by Bel Mooney
How can I find you again? How can I?
‘But you gave my son a home,’ said Ana, looking around the room that seemed so large to her, so full of interesting objects. ‘I don’t know to say … to thank you.’
‘No,’ said Monique Denis, shaking her head fiercely, so that the earrings jingled.
‘There is so much for Ion to tell me,’ said Ana, attempting to smile at him. ‘How shall we start, Ionica?’ The old, affectionate diminutive sounded strange and foreign in this room. Here he was called ‘Jean’.
He ducked his head shyly. ’Je ne sais pas,’ he said.
‘I taught him French – and English,’ explained Monique, with some pride. The affection in her eyes pierced Ana.
‘Oh, we spoke English at home,’ she said, needing Ion to nod agreement – to remember. But he was looking down at the glass spheres, rolling two on the table so that they clicked together.
‘What will you do now?’ said Monique suddenly.
Ana looked at Ion, then up again at the woman who had taken care of him for … how many months? She felt helpless. ‘When did he come to you?’
‘Oh … I think it was in November. Yes, the end of November. He has lived with us for four months now.’
‘Four months,’ Ana repeated.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Monique again. Ana heard the challenge in her voice – but there was fear too, and sadness. For the first time she realized that someone else might love her child and feel a claim to him.
At that moment Paul Denis strode into the room, and immediately placed himself beside Ana, shaking her hand vigorously. ‘This is so hard to believe, Madame,’ he said, ‘but some things … well, we must say they are intended to happen.’
‘You helped me this morning, and now I find you have been helping my son,’ said Ana simply. ‘Thank you …’
‘Paul.’
‘Yes, I remember. And you told me your son’s name was Jean-Paul.’
‘Monique has … We have … no children. So you see, Monique likes to call him Jean-Paul – his name and mine.’
‘I see.’
I see nothing, I understand nothing – except that these are good people, and they have been kind to Ion because they love him. That’s what has happened: at first it was just kindness, because they have no children of their own. But now they want to keep him. There was a bicycle by the door and a skateboard: he must have so many things now! And good food here, and education too. I could not have wished for a better place for you, Ionica, and yet now I wish I had discovered you homeless on the street, because that would have been so much easier. How can I find you here? How can I?
His eyes were down.
Tinkle, tinkle, click.
For God’s sake, stop playing with those things, STOP IT! Do you hear? Look at me, look at me. I am your mother!
‘You are welcome to stay here,’ Paul Denis was saying, ‘until … Well, there are many things to do.’
‘I can share Ion’s room,’ said Ana gratefully.
The child looked at her: huge, blank eyes, which slid away immediately as if embarrassed.
‘There is a spare room,’ said Monique, coldly. ‘Jean only has one bed.’
Ana thought of the last night they had spent together, in Timişoara, his head on her arm as she watched and waited until morning, the smell of his hair in her nostrils, the gentle rise and fall of his chest … And she felt strangely lucky besides the Frenchwoman, who did not inhabit a world where mothers shared beds with their children as a matter of course.
She said, ‘At home, in Bucharest, he had his own room. Do you remember, Ionica?’
He nodded – but Ana felt he might as well have been shaking his head, there was so little conviction in the movement.
‘We have seen much about Romania on the television,’ said Paul Denis. ‘Tell me, is it really so bad? Now – after the revolution?’ The question was more than polite; he was a man who had spent his life talking politics and assumed it was the stuff of life to others too.
‘Who knows if it was a genuine revolution?’ said Ana, wearily. ‘There have always been many mysteries in my country. In that, nothing has changed. And the biggest mystery is …’
‘Where to find meat!’ Ion chimed, grinning for the first time.
‘Or bread’, said Ana, smiling back.
‘Or milk!’ he went on, as if this were a game.
Ana laughed. ‘And the one good thing about the lights going out all the time was that then you couldn’t see what you didn’t have!’
Ion grinned up at Monique. ‘It’s true!’ he said, as someone might boast of horrors shared and survived, knowing there was stature to be gained from deprivation.
‘But at least we were lucky,’ said Ana merrily, encouraged by this unexpected camaraderie. ‘Because although we didn’t have meat or bread or milk or electricity, at least we had socialism.’ She smiled at Paul and Monique – who stared at her, no answering smiles on their faces.
Paul shook his head slightly, as if in reproach. ‘Some of us don’t believe it is fair to call the regimes of men like Ceauşescu “socialism”,’ said he seriously, ‘because true socialism has never been given its chance – not yet in the world. And it makes me angry to see … what is the word? … not capitalism … uh, consumerism … taking over as if it was the word of God.’
‘Oh,’ Ana said.
‘Yes, really.’
He was looking at her with grave sympathy, surrounded by his framed posters of protest and revolution. When she said nothing he added, ‘But we know how difficult it has been.’
‘Oh … yes,’ Ana said.
She glanced at Ion, who had not removed his eyes from her face since the exchange about food. His gaze was impenetrable; it intensified her feeling of being an outsider in this apartment, with the people who had chosen to break the law to foster her son. Kind people, who clung to their old ideas as the world dismantled the edifices that had been constructed on such simple, well meaning foundations. Good people, who bought Ion – no, bought their Jean-Paul – a bicycle and a skateboard.
Look at him. Who is he now?
Embarrassed by her stare he swivelled his eyes to Monique Denis. Ana imagined him weighing Monique’s attractive, bohemian style against her shabbiness – or even, already, their kindness against her ‘rejection’.
You are thinking, who are you – who sent me away? Why have you come back from the dead? Where will you take me? Will I be able to bring my bicycle and skateboard with me? And will there be bananas and chocolate there?
None of it was as she had imagined. Suddenly she wanted to lie down and cry, so that perhaps Ion would feel sorry for her.
Paul Denis was watching her closely, and saw her expression change. He murmured something in French and nodded at Monique, who rose and walked to the door. ‘Viens, Jean – viens avec moi, maintenant,’
The child rose obediently, hesitated as he looked at his mother, then ducked his head and scuttled from the room. Ana bent her head and rested it on her hands, hiding her eyes. Paul watched the slight movement of her shoulders, but sat helpless. The room was silent. Some minutes later Monique Denis returned with a tray of coffee, and said quietly, ‘Jean is in the kitchen with the boys. It’s better – while we talk.’
‘Why do you call him Jean? His name is lon!’ cried Ana harshly, raising a white, damp face.
‘In France it is Jean,’ said Monique, pouring coffee.
‘He is Ion Popescu. He is Romanian!’
‘Then please tell me – why did you send your child away from Romania, Madame?’ asked Monique, her anger matching Ana’s. ‘Because …’
‘I think we understand that, chérie,’ murmured Paul to his wife, raising a hand in a small, warning gesture.
‘You don’t understand!’ Ana half-rose, glaring at them. Then she remembered that these were the people who had cared for Ion, and sank back, knowing she should throw herself at their feet and shriek her gratitude. Yet, in that instant, she
wished Ion had never met them.
‘You don’t understand,’ she repeated, softly this time.
‘We can try,’ said Paul Denis.
‘To save him. I gave him up to save him. Now …’ Ana shook her head, ‘I can’t believe what I did. But then, in that prison, it was like blackness all around, and I wanted him to have a chance to be in the light. Do you see? Maybe I became mad, but people became mad every day, there. People left everyone they loved, to get out. People were torn to death by dogs … because there was no hope, no point in living! I didn’t know what would happen. Everything seemed impossible. No hope at all, can you imagine what that is like? Only the hope maybe to escape. Oh, but perhaps it is impossible for you, if you do not know my country.’
‘We do,’ said Monique, abruptly.
‘But newspapers can only …’
‘No,’ Paul interrupted, ‘we went to Romania – three times. And it was very sad for us. A great disappointment.’
‘We wanted a child,’ said Monique, ‘very much.’ Ana stared at them.
‘To adopt,’ Paul explained. ‘Four years ago we first went to Bucharest, to Orphanage One – you know it?’ Ana nodded.
‘We found a child, she was called Roxana.’
‘She was nine months old – and so pretty,’ said Monique.
‘You know, the business is very complicated, but we adopted her. The mother – she was not an orphan, you understand – the mother had given her up … She was very poor.’
‘I know what happens,’ Ana said.
‘The mother agreed to the adoption and we were so happy. But they said she couldn’t leave. We went back – this was 1986 – and we took food and clothes …’
‘We wanted her to know us,’ said Monique.
‘… and it happened again. Three times we went, then in 1987 Ceauşescu said no more children adopted by foreigners would leave Romania. It was like a political … what is the word?’ He made tugging motions with both hands.
‘It was so terrible in the orphanage, so cold,’ said Monique, in a high voice. ‘I used to lie awake and think of her there. In the winter some of the babies had nappies that froze.’
Paul nodded. ‘Our government tried to fight for us – there were many other people in the same position, you see. But when Mitterand and Rocard made a denouncement of that regime it made everything worse. In 1988 Ceauşescu refused to allow any visits, and so … that was it. Finished. We tried everything …’
‘We wrote. And we had a Romanian lawyer – but in the end, we have not that much money. He told us that the baby – Roxana – had been taken by her mother again. How can we know if that was true? She could still be in another orphanage …’
Ana heard the tremor in the woman’s voice, and pitied her. Monique Denis was staring at the coffee table, twisting her fingers together.
Paul sighed. ‘We were tired then. And Monique was so sad, weren’t you, chèrie? But there was nothing to be done. We told ourselves that we must stop thinking about it. Then one day last Autumn Jean – Ion – arrived here. And it was as if it was destined to happen, you understand? He became our Romanian child. Monique said it was fate, didn’t you, chérie?’
She nodded, as her husband spread his hands wide in a simple gesture of acceptance. Ana was looking at Monique – meeting her eyes for the first time. There was recognition in the mutual gaze, and at last Ana spoke directly to her. ‘And now you think – here is the woman who sent her child away, when all that we dream of is to have a child? It’s true, isn’t it? That is what you think?’
Monique dropped her eyes, and said, ‘I am sorry.’
‘Please, don’t say you’re sorry. I understand. You have no choice but to feel that way, just as I had no choice … Now I think perhaps I should tell you my story, so that you can understand me a little too.’
Without attempting to be brief Ana told them about Ion’s birth, and described their life since that moment. She spared no details, even though from time to time one of her listeners might utter a small sound of pity or despair, or retrospective anger on her behalf. Everything was told, in a low monotone, as if Ana was determined to make it as undramatic as possible, and yet the effect was mesmerizing. Paul and Monique sat apart, each with hands clasped tight in a ball as they listened, the coffee cold and forgotten in the cups.
‘… and so I followed him here to Paris, and there was – what can we say? – a sort of miracle. I think it’s a good word … You know, there was a woman I met in Geneva, at the Red Cross, and she told me that people do find each other, and I had to make myself believe her. Sometimes it was very hard; I almost lost my faith. But here I am.’
Monique rose and crossed the room to sit at Ana’s side. ‘I was wrong to be angry with you,’ she said. ‘You are Ion’s mother, and I felt so …’
‘You have been his mother for four months,’ said Ana quietly, resting a hand gently on hers, ‘and I am thankful for that.’
They were silent for a few minutes. Then Paul muttered that he needed a drink, and went to fetch a bottle of cognac.
Ana refused it; she felt that alcohol might deprive her of what little balance she retained, and send her whirling off into a chaos in which she would forget her purpose.
But supposing he does not want me. He may want to stay here with these people – and they are good people, I can see that. They wanted a child and out of nowhere a child came to them; now they see me here, ready to take him away. And to what? Where can we go? No money and no home and no country. They must know that. They must wish I had never come. And perhaps they would be right; perhaps it would be better for Ion if I were dead.
‘What were you going to do – about Ion?’ she asked at last.
‘Ah …’ Paul shook his head slowly. ‘it was a great problem. We talked for hours, wondering what to do. I told Monique we could not go on forever, keeping him like this. And she agreed …’
‘But I was afraid they would take him away,’ Monique added. ‘There are so many people in so many offices playing with bits of paper that represent people’s lives … I hate it all. This country gets worse and worse.’
Paul nodded agreement, but shrugged. ‘So – we decided we must go to a lawyer and tell him. Not say we had kept him for four months, but that he had just arrived and we found him wandering in the street out there. Something like that. Then we would have to go to the … er … Juge des Enfants, and ask for custody. But the laws are very complicated …’ He shook his head again.
‘Paul could go to prison for keeping him here,’ said Monique in a low voice.
‘Je m’en fous! – I was there in ‘68’, he said cheerfully. ‘I despised the law then and I despise it now!’
‘You and I have both been in prison then,’ said Ana, ‘which means we have something in common.’
Paul and Monique laughed, and Ana attempted to join in. But she knew there was nothing to laugh at – hard even to feel much joy at finding Ion. It was like suddenly solving the enigma of the key and becoming small enough to walk through the tiny door into Alice’s enchanted garden, only to find it was a painted scene, and the real garden can only be glimpsed through another, tinier door, for which there exists no key at all.
‘What will you do?’ asked Monique after a pause.
Ana wanted to scream that she did not know, that she had never known, that all of her life had been a preparation only for chaos. Yet she knew that she had to be stronger now than even on her journey. She had to seize control.
‘I will have to go to the police and ask for asylum,’ she said.
‘You will stay in Paris? That makes me very happy!’ said Monique.
‘You will have to say you have just arrived – on a plane,’ said Paul. He paused. ‘But then – you would not have been allowed through immigration. And if you say you came by car they will want to know which country you came though – because sometimes they send people back to the first country they passed through …’
‘A mother with a child?�
� cried Monique.
‘Yes, sometimes,’ he said. ‘But we will think of a plan.’
Ana stared at him, wide-eyed, feeling the abyss shift a fraction wider at her feet.
‘Not now, Paul,’ said Monique, decisively. ‘Ana can stay here for a few days and get to know … her son, again. And we will find out what to do – Sabine will tell us.’
‘Sabine is our lawyer,’ he explained.
‘It will be all right,’ said Monique.
‘I have to believe that,’ Ana said, bewildered.
‘Shall we go and find Jea … Ion?’
Monique was standing, smoothing her tunic. Her bracelets jangled. Ana felt tired and dirty – and paralysed by a sudden, terrible fear of seeing her child.
‘Please,’ she said, ‘can I take a bath? And change my clothes.’
Paul hit his head. ‘We are stupid – we should have made that suggestion, instead of all this talking. Take Ana upstairs. I’ll go down and see what the boys are doing. Jean likes to help in the kitchen. He likes to chop garlic!’
‘He likes the food,’ Ana said flatly.
Monique was standing by the stairs that led up to the gallery, holding out a hand to encourage Ana to follow. ‘Come on, I can lend you some clothes if you like.’
‘No,’ said Ana stiffly. Then she felt guilty, and added, ‘I mean – you are very kind, but I have some clothes of my own.’
Forty-Three
He was lying on his bed. Above, a mobile twirled in currents of air: strings of fluffy sheep that bounced wildly, as if afflicted by collective madness, as Ion breathed out. Ana perched on the edge, looking up, and suddenly thought of the doomed shepherd and his foolish, faithful lamb, the Miorita. Such fatalism in the face of centuries of oppression: if I am to be killed then let me be killed, he said to the lamb, and remember nobody must know the truth, nobody must know …
Which of them am I like: the shepherd who must have yearned secretly for death, or the pet lamb who allowed it to happen? Both were culpable, and yet we were taught that ballad as if it contained a sublime truth. And – ‘The sword cannot cut a lowered head.’