Lost Footsteps

by Bel Mooney

  Doina began to laugh, a deep, throaty sound, as she picked up a slice of salami between finger and thumb and waved it in the air. ‘I tell you what, if the women could only get hold of a whole piece of salami it would do for both needs!’

  ‘Doina – you’re disgusting!’

  ‘I know!’ said Doina, gleefully, her whole body shaking with laughter, as she painted a brown moustache on the drooping, ill-drawn, over-sweet face of Mary, on the card before her.

  ‘Now you’ve spoilt it, idiot!’ said Ana, knowing how important it was for Doina to reach her quota. The pay was so meagre; she had been working late into the night, straining her eyes.

  ‘Who cares? Imagine if Radu could see me now – the new artist in the family.’

  Doina’s laughter stopped as quickly as it had begun; she ripped up the card she had defaced, and threw it to one side, taking another one from the pile. There was silence for a few seconds;

  Radu’s name hung within it. At last Ana spoke. ‘Imagine the queue, Doina!’ she said.

  ‘What queue?’

  ‘For the salami, of course!’

  ‘Too right!’ said Doina, bravely. ‘Listen – there’s an astronaut, Ana, and he goes off to the moon leaving a message for his wife that he’ll be back in two weeks. When he gets back there’s a note from his wife. “Gone shopping,” it says. “Don’t know when I’ll be back.’”

  Sometimes Ana thought their jokes kept them alive, as much as the small meal they now consumed, slowly, making each mouthful last.

  Usually Doina heard them from her old friend Christian Luca. Desperate for work when she moved from Timişoara – ‘After what we’ve been through we might as well be together, Ana’ – she contacted the man she had not seen for years, and immediately he helped them, as he had helped Ana when she first moved to Bucharest. Ana had not liked him then, and he had given up. Now – well, he was good to them, and you clung to such things.

  Immediately he set Doina up hand-colouring the greetings cards that would be sold in two small galleries near the Intercontinental. It was through him too that Ana obtained her cleaning job at the hotel. Christian Luca knew everybody: he was a ‘fixer’ – he changed currency, dealt in black market whisky and cigarettes, set up mysterious deals with a nod and a wink, lived always within a hair’s breadth of danger. Luckily, like many unscrupulous people, he was sentimental about the past, remembering schooldays with Doina in Oradea. With no trace of sex in their friendship, he told her she could rely on him for help. He did, however, make it clear that he would love an affair with Doina’s beautiful (if a little thin, a little ravaged) friend, if she would like to climb down from her pedestal and enjoy some of the good things on offer … Ana said no.

  But she loved Christian’s jokes.

  The night before, he had taken them to Hanul Manuc for a beer. There was no room, the waiter said, but Christian whispered to him, and they were shown to a table. After an hour, he rose to leave, and the waiter glided over, shoving a brown paper parcel in Doina’s shopping bag, which Christian indicated by a jerk of his thumb. In return he left a packet of Kent on the table, under the pile of tattered lei.

  He took them to his flat in leafy Strada Plantelor, and Ana smiled as he produced the bottle of red wine from the bag, threw them a packet of Kent, poured out the wine with a flourish, and proposed a toast, ‘To freedom, girls!’

  His three chins wobbled as he threw back his head to drink. Ana knew she had never seen such a big belly on any man; Christian Luca was probably the ugliest person she had ever met. Yet you could not help but like him. He would survive anywhere, under any regime, tripping, like a massive athlete, along the edge of the abyss. ‘And if he fell he’d just bounce!’ Doina joked.

  ‘Come on – to freedom!’

  ‘Whose?’ asked Doina. ‘I thought you were a realist, Christian.’

  He chuckled and winked at Ana. ‘Oh, I am. That’s why I raise the toast!’

  There was something even more knowing than usual in his smile. Ana and Doina glanced at each other, curiously.

  ‘What do you mean? Stop playing games,’ Doina said, impatiently.

  He looked suddenly serious. ‘Listen, you know me, I go about here and there, I talk to people … all sorts of people. Well, let me tell you, there’s a feeling in the air.’ He sniffed, then rubbed a finger down the side of his bulbous nose. ‘I can smell it.’

  ‘What?’ Doina asked.

  ‘Change.’

  ‘Not freedom then? I thought that was too much to hope for,’ said Ana, leaning back in her chair and feeling the wine rush to her head.

  ‘In this hole even the smallest change would be a sort of freedom, wouldn’t you say?’ he replied.

  They were silent for a few moments, drinking. Then Luca heaved himself to his feet. ‘I wanted to show you something I just picked up … an icon.’

  ‘You’re not collecting pictures of Him these days?’ said Doina, smiling.

  ‘Fool, I mean a proper one. I got it for Pierre Levanier, that guy who comes in once a year – the arms dealer. Look.’

  He unwrapped the coarse, brown cloth, and laid the icon on the table. It was painted on glass in dark, rich tones of blue, black and red. The face of Christ was inclined to one side, nose long and aquiline, eyes heavy-lidded, sad yet almost sensual. His hand was raised in a blessing, yet the head leaned away from that gesture, as if to disown it, or perhaps in mute acceptance of the fact that no benediction would make the world well. Or so it seemed to Ana.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘Good price?’ asked Doina.

  Christian nodded. ‘Two hundred and fifty dollars. He could sell it for twice that in New York. And I’d have taken half, if he’d beaten me down.’ He shrugged. ‘What’s anything worth? I sell a holy image, the whores in the hotels sell their bodies, who cares? It’s all the same.’

  ‘You’re such a cynic, Christian,’ Ana said.

  ‘Ana – if I wasn’t a cynic I couldn’t survive in this place. Where does believing in anything get you? God, communism, capitalism – it’s all the same to me. And it all comes to an end some time. Listen, one of these days even all the creeps and bastards who believe in Ceauşescu will get a shock, you wait and see.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ sighed Doina, ‘and Ana and I will have grey hair – two old ladies living together, eating paper, trying to remember the days when there was salami once a month.’

  ‘Paper?’ said Ana, in mock-horror. ‘You mean, we’ll actually be able to buy paper!’

  Christian lit a cigarette, although smoke still drifted up from the one he had just stubbed out. ‘I tell you … Well, you know the story about the Russian train?’

  They shook their heads.

  ‘OK – well, there’s this train, a runaway train, crashing along across a Russian steppe. As it goes round a huge bend the passengers lean out of the windows, and far ahead they can see the end of the track. And there’s no rails. The track’s not completed. So they rush to Lenin’s compartment, and they ask him what is to be done, because there are no tracks up ahead. Comrade Lenin says, “See that the workers are paid higher wages.”

  ‘Then Lenin dies and it’s Stalin sitting on the red plush seat. They tell him about the problem up ahead. Stalin says, “There’s a conspiracy among the workers – dig out the counter-revolutionaries and shoot them.” So the workers are shot, then Stalin dies, and Krushchev is in charge. He’s clever. He says, “We have no need of the past, Comrades. Take up the rails from behind us, and lay them in front as the train goes along.” So they try to do that, running around to the front, working frantically, but they can’t get the rails straight.

  ‘“What shall we do?” they ask. But suddenly Krushchev has gone, and it’s Brezhnev. He says, “It’s all right, Comrades, just pull down the blinds and sit tight and listen to the train telling you, ‘We’re-getting-along-fine-we’re-getting-along-fine.’” And so it goes on. Then one day a man called Gorbachev strides through the train shoutin
g, “open the blinds, and yell so that all the world can hear you: HELP US – THERE ARE NO RAILS!’”

  He paused. Both women smiled, and nodded. ‘Not so much a joke as a parable,’ said Ana.

  ‘Right. The point is, it’s happening. Just out there, just over the wall. Berlin, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Hungary, Yugoslavia – they’ve all caught the disease, but they couldn’t have done it without Gorby. And now – who knows?’

  ‘Not here,’ said Doina, with finality, rising to leave. ‘We’re too different.’

  Ana nodded. ‘I remember reading that Havel had a typewriter when he was in prison in Prague. Can you believe that? A typewriter in prison – for the love of God! Imagine! They didn’t know how lucky they were, the Czechs … No – I don’t care how bad it’s been for all of them, it’s worst for us. They may be tearing down the walls, but there’s one all round Romania, and it gets higher every day. God knows, we should know.’ She nodded towards Doina, her face suddenly bitter. ‘And nobody cares. Nobody at all.’

  Christian Luca rubbed his enormous nose in that habitual gesture which was half-impatient, half-conspiratorial. ‘All that’s true,’ he said, ‘but wait and see. I hear things …’ He wrapped the icon, and put it in his cupboard. Ana and Doina glimpsed two bottles of Johnny Walker before he closed the door. ‘I’ll drive you home.’

  They careered through the dark, freezing streets, occasionally thrown offbalance by a pothole. ‘Watch it, Christian, you’ve been drinking,’ said Doina, bracing her feet against the dashboard.

  ‘So what? Feel under your seat and you’ll find a couple of packs, just in case I’m stopped.’

  In the back, Ana pulled her old coat around her, shivering uncontrollably. The cold was sobering; she wished they had left earlier, because she had to be in work by 6.30. But Dinu Balescu would look after her if she was late. Maybe she should give in to him, there was nothing to lose, after all. Nothing, when everything had been lost already … Who cares? It’s all the same … Christian is right. And maybe I should give in there too. Anything but having to struggle on, alone. Because it won’t be long before Doina finds someone. She never mentions Radu now. She thinks he was just looking after himself, and that now he’s found somebody else. That’s what we saved for, Ana, she said to me – so he could get out and have a good time. They told me he was dead, they told me with grins on their fat faces that he’d been killed on a road, escaping from somewhere. But you were right, Ana, when you told me not to believe them. He is alive, she said – I know my Radu – and he’s forgotten me. She looked so hard and sad. I asked her if she thought Ion had forgotten me. She was quiet for a long time, and when she looked up her eyes were wet. She said she didn’t know anything any more. But she couldn’t say no. She couldn’t say no.

  As they turned on to Magheru, a few flakes of snow drove towards them in the headlights, like moths.

  ‘I know where there’s some meat coming in,’ said Christian, crashing the gears. ‘And – guess what? – some brandy.’

  ‘As long as we can get drunk at Christmas I’ll put up with anything,’ said Doina.

  ‘There’s a girl with the right priorities,’ said Luca.

  And as they were laughing, the supporters of Pastor Tokes rampaged through the streets of Timişoara, burning pictures of Ceauşescu, shouting through ragged throats, and nobody fired on them – yet.

  Twenty-Three

  ‘They shot the children standing at the Cathedral door – just mowed them down. Children!’

  ‘Is it really true?’

  ‘It’s true, Ana – Christian told me. He told me!’

  ‘But how does he know?’

  Doina gave a moan of impatience. ‘He knows! It’s true! And they’re talking about ten or twenty thousand people dead. Massacred … oh Jesus.’ She buried her face in her hands. Ana stared at her, white-faced.

  ‘That many – dead?’ she said at last, very slowly.

  ‘Who knows?’ Doina groaned. ‘He says nobody knows, exactly. But he listened to Radio Free Europe, and it said that reports are talking about ten thousand – and it might be more. Sweet Jesus – those poor children … Those brave people …’

  ‘Will it spread?’

  ‘God knows.’

  ‘I expect he does,’ said Ana.

  ‘Oh Ana …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You don’t … you don’t seem moved by it all. I feel as if something terrible’s going to happen. I can’t stop shaking – look at me.’ Her voice rose. She held out a hand.

  Impulsively Ana seized it, and held it firmly between her own. Doina’s flesh was ice-cold, and twitched convulsively. Ana felt protective towards this woman she lived with, whom she counted as friend although sometimes they irritated each other unbearably, as though they were family. The only family either of them had.

  ‘Sssh, Doina – just wait and see,’ she said softly, trying to knead warmth into the hand. ‘Whatever happens, there’s nothing we can do about it…’

  ‘Or for it?’ Doina’s eyes were huge and frightened, yet challenging. ‘Isn’t that what we’ve always said?’

  ‘Bowed heads …’ Ana murmured.

  ‘Exactly.’ Doina looked elated now, as she added, ‘What’s there to lose, now, for people like us? Nothing!’

  ‘But Doina, people died in Timişoara – according to you. It isn’t a game. He’ll never let it spread any further. He can’t. Remember Braşov?’ She shook her head, and lit a cigarette. ‘Children on the steps of a cathedral, facing guns. That sums it up. Lambs to the slaughter, every time.’

  Doina pulled her hand away and stood up. ‘I don’t care any more, Ana! Christian says there’s a rally tomorrow morning – He’s scared now, see! The old Cobbler’s shitting himself, I bet! Christian’s going, he says he wouldn’t miss it – and he’s taking me. Why don’t you come with us to see what happens? Don’t bother about work – what does it matter? I want to see what the old bastard says about Timişoara, Ana – you must come!’

  Ana put her finger to her lips, and long habit made her glance at the door of their tiny flat.

  The next day was December 21st. Christian Luca picked them up, parked near the Intercontinental, and broke a bar of Swiss chocolate into three, ‘to give us strength’, he said. As the chocolate melted on her tongue, smooth and delicious, Ana felt a pain so sharp she had to fight to prevent herself from doubling up. Christian saw her white face, and misunderstood. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he joked, ‘if there’s any trouble I’ll put you in my pocket.’

  They were glad of his massive bulk (all the more impressive because of the layers of clothing and towering fur hat) when they joined the crowds heading for Palace Square. Instinct told them there were even more Securitate than usual, as well as the party faithful, with their wide banners bearing slogans, and photograph-placards showing the youthful, black-haired, smiling leader.

  Heads down, not talking much, columns of people poured into the Square from all sides, and wheeled to face the balcony on the Central Committee building, where He would soon appear. ‘He was on television last night’, whispered Christian, bending to Ana’s ear. ‘It was incredible. He ranted on, and suddenly he looked so small. Hopeless. He’s losing his grip …’

  ‘Shhh … not now.’

  Terrified, Ana looked over her shoulder to see who was listening. They were at the back, in front of the National Art Museum, at the Athenee Palace end of the Square. All around them young people stared impassively towards the distant spot, where two anonymous men screamed slogans into the battery of microphones, pledging their undying loyalty to the Conducator. Around where they were standing the banners were sparse. Most were at the front where they would please the dictator, and figure largely in the television pictures: a waving forest of adulation to match the sound of ritual praise.

  ‘Look!’ said Doina, clutching Ana’s arm so tightly it hurt.

  Dark figures threaded their way out on to the balcony. They look small, Ana thought, narrowing her eyes
to discern Him. It was easy to see Elena, the only woman, glancing at him from time to time, but facing the crowd head on, and once, it seemed, raising her right hand in acknowledgement of the roars and chants which rose, as usual, from the front.

  It was quieter where they stood; Ana assumed this was because Ceauşescu had started to speak, his voice tinny over the loudspeakers. It was difficult to hear.

  ‘What’s he saying?’ whispered Doina.

  ‘Usual stuff about thanking the Bucharest Party for organizing this spontaneous rally,’ grinned Christian.

  Ana raised a hand in warning, her head jutting forward at an oblique angle. She was listening, but could not remember, afterwards, for what.

  It was the stillness she heard first: the awe-inspiring, paralysing stillness of the moment when everybody waits for something to happen, when someone has to be the first to open his (or her) mouth, and utter the first small, strangled sound of disbelief, which then becomes a shout, taken up and passed on, growing until it is a roar that shakes a whole system to its foundations.

  Out of the dreamlike pause she heard the sound, a murmur somewhere near her. ‘Timiş-oar-a,’ it said, softly at first, then repeated, ‘Timiş-oar-a, Timiş-oar-A, TIMIŞ-OAR-A!’ There were boos and whistles too; the ground seemed to shake as feet stamped, as if a herd of buffalo was pawing the ground, scenting their old enemy, the hunters, waiting for just one beast to lead the stampede for freedom.

  ‘Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,’ Ana said aloud, feeling tears in her eyes, and turning to Doina to grab her arm. The arm was freely given, but Doina said nothing to her. Her mouth had taken up the universal cry, screaming close to Ana’s ear like a madwoman, her face exultant: ‘TI-MI-ŞOAR-A!’

  The thin voice shouted its old formulas over the loudspeakers, berating the foreign imperialists who were fomenting trouble. But the chanting grew, and he faltered, looking over in the direction where Ana, Christian and Doina stood. Then he flapped his hand, as though to shoo away a troublesome insect. But the buzz from the insect grew louder.