by Bel Mooney
She looked down, as if the reminder of their unexpected encounter discomforted her. But then, unable to help herself, she looked up again with a brilliant smile. ‘Oh no, Ion had such a happy time. It was very good for him.’
‘Look, I’ve got something to cheer him up.’ Michael put a hand in his pocket, and placed two large slabs of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk chocolate in front of her.
Ana hesitated for a fraction of a second, her mouth open foolishly. Then she swept the bars of chocolate into her drawer, her eyes darting to the open door to see if anyone had observed. ‘I have no words … to say,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Michael, conscious that his voice sounded abnormally hearty. ‘And look, here’s a present for you too.’ His hand went to the other pocket and put three packs of Kent cigarettes on her typewriter.
Just at that moment he heard footsteps, walking slowly. His back was to the door, but he instinctively rose from his perching position, and bent over the papers. Ana stared at the door like a stricken creature, grabbed the cigarettes, and thrust them on to her knee.
‘It’s all right,’ said Michael, ‘please don’t worry so much.’
‘It is … very difficult for us. But you are very kind,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t mention it,’ he said, ‘it’s a pleasure.’ He hesitated, then blurted, ‘Sometimes I don’t quite know what … It’s ironic, really …’
‘I’m sorry?’ Her voice was polite.
‘Nothing. Good God, it’s eleven-thirty already. I’d better get to my meeting.’
Ana stared at the door for a long time after he had closed it behind him. Then she added the chocolate and cigarettes to the booty in her bag, and sat for a while with it open on her knee, gazing inside.
I can’t let you have it, Ionica. And if you don’t know you won’t miss it … Anyway, how can you understand what I have to do? It’s for us, you see, Ion, because one day soon I’m sure we’ll be able to … to go. Something will happen, you wait and see.
Ana’s son was, at that moment, singing an anthem seven verses long, with the rest of his classmates. They stood at their desks, backs straight, hands by their sides. When they had finished they sat down, and the teacher stood before the map of Romania which hung on the wall.
‘All of us live in flats, and you must think of the flats as the cells in a hive. All the cells make up the whole hive, all working towards one end. So all the flats together make one big house, which is our city. And all the cities add up to an even bigger house, which is our country, our fatherland. And everybody, in every flat, is working towards the same end, just like the bees. What do we work for … Daniel?’
‘Our country.’
‘Good.’ She pointed to Bucharest, Cluj, Arad, Iaşi, Suceava, Bacău, and Tulcea in swift succession, the cane’s tip making little tapping noises at each city. ‘Now, children, you know that each flat or house has a mother and a father. Well, our fatherland has parents too, doesn’t it? Just as the father of the house we live in is our own father, so we have a father of our country. And what is his name?’
A forest of hands shot in the air. Some children half-rose from their seats. The teacher pointed at a girl at the back.
‘Comrade Nicolae Ceauşescu,’ she said.
‘Good. And who is the mother of our country?’
Ion put up his hand, stretching it high, wanting to be chosen. She pointed to him. ‘Comrade Elena Ceauşescu,’ he said.
‘Good. So Comrade Nicolae Ceauşescu is the father of all of the children, and Comrade Elena Ceauşescu is the mother of all the children, and so all the children love them because they are their parents. Now children, I want you to say that all together. Ready?’
Ion opened his mouth and joined in, his voice rising and falling in the sing-song repetition: ‘Com-rade Nic-ol-lae Ceauşes-cu is the fath-er of all the child-ren, and Com-rade El-en-a Ceauşes-cu is the moth-er of all the child-ren, so all the chil-dren love them, because they are their par-ents.’
At lunch-time Ana took her shopping bag and strode quickly southwards. She glanced up at the ugly, winged shape of the Intercontinental Hotel as she passed, wondering what it was like inside. She crossed University Square, heading right. There was a vibration beneath her feet, as if the earth was disturbed from its core; then the hum of traffic was all but drowned by a deep grumbling sound, followed by a crash. Slowly, rolling into the air like smoke, a cloud of dust rose behind the bulbous domes of the Russian church.
Ana stopped, blinded for a second by anger. She had no special love for Bucharest. The only place she cared for was Suceava, despite the sprawl of its factories, simply because she was born there; nothing could taint the memory of those outings, the painted monasteries, the walks in the hills of the Bucovina. As for Timişoara – there was pain in the thought of Timiş, even though it was Ion’s birthplace. But Bucharest was somewhere she could be lost; when she decided that Doina could take no more of their presence in the old, draughty apartment (Ion crying with cold, Radu trying to paint, the four of them sharing potato soup, Doina weeping when Ana accused her of stealing Ion’s egg …) then she knew what she must choose: absolute isolation. Radu had given her some money and Doina’s old friend, Christian Luca, had fixed it; you could not move where you wanted without a pile – literally a ‘file’, someone who could smooth the edges of the system.
And in the sprawl of the capital she found it: the satisfaction of knowing she would meet no one she knew on the streets.
Yet there had been a charm in some of those roads, leafy and quiet, with low, ornate houses behind wrought-iron gates, three-storey thirties apartments with curving balconies, and church after church, all carved and tiled, or twinkling with mosaic. Not now. For five years the city had trembled under an attack as destructive as any war. Whole streets disappeared; a monastery, shifted three hundred metres on rails because She disapproved of its situation, crumbled with the stress of the move, its medieval cloisters reduced to a heap of broken columns. The old city maps were irrelevant now. And all around the new Civic Centre – vast presidential palace, avenues of luxury flats, ornate fountains waiting for sufficient water pressure – was a skyline of cranes: skeletal monsters threatening the city beneath. And who could stop it? Rumour said a prominent architect who complained had disappeared in the night; small wonder that colleagues meekly carried out His instructions, redrawing plans daily to satisfy the slightest whim of the Conducator.
And there was a joke – there were always jokes. This one was harmless; the woman in the Visa Section had told her. ‘Have you heard they’re putting up a new road sign? It says: Church Crossing.’
Ana made her way through narrow side streets, cutting through alleyways, picking her way through rubble. At last she found the place, and knocked on the door.
She had been there before, knew the smell of beer and whisky on the breath of the man who opened the door. Loud pop music, sung in Romanian, almost deafened her as her escort pushed open the door at the top of the stairs.
A bottle of Johnny Walker stood on the table, with a clutter of dirty glasses, cups, and half-eaten cakes. A jar lid overflowed with cigarettes stubs, and there were more on the floor beneath the table. Clearly, she had interrupted a game of cards. Both men looked at her impatiently.
‘Come on, then, let’s see what you got,’ said the man at the table, who wore a dirty kerchief round his neck, and a leather trilby, despite the warmth of the room. He scratched his belly between the buttons of his shirt. The other man, a wizened creature with pock-marked nut-brown skin, turned down the volume of the radio. ‘This one’ll never show us what she’s got,’ he leered, ‘she keeps her legs tight together, this one!’
Ana ignored him. Eyes lowered, face impassive, she opened her shopping bag and took out the provisions, one by one. The man at the table picked them up, grunting with approval at the English labels. Then she added the three packs of cigarettes, and the other man sneered, ‘That’s more like it!’
Her fingers closed around the two bars of chocolate, and she took a deep breath. ‘Well, what else?’ growled the man at the table.
‘Some chocolate?’ she said, in a small voice.
‘Good. Let’s see …’
Her hand drew out both bars, then quickly dropped one back into the bag. She placed the single bar on the table, staring at it as it lay there. The smoke from the man’s cigarette stung her eyes. A woman’s voice whined quietly of love from the massive Bakelite radio set. Ana looked at Ion’s chocolate, lying by the greasy cards, unsure still whether to sell the second bar, as she knew she should.
‘That all?’
She nodded, and watched intently as the man took a roll of banknotes from the drawer in the table. He peeled off a few single dollar bills, counting as he went. Then she grabbed the money, and dashed from the room, hearing them laugh together as she closed the door behind her.
Six
Ion walked home from school with other boys who lived in the blocks. They usually ran and pushed and scuffled and kicked stones, and tonight was no exception. But not Ion. He walked quietly, lagging behind.
Daniel Corianu turned, noticed Ion’s pace, and dropped back to walk beside him. Ion felt pleased, as always, by Dan’s attention. He was the biggest and strongest boy in the class, good at football, a fast runner, and clever too. When he had started to be friendly, a month or two earlier, Ion could hardly believe it. He, the small one, the one they used to tease, calling him, ‘Mother’s little lamb’ – now the best friend of the most popular boy in the class.
Ion used to wonder exactly why Daniel was so popular, guessing that it had something to do with the fact that he seemed better off than the other boys. Sometimes he had chewing gum to give away, and the boys crowded round. But now Ion felt ashamed of such cynical thoughts. Dan was popular because he was better than everyone else, that’s all. And each day now he shared his sandwiches with Ion, slices of good bread with meat between them. It no longer mattered that Mama gave him scraps. But he was still ashamed of them.
Once Maryon whispered to Ion that Daniel’s father was a butcher, and none of the teachers dared tell him off because they all wanted first choice of whatever meat there was. Ion dismissed the suggestion, knowing Maryon was jealous. The other boy had shrugged, whispering, ‘And that’s not all, Ion. Daniel Corianu’s father is more than a butcher … Just believe me, I know about these things.’
Oh … but Maryon … No, no! That name, drumming in his head, made him hunch his shoulders, as if to ward it off.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Daniel swaggered beside him, kicking a stone.
‘You know.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Maryon?,’ Ion whispered, looking at his friend with huge eyes.
‘Oh, that. Don’t worry about it! Remember what I told you?’ Ion nodded, miserably.
‘Well, just remember it. Stick with me and you’ll be all right. My father says …’
‘But what will happen …?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘How should I know? Hey, look what I’ve got!’ He pulled a pink packet from his pocket and offered it to Ion, who was soon blowing inexpert bubbles. He walked contentedly beside his friend, and did not repeat that nagging name … Maryon … What will happen to Maryon?
‘Now, Ionica, you’ve got to close your eyes. I’ve got a surprise for you.’ Ana’s voice was merry. She put her hands over Ion’s eyes and pushed him, half-stumbling, across the room, halting him in front of the table. ‘There! Now you can look.’
He gazed around, bewildered, and then looked down at the table. Placed on a plate, on an embroidered mat, was the bar of Cadbury’s chocolate. ‘Chocolate! Where did you get it, Mama?’ He reached out a finger and touched the blue paper reverently.
Ana explained, but sensed he was only half-listening. She expected him to rip open the chocolate and eat a piece immediately; instead he stared, then turned to look at her. That face was disquieting. Preoccupied, even sullen, Ion met her eyes, then let his gaze slide away.
‘Is something the matter, Ion?’
He shook his head, then announced he was going to do some school work. Disturbed, Ana went to the kitchen to make mămăligă, expecting him to run in at any moment, offering her a piece of chocolate. But he did not. The flat was silent.
At last she could bear it no longer, and walked silently to the door of Ion’s room. He was kneeling by his bed, absent-mindedly wheeling his motorbike to and fro, his head resting on one arm. He must have sensed her presence for, without looking up, he said, ‘I was made a monitor today.’
‘Ionica! That’s really good news – well done!’ It took one stride for Ana to cross the room, and hug him. She felt him pulling away.
Offended, she stood up. ‘Well, you should be in a good mood tonight. You’ve been made a monitor, which you always wanted, and you’ve got some chocolate. But you’re like a little bear … Whatever’s wrong with you?’
‘Is supper ready?’
‘Yes, it is. If you want some.’
They ate in silence. At last Ion pushed away his plate, with half his serving of corn mush still intact, cold and grey.
‘Ion, why did Mr Bogdan make you a monitor?’
‘He made Daniel one too.’
‘That’s wonderful, dear, but why?’
There was a long pause. Then Ion replied, in a voice which bordered on the defiant, ‘He said we were good pupils.’
‘Did he? Well, I’m sure that’s true. But what did you do that was so very good?’
Ion was turning his fork over and over on his plate. The clinking sound was very loud in the room. There was something wrong with him. Tension pinched her stomach. ‘We … told him something. And he said we were true children of Comrade Ceauşescu, our father.’
‘He is not your father!’ said Ana sharply.
‘Mr Bogdan says …’
‘Never mind what Mr Bogdan says! I want you to tell me what you and Daniel told him.’
Another long pause. The corners of Ion’s mouth twitched. For a second he looked as if he might cry; then he swept back the hair from his eyes with a swift, almost angry movement. ‘It was to do with Maryon … and Daniel’s father,’ he blurted, then dropped his head again, turning the fork over and over.
Exasperated, Ana pulled the plate away from him, stacking it on her own with a crash. ‘Well, Ion? I know you’ve got something to tell me. I’m waiting. What’s Daniel Corianu’s father got to do with your friend Maryon?’
‘He’s not my friend!’
‘Well, he used to be.’
‘That was a long time ago. He’s not my friend now. Daniel says he’s a traitor, and so is his father. They’re parasites, he says …’
‘What in the name of God do you mean, Ion?’
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ he said, sulkily.
It was as if ice was creeping up from her feet to her heart. Ana could only just stop herself from shivering. She reached out and gripped Ion’s forearm tightly, so that he jumped, then raised his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were scared, but then immediately the shutter came down once more. ‘ION! I want you to tell me what happened today. DO YOU HEAR ME, ION?’
Without raising his eyes he began to speak in a sullen monotone. ‘I … I think Maryon wanted to be friends with Daniel again, and so last night he told him some things. And Daniel told me this morning. Maryon told Dan that his father has books in his house, religious books, which he gives to people who come round. They have meetings. Maryon made Dan promise not to tell anyone. But you see, Mr Corianu, he knows about everything, Dan says, and he told Daniel he mustn’t be friends with Maryon, because of his father. Anyway, when Dan told me what Maryon had told him, I told him Maryon had told me bad jokes about Comrade Ceauşescu. And then Daniel said we should tell Mr Bogdan about Maryon and his father. It was his idea, Mama, it wasn’t mine!’
Ana heard her own voice as from a great distance, and wondered how the words could find their way past the knot t
hat was beyond language. ‘And so you told him?’
Ion nodded. He met her eyes for a second, then allowed his head to droop.
‘What happened then?’
‘Mr Bogdan said that me and Daniel were …’
‘Never mind that. You told me that. I mean, what happened to Maryon?’
He looked up sharply, frightened by her tone. ‘After that Mr Bogdan went out for a while, and then a bit later the Principal came in our classroom and called Maryon to come and see him. And … and …’
‘What?’
Ion burst into tears. ‘Maryon didn’t come back. Some other boys said later they saw out of the window – he was driven off in a black car with some men. They said he was crying, Mama!’
The scream within her burst out at last, but Ana stuffed her fist into her mouth, and rocked back and forth, trying to control it. Appalled by the strangled, animal sounds of pain and grief that came from this suddenly demented creature he knew to be his mother, Ion began to sob too.
She took her hand from her mouth. There were raw teeth marks all over it. Still Ana turned her head away from her son, eyes screwed shut, whispering, ‘Oh, Ion, Ion, Ion, what have you done?’
He could barely speak. ‘What … will hap-pen to … Maryon, Mama?’
His question hung in the air as Ana fought for self-control. At last she was able to look at him again, with hard, tearless eyes. You say Maryon was crying when they drove him away. And well might he cry, Ion, as you are crying now. But he was crying with sheer terror, while you are crying for shame. And so you should! Shame, shame, shame … and why should I blame myself – even though you are my son? Was I in your mind when you became an informer, Ion? Was any of my influence with you? No it was not, and that is the final shame for me. For they can even take our children’s souls from us – if we allow them to.
Ana’s tone, when it came, was flat, matter-of-fact. ‘Well, I can’t tell you exactly what will happen. But I can make a guess, Ion. They probably took him home and made him show them where his father keeps those religious books. Does his mother have a job?’