by Bel Mooney
I was thinking, as I lay in the bath, in her sweet-smelling bubbles, how simple it would be to slide beneath the water; to cease, to accept, to capitulate at last. That’s right, Ana – give in! Bend your head. Bleat that you want to be part of the universe – even though it’s treated you like shit! Maybe that’s the part of you that is in me, Mama, although I don’t blame you for it. You were lovely, simple and loving and trusting, but you believed in acceptance. Tată didn’t, and I could not love him for that, not then. He raged against it all, and it killed him in the end, just as it killed you, Mama. But you gave in to your slow death; he met his out in the wasteland, trying to fight, trying to change things in the smallest way, knowing that the only hope in hell is the possibility of an escape from hell, even if you die in the trying. He wouldn’t have met death easily – not you, Tată! You would have run, leaving your footsteps in the fine soil, each one a mark on eternity – a message printed on the universe which said, ‘No more!’
And he didn’t leave me. He was taken.
Why am I thinking about this? Ion sat through supper watching me between mouthfuls. He does not know what to say to me. He did not want us to be alone. He is afraid. I am like a ghost who has come to haunt him, disturbing the present forever. But why should I pity him for that? Why should he escape? For my ghosts haunt me; they are here in this room now, telling me not to give up, not to accept – not any more. I shall not give you up again, Ionica, even though the world disintegrates around me.
She looked around and saw again the drawers badly closed, stuffed with clothes, the pile of boxed games in the corner, the American peaked hat on the back of the door, the small table football, the collection of metal cars and lorries in a scarlet plastic basket, and the desk in front of the window spread with exercise books. He had shown her the work they were doing and Ana felt humble. Monique Denis was a good teacher; Ana could not understand all Ion’s written French. The pencils were sharpened; the felt-tipped pens and coloured pencils were of a quality Ana had never seen. The small bookcase was full; there was a picture of Babar the Elephant on one wall, and a poster of Michael Jackson on another. A small globe stood on top of the bookcase. Ana found herself wondering if Monique had ever pointed out Romania – then reproached herself for the meanness of the thought.
And the sheep-mobile whirled overhead in pointless motion, the one thing moving in the large, warm bedroom, where the boy lay still, hands clasped hehind his head, eyes staring upwards, and the woman sat near him, her hands tucked into the sleeves of the American cardigan.
At last Ana made herself speak – for the first time in Romanian. ‘You have a lovely room, Ionica.’
‘Oui,’ he said.
‘There are so many things I want to ask you. But we’ve plenty of time for that, tomorrow. Now … did you miss me, Ion?’
‘Je ne sais pas.’
She made herself go on, keeping her voice level. ‘Well, I missed you a lot. All the time. And I think you did miss me too, just a bit.’
‘Why did you send me away, Mama?’ He spoke in Romanian, his voice squeaky and strained, as if he had been storing that question since they parted, and it burst from him despite himself.
‘Because I loved you, Ion. We’ll talk about it, we have to talk about it a lot. And I don’t think you can ever understand, because now I don’t understand it myself. But you must know that it was because I loved you, and I hated Romania so much that when Radu said he was going …’
He glanced at her sideways then, and whispered, ‘Radu is dead, Mama’ – as if it had just occurred to him that she might not know, and so he had to break the news gently.
‘I know.’
‘Who told you?’
‘I went to the children’s home. They told me.’ ‘You went there?’
She smiled at the astonishment in his voice. ‘Of course I did! And I thought I would find you there. Why did you run away?’
‘You didn’t come for me! And I thought … I thought you were dead!’
He rolled over on his side, his back to her, his hands brought down into a knot agaist his chest. When she attempted, very gently, to stroke the hunched shoulder, she felt the steel of his resistance.
‘Ionica, Ionica …’
‘Call me Jean! I like Jean!’
Helpless before his anger, Ana drew her hand back. Her eyes were dry; this was beyond normal feelings like disappointment or sadness. She knew she had waived her right to such emotions, and more, that they would demean the seriousness of this trial.
‘I can’t call you Jean – because to me you are Ion. That’s your name. That’s who you are. I–O–N. It is the first thing you learned to write. But if you don’t want me to call you that, I’ll have to make up a new name. What about “John”? That’s what it is in English. Or “Ivan”, in Russian …’
She heard her own voice, talking in the most matter-of-fact tone, as if discussing the name of a pet cat the family had just acquired, and dug her fingernails into her palm to stop herself crying out. ‘But all that’s too difficult, so I think I’ll just go on calling you “Ion”, like I always did. At home. Is that all right?’
He said nothing.
‘Ionica … dragă’…
Hearing the endearment he slowly turned back, and lay on his back once again, hands still clasped tightly on his stomach – like a stone knight on an ancient tomb. ‘Was it because I was naughty? Did you send me away because I was bad?’
Ana could not bear it. ‘No, Ion! Don’t think that!’
‘I thought it was because I was naughty. You know – over Mary on. But I didn’t mean to, Mama!’
‘I know, Ion. Don’t think about that. I’ll go on telling you again and again – it was only because I loved you so much and I wanted to get you out of there. I didn’t want you to become like everyone else.’
‘I wanted you to come for me,’ he said, in a faraway voice.
‘They put me in prison, Ionica. And we lost our apartment … we lost everything.’
‘You were in prison?’
He stared, as if seeing her for the first time. She nodded. He repeated, ‘Prison,’ foolishly, and she nodded again.
‘I tried to escape – with Doina. Everything went wrong. I made so many mistakes, Ionica … You know, when you’re small you don’t realize that your parents can make mistakes. But it’s important to know it’s true – that we’re running along in the dark most of the time, wondering what to do.’
‘Did they hurt you?’
‘Yes – they did. But I don’t want to talk about that now.’
‘I wrote you a letter., Mama. The man gave me a pen.’
‘Of course – but I didn’t get it.’
‘Why?’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose it was when I was in prison. Oh, it’s all so complicated! There are so many things to say.’
‘I wanted to stay with you. I didn’t really want to go away. But I tried to do what you told me.’
‘I know, I know …’
‘Franklin helped me, Mama. He told me that our parents sent us away because they loved us.’
Ana smiled down at him. ‘Your Franklin is a good boy, a good friend. I want to get to know him.’
‘He lives with Nada now.’ She heard the note of jealousy, and wondered if she could ever discover all that Ion had shared with the Tamil. It was impossible … and that knowledge made her feel jealous too.
‘You’re lucky, Ion, to have such good friends. Franklin, and Nada … and Monique … and Paul.’
‘Can we stay here, Mama? I don’t want to go away. I want to live here with Monique and Paul. They will let you live here too.’
So simple, Ionica! If only you were right … What can I do? Please help me, please help me …
‘Yes, dragă.’
‘Je veux rester ici!’
She heard the panic behind his imperiousness, and wanted to gather him up, holding him tightly, so that he might know he would never be let loose again. But it was too soon
. She tucked her hands back into her sleeves.
‘We’ll see, Ionica. We can’t make plans today. I want to hear all your stories, and I want to tell you some of mine. You know, when I was in prison I sometimes told you stories – made-up stories, I mean – inside my head. I used to imagine you could hear them, like a telephone inside your head.’
‘I didn’t hear them,’ he said flatly.
‘Shall I tell you one now – just a little one?’
He said nothing, but the dark eyes were fixed on her and so she continued. ‘Once there was a boy who lived with his mother in a big dark castle. The castle was owned by a bad giant, who kept them both prisoner. There was no way out of the castle, because the giant kept it surrounded by big fierce dogs with sharp teeth who barked and howled all day and all night, so that the mother and the boy were terrified.
‘But one day a bird Hew over the castle wall and sat on a branch just above the mother’s head. It sang a magic song that only she could hear, and told her that there was one way out of the castle – only one. The well in the middle of the courtyard is a magic well, he said, and if you can climb down its walls you will enter a dream world where you will be safe forever.’
Ion was smiling now. He rolled over towards her, absorbed in the story. Ana pulled her hands from her sleeves and let them rest loosely in her lap.
‘The bird sang and sang, and the mother knew she had to try to do as he said. He told her the secret words which would make the cover of the well roll back …’
‘What were they?’
‘Er … Chocolate and Hamburgers!’
‘Chocolate and Hamburgers? Silly!’
‘Yes, but that’s what she had to say, or else the well wouldn’t open. So anyway, every afternoon the giant had a sleep, and he used to snore so loudly the whole castle trembled. But the dogs didn’t sleep – they were still guarding the walls. Always guarding the walls. And the mother took hold of the boy’s hand and crept up to the big old well with its iron cover. She whispered, “Chocolate Hamburgers,” and waited – but nothing happened. She said it again more loudly, “Chocolate Hamburgers,” but still nothing happened …’
Ion was grinning. He could not contain himself, but crowed, ‘Chocolate AND Hamburgers!’
‘Exactly! That’s just what the boy said; he got it right, you see – and immediately the iron cover slid aside, and they could look down into the blackness – with iron rungs leading down.
‘But they were afraid and didn’t climb down at first. “It’s dark,” said the boy. “I can’t swim,” said the mother, and they were so afraid of the darkness and the water they wasted time. At last the little bird flew over the castle wall and shouted, “Go down, go down, quickly, quickly!” but when the dogs saw it they set up such a terrible loud barking – the loudest ever – and the giant started to wake up. The mother heard his snoring stop, and knew they had to be brave – right away. “Quickly, Ion,” she said …’
‘You didn’t say his name was Ion!’
She smiled. ‘Well, maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it was Jean … Anyway, she helped him to start to climb down – oh, and I should have said that there was the most lovely smell coming up from the world beneath the well – a smell of … of … flowers, and perfume … and … er … chocolate and hamburgers! It was wonderful! So the boy wasn’t afraid any more, but climbed down quickly, laughing all the time because he was so excited. Oh, but then something terrible happened.’
‘What?’
‘The giant came into the courtyard. He saw the mother putting one leg over the wall of the well, and he let out a terrible roar, and started to run towards them. The mother knew she had no time to follow the boy; she knew the giant would reach his great hand down the well and pick them both up, and bring them back, and … and … beat them. She knew it. So she had an inspiration. She shouted, “Hamburgers and chocolate!” and the lid of the well swung back into place at once. Then she turned to face the wicked giant, knowing that the boy was safe.’
Ion’s eyes were wide. ‘What happened? Tell me what happened!’
Ana breathed deeply. ‘Well, the boy climbed down to the bottom and discovered that the bird was right – there was a magic land down there, and he had a lovely time and made lots of new friends. And the mother …’ She stopped, not knowing what to say next.
‘What happened to her? Did the giant eat her?’
‘No … er … she married him.’
‘No, Mama! That’s wrong – she wouldn’t!’
‘All right, well, she didn’t marry him, she ran round and round the courtyard and he chased her until he was so dizzy he fell over. And he fell against the walls and they collapsed and crushed all the dogs. So the mother ran away, and she was free, but she couldn’t find the boy, you see, because he was in a different world.’
‘She could have gone back to the well and said the magic words!’
‘Ah yes, but all the stones and tiles had covered it up, so she couldn’t get to it.’
‘But she found him in the end?’
‘Yes, Ionica,’ she said, reaching out and stroking his hair, very gently, fascinated by the strangeness of the new, short haircut beneath her fingers. He did not pull away.
‘You found me,’ he said.
‘Yes, and do you know what else I found?’ He shook his head. ‘Wait there.’
She rose, and left the room, walking along the passage to the sitting-room – where Monique and Paul were waiting. They had been talking in low voices, and stopped when she entered. Their faces were anxious.
‘How is he coping?’ asked Paul.
‘Is it all right?’ asked Monique.
‘Yes – it is,’ said Ana, ‘but it will take time. Don’t worry …’ She realized her stomach was aching, and her legs were barely able to support her weight. But she was excited now, and looked around. ‘Now, where is my bag?’ she said.
Ion had not moved. He lay curled on his side, picking at the corduroy of his jeans. Once again Ana glanced around the room, looking at all the toys they had bought him, all the possessions she could never have offered – and wondered if she was about to do the right thing. She opened her bag and took something out, which she kept hidden in one fist. Then she stood, both hands behind her back, and said, ‘Choose!’
He swung his legs round and stood up. Gravely he surveyed her, taking the decision seriously. At last he said, ‘That one!’ and tapped her right arm.
‘Clever boy!’ She opened her fist. On the outstretched palm lay the plastic motorbike and rider. Ion made no move to take it. He just stared down, then looked up, meeting her eyes.
‘I lost it, Mama,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right, Ionica – we all lose things. But I found it for you. You left it in Germany, and they found it and put it in a cupboard. I suppose nobody else took it to play with because they have much better toys …’
He heard the wistfulness in her voice – the question that was a need – and answered it. ‘No, Mama!’ he said. ‘They don’t. There’s no better toys! They didn’t take it because … it’s mine! They knew it was mine. And I like it.’
Gravely he took the motorbike from her palm, and held it between his finger and thumb. He looked up at her and smiled shyly as he met her eyes. Then he returned to his contemplation of the plastic toy, turning it at all angles and looking at it closely – as if inspecting for damage.
Epilogue
In a sense, perhaps it was Emile Perron’s fault, although he knew nothing of Ana Popescu or her son. In the pattern of decisions, accidents and errors that was Ana’s life, he was the tiniest detail, and was certainly not to be blamed.
Emile Perron was a graduate of the Sorbonne, had worked for OFRDA (Organisation Franíaise pour les Réfugiés et les Demandents d’asyle) for six years; and he was tired. Gentle and liberal, he could no longer bear his job: the burden of decision. The rise of Le Pen made it harder: public opinion was turning against the invasion of foreigners (as some called i
t), and for months he had felt the insidious pressure to say ‘No’ in more and more cases. His responsibility was Eastern Europe – and because of the dominofall of change in 1989, the issues were far less clear-cut than before. Was it ‘OK’ now, in Hungary, in Poland, in Romania – as it seemed? A few Hungarians had their white cards taken away and were sent back; then there were the Poles, and their protests …
Communism is dead, people said; now it is the responsibility of those people to rebuild their own economies, not flood across borders to threaten ours.
At night he would tell his girlfriend about the cases he dealt with, and she was sympathetic. She believed everyone should be allowed to stay, since Europe takes only something like six per cent of the refugees of the world – ‘Nothing,’ they both agreed. But then, Sylvie was a photographer not a politician, and spent much time trying to persuade Emile to leave Paris and move to Provence, where the light was so good. And he had always wanted to be a writer; he wanted no intricacies of bureaucracy, no more weeping refugees begging for a decision. Caught between professional duty and private feelings, he could not stand their pain.
At last he made his choice. And so it happened that Emile Perron finally cleared his desk three days before Ana Popescu’s case landed on it. Paul Denis took her to the Prèfecture, and the process began, made almost impossible by the complexity of her story, the fact that they could not say where Ion had been living – and Paul’s well-meaning, but arrogantly protective, attitude. It irritated policeman and official alike; it did Ana no good. Yet Emile Perron would not have been hostile; he would have understood her case. He would have been sympathetic.
Madame Bernard (as everybody called her; she did not encourage the use of her Christian name) was nothing like Emile Perron. His desk fitted her; the files were her kingdom and forms and delays provided necessary boundaries. Colleagues joked that Margaret Thatcher’s nickname ‘The Iron Lady’ rightfully belonged to her; she carried out her duties with zeal, as (she said) a public servant – one whose job it was to see that her country’s largesse was not exploited. She asked Ana again and again if she could prove she would be persecuted if she returned to Romania. After all, the elections were going to take place: Romania had become a democracy.