolled beneath an extremely impressive tower, rebuilt after an explosion of the gunpowder stores in the 17th century and later outfitted with a fantastic clock, complete with wooden figurines that changed in tandem with the clockworks. Nearby the tower was an old, three-story house painted ochre. Above the door was a wrought-iron dragon.
“You will like this one,” Bianca observed. “This is Vlad Dracul’s house. His son Dracula was born here in 1431.”
“Dracul,” I repeated in awe. “That means ‘the dragon,’ does it not?”
“It can,” Bianca agreed. “It also means ‘the devil.’ So Dracula actually means ‘son of the devil.’ All you death-loving creeps forget the real Dracula is a hero to my people. He was a sick puppy, da, but we love him because he tried to kill all the Gypsies.”
I opted out of responding to the strange statement.
“Anyway, the top is Museum of Weapons. The ground floor is restaurant.”
My gaping earned a smirk. I desperately wanted to get a photo of the utter sweetness I was beholding, but the scene was ruined by a piece-of-crap Volkswagen Beetle parked in the way.
We searched for a café, choosing from among numerous scattered balconies and patios with tables and chairs tucked under canopies or perched atop roofs. Every direction and all descended with steep cobblestone streets, or steeper custom steps—all layered and folded atop centuries of additions. We opted for a narrow balcony, only three tables long, clinging to the stonework of an old tower. Here we could watch the streets spill into the valley below. It was no more beautiful than any of the others: they were all lovely.
A slim, middle-aged waitress with rollicking black hair but tired eyes took our order. We each ordered a Romanian coffee—in reality a Turkish coffee, though they refused to admit it—and a local cognac from Jidvei. Bianca lit a cigarette. I lit a cigar. We both gazed about and filled the sunshade with smoke.
The afternoon stretched out, and we wallowed in the peace. That is, until we were approached by a smelly girl of about Corina’s age. She shuffled right up to us, eyes drooping and posture broken. She began to mumble in a most pitiful manner.
Bianca growled some menacing words at the girl. All sense of peace gone, what sat beside me was nothing less than the bitch on the mountaintop protecting her pups. Amazingly, the girl gave no reaction. She just continued her pathetic muttering at the
ground.
“It’s just a homeless girl,” I said. “Should I give her something to make her go away?”
“You will not!” Bianca snapped. “She no homeless.”
Bianca raised her arm as if to strike, and barked threateningly. Yet the girl remained, unintelligible words dribbling from her dirty mouth like sewage fouling a river. Time ticked by awkwardly, our pleasant vibe long since destroyed. I cannot truly convey how wretched this creature was, nor how provokingly annoying. Equally perplexing was how Bianca could claim the girl was not homeless. I had seen destitution before, and it looked a lot like this—though not even a fraction this bad. This seemed almost... intentional.
Tired of waiting, Bianca finally reared her arm back and—with great emphasis—walloped the girl right upside the head.
“Jesus Gras!” I cried in shock, rising halfway from my chair.
The girl did not react to the blow, other than to slowly turn about and wander off.
Bianca leaned back casually, brought her coffee to her lips, closed her eyes, and enjoyed a sip. She could not see my utter horror, so I made damn sure she heard it.
“What the hell was that?”
“That,” Bianca answered, clinking cup on saucer, “was a Gypsy.”
“Why did you hit her? She would have left if you just ignored her.”
“I do her favor,” Bianca explained. She frowned a moment, then understanding lit her face. “You thought she was a homeless person, and in the States homeless people are polite. You a long way from home, Brian.”
She leaned forward and pointed across the distance to the street.
“Check him,” she said, indicating a man standing in the afternoon shadows. He was dressed in ragged clothing, lounging against a wall with arms folded across his chest. He had the darkest skin I had yet seen in Romania, like a dark tan from being in the sun all day.
“Keep your eyes open, amigo. He targeted us—probably heard our English—and sent her in. If she went back without money, believe me, he would beat her half to death. No hospital, no treatment, just bruises and flies until she heals on her own. They are disgusting creatures, and this is business to them.”
“How can beating your own child be business?”
“These are not a misunderstood minority,” Bianca warned. “Waiting for the majority to embrace them and their different ways. They choose to live outside of cities, of civilization, to feed off the scraps. They speak only their own language and recognize only their own culture. They teach children to steal. They sell little girls into marriage. They refuse to civilize, to change, to evolve.”
“Surely not all—”
“This not Hollywood,” Bianca interrupted. “This is no—how you say?—stereotype. They are not exciting outcast dancers or any such things. This no American happy ending. I know you and your American sensibilities. You are idealists, but this is no ideal world. Gypsies have had centuries to go straight: they don’t want to. They are dangerous.”
I was silent, taken aback by her vehemence. Bianca’s earlier comment about Vlad Dracula being a local hero now made more sense. I was, indeed, a long way from home.
2
Ironically, the most unique and fateful night of my entire life began with Bianca abandoning me. For nearly two weeks I had been pushing Bianca to give herself a break from the constant, tiring translations. The good thing was that she finally listened and left me. The bad thing was where she left me.
Fending for myself at her aunt and uncle’s place may not sound so bad. They are family, after all. Because Lucky and he were spending the night there, Piti began drinking early. By the time Bianca disappeared into the bedroom, Piti and Uncle Loți had already plowed through all the wine and were arguing over politics—in Hungarian, no less. Apparently this was standard operating procedure with these two, though why they were speaking in Magyar was anybody’s guess. Piti may have only been about 130 pounds, but watching him scream about elections would intimidate Mike Tyson.
I retreated to the kitchen and watched Lucky and Aunt Stefania prepare the night’s meal. I enjoyed learning how to say the foods in Romanian, taking special care to remember Bianca’s favorite thing: apples. Those were mere. My favorites were usturoi și ceapa; that is, garlic and onions. Eventually the men stumbled in, drunk as mere. They managed to communicate their surprise that I would deign to such womanly activities. I managed to communicate that I prefer Romanian food over Romanian politics.
When Bianca finally bounced into the kitchen, dressed for the evening’s activities, I knew I was in for a long night.
“How do I look?” she asked, whirling about. Lucky and Aunt Stefania clapped their hands enthusiastically. Bianca wore a fluttery silken top patterned after some sort of savannah, with tall grasses tickling the curves of her body. I found myself jealous of a shirt! Lucky adored the accompanying green scarf, whereas I preferred the tight leather pants. She looked fantastic. I had a flash of foresight that Bianca would be one of those women who, at age forty, would dress like she’s twenty. Suited me fine.
It was a short walk in a chill evening to our destination.
“I have two cousins,” Bianca explained as she clung to my arm. “Cristina and Laura. They always lived in Sighișoara, and I would stay with them during the summers. Cristina married Adi, and Laura married Radu. Those two bamboclat husbands have a rivalry going over everything, papa. Big drama choosing which apartment to have the party. Cristina and Adi won that one, because their daughters are easier to handle than Laura and Radu’s baby. And, of course, is Cristina’s birthday tomorrow.”
“You’re dressing awfully sexy for a dinner party with children,” I teased.
“Oh, I have reputation to uphold,” she answered. “And a job. I make life easier on my cousins. Adi and Radu both love to dance, but the girls are too tired. So I give them a break, taking care of their husbands for a night.”
“How noble,” I said drily. “You swoop in, get their husbands all hot and bothered, then leave the country.”
“Hey, bambo,” Bianca challenged. “What you think you gonna do to my cousins?”
When we arrived, both cousins smothered Bianca in hugs, leaving me for long minutes in the hallway holding the bags. Over their heads I met the gaze of a tall and ugly man, who rolled his eyes. Soon enough I was being shown off to the sisters, who spun me around, looked me up and down, and even rapped a knuckle on my chest like I was a melon at the market.
“My cousins,” Bianca introduced. Both sisters shared nearly identical features, with dark eyes and narrow noses, like a soft hawk’s beak. Strong laugh lines couched sumptuous lips, painted in the deep shades preferred by Romanian women. Only then did I realize how rare Bianca’s usual bright red lipstick was. Cristina looked precisely like a middle-aged woman with two children: dressed for comfort in jeans, with curly hair left to fend for itself. Laura was a bit younger, still ‘bothering’ to apply makeup and dress with extra care.
“Be careful,” Bianca warned me. “Laura knows some English. She doesn’t speak it, but watch your tongue because we girls always find stuff out.”
Laura smiled to reveal a charming little gap between her front teeth, blushed, and shook her head in denial. This, of course, only proved that she did understand.
“Are you two Bianca’s only cousins, then?” I asked Laura.
Laura shot an unsure look at Cristina, and both overtly avoided Bianca’s gaze. A long pause lengthened awkwardly, until Radu answered curtly in English.
“There is one other, in Timișoara. Forget about it, because Bianca hates Timișoara.”
The moment was weird, and the discomfort obvious, even if the reason was not. I didn’t press it. Immediately thereafter I was apprehended by Radu. Though six feet tall, he was not a big man. Rather, he reminded me of someone of average build accidentally run up to an awkward height. Without any meat on his bones, pale skin and deep-set, dark eyes, Radu’s smile looked like a skull with a missing canine. He grabbed my arm and rather f
orcefully pulled me away from the women.
We sat at the kitchen table and he poured me a tall glass of red wine and Coca Cola. Yes: equal parts red wine and Coke. It looked as gross as it sounded, but a quick glance at Radu’s posture made it clear that bravado was in order. I downed the whole thing as fast as he did—and the second—and by the third it was starting to taste pretty good. It was tough enough to choke down without Radu blasting through half a pack of smokes in mere minutes. When lighting up his dozenth or so cigarette, Radu suddenly spoke to me in my language.
“Romania is awful place,” he said. “But it’s home.”
“You learned English in school?” I asked. Strange how we had been drinking for half an hour already and not communicating at all—not that Radu could have said much between those aggressive puffs.
“Yes,” he replied. “I work winters in Germany. Germans, of course, speak English like civilized people. There I work to bring back huge money, earned with my own hands.”
He held up his hands dramatically, splaying long, bony fingers.
“I was rusty, so didn’t talk,” he admitted. “But after drinking, everyone speaks all languages!”
Melodrama aside, Radu was right. After two weeks in Romania, I was already learning that what keeps most of us from using a second language is lack of courage to just say something. When in a foreign land, no one cares about syntax when you are obviously trying and actually communicating.
Radu proved to be every bit the Romanian man: arrogant, bigoted, and proudly assuming that being a good provider was enough to compensate for all of it. Who was I to argue? Then again, I need not when Bianca was around.
“Woman!” Radu suddenly bellowed. “Come feed me!”
Bianca entered the kitchen, bringing an even wider grin than usual to Radu’s skeletal face. He looked her up and down a bit wolfishly, then asked, “Where is Laura?”
“You yelled in English,” Bianca chided. “Who you think would answer?”
“Come to papa!” he cried gleefully, holding out his skinny arms.
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 8