by Bel Mooney
Ana did not want to watch it; she wandered on, dazed and even a little frightened by this place, where things happened without human intervention, apparently, and where the light was milky-grey as if sifted with the dust of years. She felt utterly alone, yet watched by all those pairs of eyes which looked accusingly at her. At her. And yet surely they should understand – those children? those mothers?
She wanted to leave, but could not see the way. Then she seemed to be alone no longer; in front of her, on a bench, were three grey figures, lit from above. They wore caps and blindfolds; their hands were tied behind their backs. It took a few seconds before she realized that these too were statues, and another moment’s thought before she understood what they represented. This was the modern world, and these were political detainees, awaiting interrogation. Trembling slightly, she moved to stand behind them. They were facing a small cell, constructed from concrete. She leaned forward and read the label: ‘In this cell, the size of which is authentic, a delegate of the International Committee of the Red Cross found seventeen detainees being held for periods of 6 to 90 days.’ And impressed on the concrete floor of the cell were seventeen pairs of footprints.
Ana began to shake. To support herself she instinctively pressed her hands on the shoulders of the sculpted figure in the middle, half expecting to feel the pliability of flesh and bone. But the composite was cold and unyielding, and she drew back her hands in horror. She stood behind the hunched figures and said aloud, ‘Cale … Luminiţa … Rodika,’ as if the words could quicken, and the inanimate ones might turn, throw off their blindfolds and heavy clothes, and step out as real women to greet her – this time in freedom. Yet the words contained no magic, she knew that; only God could, in the act of naming, give life.
Forgive me, there is nothing I can do. Please forgive me, I have to leave you here. Do you hear me? There is nothing I can do.
She backed away, and half-fell, clutching at scaffolding like the world under construction; all around her grey steel and grey stone. Then, steady again, she followed her ears and came upon a bank of television screens, all showing modern disasters: cyclone, flood, earthquake, famine and war, war, war. Image melted into rolling image: dizzying, stupefying, and Ana found herself looking at footage from Bucharest. There were the tanks, and people scurrying in the streets to avoid sniper fire, jeeps bearing the symbol of the Red Cross, and soldiers crouching behind walls, and dead bodies laid out on grass, and the library aflame.
That is my country, here in this museum of horrors and of miracles. That is where I come from. That is my home, God help me, that is my home.
Ana stood for a long time, as the images repeated themselves again and again. For the first time she allowed herself to think of Doina, still there, and of Christian Luca, and even of Michael Edwards. A new, dull ache enclosed the sharp longing for Ion. In this grey non-world, outside time, the colours of the monastery walls flickered across her mind: blue, green, red and gold, and she seemed to hear the rattle of the toaca across the jabber of gunfire.
It was as if an arm rested on her shoulders, turning her with gentle pressure away from the screens with their images of confusion, and directing her towards a computer table. Ana had never seen such a thing before. She looked at what she took to be a television screen, then down at the ‘typewriter’ beneath, and wondered what it was for. Timidly she stretched a finger and pressed the letter ‘I’. To her amazement, a letter appeared on the screen – lower case. She looked for a shift key. That was better. ‘I’ was etched in luminous green on the blackness, and she followed it with ‘O’ and ‘N’.
‘Ion,’ she said, staring at the screen.
What would happen? She knew it must have a purpose. So she tapped out ‘POPESCU’, and waited. Nothing happened. The green letters seemed to shiver before her. Then she looked down and noticed a key which bore the word ‘Search’. That was it. That was the meaning of that pressure of her shoulders, the unseen guidance she remembered from childhood, with the images of the life of the Virgin, in strip-cartoon fresco, and the beating of the bellboard.
Mulţumesc, Mamă.
She thought her heart might crack with excitement now. She reached out a finger and pressed the word ‘Search’, then pressed it again and again and again. But nothing happened. In despair she hit the keyboard with both hands, so that before her eyes Ion’s lone voice was drowned by Babel.
Marie Keiffer was waiting in her office. Once or twice she opened the door to glance in the corridor, but there was no sign of the Romanian woman. Surprised, she rose at last and went to look for her, assuming she might be having coffee in the museum. But the café was empty, and the receptionist told her that the woman had not yet come upstairs. She would have known, she said, because it was such a quiet morning. Nobody else had come.
Marie Keiffer paid for Ana’s ticket, then went downstairs. She was intrigued that the woman had spent so long in the museum; it proved she had been right to suggest it. People needed their minds taking off their problems; Marie Keiffer often visited the display herself and found consolation there, although she could not say why.
Briskly she walked through the different areas, passing the images she had seen so many times. There was no sign of Ana. ‘Madame Popescu,’ she called loudly, but no one replied. There was just the familiar murmur of sound all around: the two screens for two World Wars, and the television images of modern grief.
Marie Keiffer’s heels clicked loudly on the floor as she approached the three sculpted figures on the bench. Something made her pause by them, and look around. Then she heard a slight sound, something between a cough and a sigh, and found her client.
Ana Popescu was crouching on the floor at the back of the mock-cell, her knees drawn up to her head and encircled by her hands. She had removed her shoes, placing them carefully in one of the impressions of much larger footprints.
‘Ah Dieu.’
Madame Keiffer entered the little concrete structure and knelt in front of Ana. ‘Venez, ma chère, venez,’ she crooned gently, unprising the clenched hands. The eyes that met hers were not wet, as she expected but hard and bright. There was something wild and implacable about that stare which she would always remember, since it called into question everything she had ever done in the job of which she was so proud. She knew that she had no answer for such despair.
Upstairs in the café she brought Ana a cup of coffee and a sandwich and insisted she eat.
‘I am so sorry,’ said Ana. ‘It was just … I thought… And it is all so confusing for me.’
‘Please don’t try to explain. I understand.’
‘Did you discover …?’
‘I think the news may be hopeful. I telephoned the man I know, and asked him if he knew the name you were given. He said that yes, the man is a Tamil and very respected. He helps his own people a lot. I explained, and he was able to find out for me that man’s telephone number.’
‘Yes, yes?’
‘I telephoned, but he was not there. A woman answered, and she was not helpful. They don’t like talking to strangers, I think. I asked her if she knew of the boys’ names, and then she sounded frightened and said that her husband would be back in two hours. Her French was very bad, but I think …’
‘Oh – what?’ Ana’s face was white, and her eyes glittered.
‘I think that she did know of the boys. I am sure of it. So the best thing will be for you to go and wait for the man. It is very easy – right in the middle of the town.’
Ana looked down, and said, ‘I’m so scared. I’ve started to think I’ll never seen Ion again. And in there, I was telling myself that I must accept it.’
Marie Keiffer shook her head so vigorously that a strand of hair escaped from her chignon and waved about. ‘No, no – you’re wrong. I told you we have to counsel people that their searches may not be successful – that is our duty. But listen, Madame, when you work as we do you learn one thing above all else – that people are drawn together in the strangest ways,
by the most strange coincidences. And so although we have to tell you, as I did, that we may fail, our experience also tells us that we can believe in miracles. I can give you an example – a little story. This was told to me by a friend of mine who works at UNHCR – with refugees – and it is true. He was working in a refugee camp in Hong Kong when this happened. It was 1981,1 think.’
Ana looked at her as a child might, when about to be told a story. Marie Keiffer saw it, and was moved even more by that eager trust than by the crouching figure in the mock-cell. She leaned forward.
‘Alors – écoutez Madame. Many years ago, at the beginning of this century in a small village in China, a young couple loved each other. The boy was sixteen, the girl was two years older. Her family did not approve, because the boy was so young and poor, and they said she could not see him. They made her marry an older man, a merchant, who took her away to Vietnam. So that was that. And then – think of it – many things happened in the world. There were two World Wars and the Chinese revolution and the Vietnam war … all those things. Then, in 1981 that girl, now an old widow of seventy-four, was in a refugee camp in Hong Kong. She came from Vietnam by boat, with her adult daughters and their husbands and their children. They were waiting for their permission to go to the United States; they had been waiting in the camp a long time.
‘And one day the old lady went for a walk, to buy some vegetables, I think. She walked and walked and she went into a shop. And behind the counter was an old man she recognized at once. And he recognized her too. It was that boy she had not seen since her parents parted them. He had never married; he migrated to Hong Kong before the revolution. And, if you can believe this, they decided that they still loved each other and wanted to marry – even though, once again, her family did not like it. That old woman – she let her children and grandchildren go on to the United States without her. She had found him, you see – such things happen. She reached her destination!’
There was a silence. Then Ana held out her hand.
Thirty-Three
Ana stood for a few minutes watching the waterspout. She could not shift her gaze from the arc of its spray, shimmering in the sunlight. What was it for, she wondered, this huge jet of water? It was nothing like the traditional ornamental fountains, still dry, that the dictator had built on the promenade leading to his massive, profligate palace. And people usually sat by fountains, cooled by their sound. She had seen pictures of fountains in Rome, in Paris – cherubs and bearded men with tridents, and curving mottled fish with open mouths spewing water, and tourists resting on the low stone wall, always smiling. Yet this one shot so high into the air, in the middle of the lake (it seemed from where she stood) that no one could approach it without getting soaked. It was bold and simple, and somehow arrogant – as if this city needed no carvings and had no wish to please: confident enough to waste its energy on the tallest fountain jet in the world. Water into air into water: on and on. She was awed.
Marie Keiffer had told her which trolley-bus to take from the Place des Nations, and even given her the correct coins for the token. She had pointed the place on Ana’s map, and finally shaken her hand warmly, wishing her luck – adding that of course she must come back, if she needed more help.
As Ana walked down the Avenue de la Paix she thought her legs would buckle. So she sat down briefly on the grass at the edge of a small park, and looked up at the sky. Two stories the woman had told her; in her weariness the case of the Romanian woman wanting to give up her children had more meaning than the tale of reunion. But that was the one she must think of – the hopeful one – especially now. She was afraid of walking further, afraid of taking the wrong bus, afraid of not being able to find the address.
Yet all that is absurd, and you know it. Those fears are meaningless. The real fear is not even that Ion will not be there, for he will be there, he will be there. Maybe you will even see him over there, playing on the grass … He is here in this city, breathing the air that I breathe. The terror is that he will be a stranger now.
She turned from Lake Leman at last and surveyed the city. It seemed to glitter in the clear light, its hotels, offices and shops clean and hard-edged. Advertising signs along the parapets mystified Ana; she had no idea what Patek Philippe meant or who he was, and she wondered why the name should be etched against the sky. Dropping her gaze she noticed how vividly the flowering plants contrasted with the pale cleanliness of pot and pavement. She saw no litter, no dirt. The clothes of passers-by were crisp and fashionable; even the trainers worn by the young gleamed white. Ana felt astonished that people did not turn to stare at the alien in their midst.
She could delay no longer. She took out the map, saw where Marie Keiffer had put a cross, and began to walk. In Frankfurt she had almost run along the streets; now she strolled as if in a dream, stopping every few yards to look in shop windows. It was not that she wanted any of it: the smooth leather handbags and suitcases, the shining bracelets and pearl earrings, the watches in precious metals, some of them decorated with circlets of jewels. It was not that she stared at the froths of white tulle in Pronuptia, crowned by circlets of flowers on stark, plastic heads, and envied the women who would walk on their fathers’ arms, unrecognizable in their finery. Nor did she even covet with any real intensity the skirts and trousers, blouses, sweaters and dresses in bright wool and soft silk – although she saw many things she would like. The lavishness of the shops was another reproach. It saddened her that she had been foolish enough to send Ion into this world of achievement (represented not just by the expensive goods, but also by the cigarettes and the chocolate bars – so many kinds, so elegantly packaged) with so little understanding of it herself. She thought how bewildered he must have been.
The road was just off Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau, in an area of smaller shops and cheaper cafés. There was a photograph-processing shop on the corner. Ana stopped for a moment and glanced at the colour prints in the window, demonstrating enlargement sizes. One showed a boy and a girl, obviously brother and sister, playing with a beach ball. The grass was vivid green, the ball striped blue and red, the children’s clothes blue and white and yellow, their hair red-brown, their teeth white: all the colours had an intensity, a freshness which made Ana blink. And then, mirrored in the window she noticed her own shadowy image. Dark blue jacket, brown trousers, drab checked shirt – above them a face pale and ghostly in contrast to the glowing skin in the photographs. It was terrible.
He mustn’t see me like this. What shall I do?
She stepped back, wanting to run from her own reflection. Breathing hard she controlled herself, then walked briskly up the road. Not far away she found Placette, went into the store and asked an assistant for what she wanted. Ignoring the displays of clothes, records, household accessories and souvenirs, she followed the instructions and found the ladies’ toilet. In the cubicle she took out her best clothes – the ones she had been given by the American television director – shook out the creases and put them on. In front of the mirror she frowned, and pushed back her hair. She brushed it vigorously and pushed it behind her ears. Then she looked for soap, but there was none, only a dispenser between the basins. She guessed its purpose and pressed the piece of metal that jutted out. Nothing happened. She tried again, increasing her downward pressure, but still nothing happened. Frustrated, thinking it must be jammed, she hit it with her other hand. Her face was dirty, her hands were dirty – she needed soap, there must be soap, this was Switzerland for God’s sake, there must be soap …
At that moment a girl emerged from one of the other cubicles. She must have been seventeen, and was dressed in a black leather jacket over a short red skirt. Her hair was dragged into a wild topknot, caught with a red scarf, and her face was heavily made up. There were three earrings in one ear, and a clash of bangles.
Ana waited, praying she would wash her hands. Seeing this woman standing staring at her, and assuming her gaze to be critical, the girl glanced coldly at Ana. Humiliated, Ana dropped
her gaze and turned on the tap, for something to do. She scooped cold water into her palm and patted it on her face. Staring in the mirror, the girl pulled her hair into a more jagged shape. Ana waited. At last the girl reached forward and casually shot some pink liquid soap into her hand. But it was done so quickly Ana had not noticed how. She stared helplessly as the hands foamed under the tap. Conscious of this renewed gaze the girl glanced up and said, ‘Oui?’ The voice was hostile, insolent.
‘Oh … er … s’il vous plaît?’ Ana tapped the soap dispenser, and nodded her head, with a questioning expression on her face. The girl looked at her as if she was mad, shook her hands and left without bothering to dry them. Tears of anger blinded Ana, and she attacked the dispenser again, pushing and pulling with both hands until at last the accidental upward pressure of her palm brought the scented stuff spurting out, and she could wash. As a final thought she put on some lipstick. That was better. She felt prepared. She must not be ashamed of herself.
Rue Lissignol was narrow: a canyon of old, tall buildings which blocked the sun. Faded posters peeled from the walls; the stucco was damaged in places, revealing the bricks beneath. Some of the entrances were boarded up, others had no numbers; there was an air of seediness about the street which made Ana feel less afraid. It was not unlike certain corners of Bucharest.
Except for the shutters. She stopped and looked up in astonishment. This block was four storeys high, with a span of eight or ten windows – like any other old apartment block, except that the shutters which elsewhere were faded brown or green or ochre were painted in vivid colours: acid yellow, shocking pink, turquoise, red and purple. One or two bore the colours of the spectrum in rainbow arches across black. Bizarre objects were suspended from some of the windows: a red and white police cone, a bicycle wheel, a wooden hobby horse, a shop-window mannequin, naked and bald, which twirled obscenely in the breeze, like the victim of a hangman. On one sill was a row of dolls’ heads; from another dangled four strings of onions and a black flag bearing the skull and crossbones.