I felt my heart melt.
That was the moment I fell in love with Alin. The lead singer of Silent Delusion. He was the star; I was just a girl. He was sexy and about to become famous, and he wanted me.
“Alin, we just met, and you think you’ve figured it out? What about after? When the summer is gone and we all have to go back to where we came from? How old are you, anyway?”
“We will figure it out,” he said simply. “And I’m twenty-five—not a big deal. You’re twenty.”
The sun was going down. I could hear the murmuring and laughing of tourists as they left the beach, coming to the hotel and getting ready for dinner.
“Let’s go inside,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He took my hands, and we both walked into the room. “I travelled the whole night and tried to write a new song. I’ve had the melody in my head for a couple of weeks, but I didn’t have the words. Now, I think I do.”
“So, is Silent Delusion all your work? Your melodies and the words?” I was surprised. He wasn’t just the pretty voice; he was the brains of the group. He took his guitar, smiled at me, and placed his fingers against the guitar strings. I liked watching him with the guitar. I couldn’t help but notice the way his arm muscles rippled as he gripped the fret.
“Yes, so far, all the songs are mine. Listen and tell me what you think.”
He touched the guitar gently, trying to find his rhythm, looking down at it. I couldn’t stop a smile; he looked hot.“It will be a simple piano melody, with rich acoustic guitar sound. Ready?” he asked.
You stepped into my life
And felt that I could die
The night found shelter in your eyes and hair
And felt that I could breath no air
I scattered your hair and your thoughts,
Everything feels like the first time with you.
This moment will not be here tomorrow
But this love will forever be true.
Fate and desire, drew us together
Two souls in a train that is rumbling on.
If infinity decides to bind us forever,
I care not if worlds pass into oblivion.
Do you have another?
Is this all a dream?
Your lips would tell me no,
But your eyes, another thing.
My heart was beating hard. “Did you just write a song for me?” I asked.
“Do you like it?” He put the guitar down and held me.
“I love it. You just need to make the words rhyme.”
“It will. Eventually.”
“How do you compose?” I was curious still struck by the fact that those beautiful words came out of such a handsome, hunk.
“It starts with the melody.” He pressed his fingers against his temples as he explained. “It starts floating in my head. Then, I put the words together.”
I was proud of him.
“Only music makes you forget or remember everything.”
I liked his passion. It impressed me that he believed in something so strongly.
He continued: “Music may be the most important thing men have ever created. We should appreciate music more. Do you know how much work is required to make a simple violin? A violin contains about seventy different pieces of wood. Anyway about the song: I need to know how it will end.”
“Alin, it’s your song. It’s up to you how the song ends. I am not your dream girl. You don’t know anything about my life, and you don’t want to know.” I didn’t know what to really say.
“I do know. More than you think. Babe, we’re here in paradise, so let’s be together.” He noticed my hesitation and scowled. “Damn, why do women have to be so complicated?”
“Don’t compare me with other women. You don’t know me,” I snapped, which I regretted.
“Mona, you opened up to me…the train was our moment. I know you, Mona!”
His voice staggered for words…the “right” words…the kind of words that one never seemed to bring to mind when they were needed.
You don’t, Alin. Nobody knows me, I thought, but instead I answered:
“Ok. Why not?”
***8 July 1989
Everywhere I go I hear murmurings, worries about our country, communism, and the future. I have inside information.
Alexandru always opens up to me. Is this not what men do? Confide to their mistresses?
He told me more than once that Ceausescu’s fate is sealed by his own actions. Alexandru’s opinion was that our ‘dear leader’ had lost touch with reality. That, coupled with his huge ego was going to lead to his end. Alexandru knows what is he talking about, he is one of Ceausescu’s trusted people. I don’t know what his real job description is. He may be in charge of his security, maybe presidential guard, or he may be his advisor. He never said; I never asked.
There were rumors, but never facts about political unrest. Those rumors were quelled as fast as they began. But from Alexandru I learned the truth – there were protests happening. There had even been a couple of revolts across the country during the past few years. In November 1986, labor uprisings spread through big industrial cities of Cluj-Napoca and Lasi.
Ceaușescu's insane debt reduction plan drove the collapse of the consumer market in major cities. Money planned for food production and distributions was diverted instead to debt payments to the Western world. The rationed consumer goods for the most basic commodities led to longer lines and increasing frustration among the people. That was happening everywhere in Romania. All these ingredients - economic depression, food shortages, plus suppression of discontent - simmered until the unrest boiled over in Brașov two years ago, when rebellion erupted on 15 November 1987.
That spontaneous revolt began at a truck manufacturing plant called the “Red Flag.” Workers gathered and began demonstrating against reduced salaries. More than 20,000 people left the factory and marched toward the Communist headquarters in the city center. Initially, they only chanted: “We want food. We want bread. We want electricity. You are thieves. Give us our money back.” Then, the other slogans, more subversive ones, evolved. Eventually the crowd was chanting, “Down with communism. Down with Ceausescu. Down with the dictatorship.”
Later that day, Securitatea - the secret service - and the military managed to finally surround the city center and disband the revolt by force. Luckily, no one was killed, but more than 300 protesters were arrested and brought to the Bucuresti Police Head Department to give official statements.
Alexandru told me something interesting. The protesters weren’t allowed to write the anti-government slogans down as they gave their statements. They were advised by the police not to commit those statements to paper – it would be too dangerous. The police told the protesters, “Write down the slogans ‘we want food’ and ‘we want electricity’ – that will be enough. You don’t have to write down you chanted ‘down with communism’ and ‘down with …you know who’.”
I heard that the protesters had been sentenced up to two years in prison. Ceausescu’s strategy was to downplay the uprising as “isolated cases of hooliganism.” A harsh sentence would validate the rumors of widespread unrest, and he didn’t want that.
“He should wake up and realize sooner or later these revolts will be his downfall.” Alexandru would vent his anger to me, blaming Ceausescu for his inability to comprehend the warning signs.
People’s frustrations and revolts were not limited to Romania. After the Chernobyl nuclear disaster, Gorbachev, president of the USSR at the time, had a wake-up call and decided to open his country for reforms. When he announced that, Ceausescu was the only communist leader to oppose it. After Moscow officially announced glasnost and then later, perestroika, Ceausescu opposed it. Alexandru told me this opposition to gradual reform would spell Ceausescu’s downfall. His isolation on the international scene intensified, and Russia and the US treated him as an obstacle to reform. Ceausescu was aware of the international and internal pressure, but still refused t
o compromise. He and his ego insisted that he knew better – that he could suppress the people’s drive for freedom and continue with the status quo. Because of this, he refused to allow Gorbi to tell him what to do.
Ceausescu’s plan was to buy back the eighty tons of gold from the vaults of the National Bank; these had been previously sold to redeem the foreign debt payment. His ego demanded that he show Gorbi he knew how to save his power in his own country. His plan was to show the world, by the beginning of the 14th Congress that Romania would not be just debt free but overflowing with gold.
Gorbi didn’t like Ceaucescu’s reluctance to implement political and economic reforms. He tried first to reason with him. Four presidential meetings between Gorbachev and Ceausescu took place. One in particular was controversial and worsened the conflict between the two leaders.
“I don’t think there will be another meeting between them.” Alexandru confided in me. “Gorbi gave him enough chances. Ceausescu is done.”
Ceausescu defied Gorbi too many times, and Elena, his wife, followed his example. She couldn’t stand Raisa Gorbacheva and ignored her during their visit. It was a grave violation of political diplomacy. Gorbi poured oil on the fire as well. During his visits to Romania, he would talk with people about his reforms and encourage the people to talk about their problems, letting them know he was aware of the unrest.
Ceausescu did not like that. He felt that Gorbachev should have spoken to the people about the efforts and progress that he was making toward the “Gold Era” – Ceausescu’s plot to get Romania out of debt, not mingle with the people and actually talk about the problems in the country. Gorbi’s refusal to bend to Ceausescu’s will led to an impasse – Ceausescu became angry and overreacted; in turn, Gorbi did not sign Ceausescu’s “Book of Honor” – a guest book for all foreign Presidents to sign in during their visits tour country.
In the end, Gorbi let Ceausescu know if he wouldn’t align with Russian reforms, he would drastically reduce the supply of natural gas and oil to Romania. That was akin to a declaration of war. A war which Romania could not afford right now, giving the scarcity of natural gas and electricity already experienced by the people all over the country.
Ceausescu is extremely well informed by his secret service. His secret police told him the Kremlin and Washington plan to send their own agents to infiltrate Romania and help instigate a coup against him.
Some say Ceausescu knows Gorbi is ready to give the green light permitting Russian secret agents to work together with Romanian conspirators to overthrow his power. That Gorbi keeps a close watch on Romania’s inner workings and has files on Romanians who are ready to turn their back on Ceausescu and betray him.
I don’t believe that. Ceausescu is a vengeful person. He put a two-million-dollar reward on Pacepa’s head after his defection. Pacepa used to be his right hand – the men who was ruling Securitatea. Pacepa fled because he refused to kill the famous Noel Bernard, the director of Radio Free Europe’s Romanian program who had infuriated Ceausescu with his commentaries. If he knows – and has proof - why wouldn’t he just get rid of the people who are plotting against him?
Maybe he thinks he is invincible. Maybe he thinks we, the people, still love him. Either way, he is wrong. He is about to fall, and communism is about to be eradicated with or without “imperialist forces” from other foreign countries.
CHAPTER 5
ROCK & ROLL
Romania used to take pride in its architecture. Official buildings, universities, opera houses, and theaters were impressive pieces of art. But mostly a matter of national pride. Talent, design, style, and space contributed in abundance to their construction. The Summer Theatre was an open-air theater that used its inclined hillsides for its terraced seating; the place was small but looked pretentious. The semicircular rows of stone benches were nestled into an open area with an impressive view. The acoustics were perfect; softly spoken words could be heard in the top rows. My distant ear could catch even the hushed words of someone speaking casually several tiers up and far to one side.
I found a good spot from the backstage area and tried to watch. Four guys were sitting on chairs, AA meeting-style. One guy stood in the middle of the circle, interviewing them as if he were a reporter.
“Why are you dressed in pajamas?” asked the guy playing the reporter. The reporter guy was wearing a casual look, while his interviewee was a thirtysomething, long-haired, bearded man, dressed in pink-and-yellow pajamas with a green teacup print.
“My father used to tell me people judge someone by the way they dress. They look at you and judge you,” the pajama guy said, looking proudly at his outfit.
The reporter took a guess, spreading his hands in a perplexed gesture. “So you always wear it to let people think you are a child, or a…”
“No. The pajamas would make them think I’m a dreamer. That I have a dream. Like King Martin Luther.”
“I think it’s Martin Luther King Jr.,” the reporter corrected him, trying to suppress his genuine laugh. The audience responded with soft, short giggles. The charm of live comedy. All improvised. Sometimes they would surprise themselves.
“Exactly. The King Martin. And Luther,” the other guy said in an obvious “duh” tone. Laughter rippled lightly from the audience and lingered a few seconds longer. “And you are wrong. A King is not a junior. He is a senior.” Laughter.
“So, why the tie?” asked the reporter. “You want people to think you work in an office?” The reporter still obviously repressed laughter.
“No! This is silly. I want to mandipulate people into thinking…”
“Wait, you want to manipulate people?” The reporter interrupted him to stress the importance of the moment.
“That’s what I just said, to mandipulate people. Why do you keep interrupting me?” the other guy said, waving his hands in the air. He said it in such a silly way that the audience began laughing again. I noticed that the actor playing the reporter had to keep his own lips from quirking. I had heard of comic actors that tried to make the other actors laugh. It was some kind of a game to them. They were having “private competitions” to see who could make the other crack up first in the middle of a live scene.
“Oh, excuse me. So you want to mandipulate people into thinking…what?”
“That I want to rule the world. I read somewhere that people in suits are ruling the world. I am a dreamer. And I would like to rule the world. That’s my dream,” he said with exaggerated pride.
The audience began to clap and cheered loudly.
“This is a big dream,” the reporter said after he let the audience finish clapping.
“Oh, maybe. But if it’s not possible, I can rule an organization, or a club, or something like that.”
“But why not simply wear a suit? I mean, it would be easier and more appropriate,” the reporter said, intoning a lack of understanding.
“Really, Comrade Reporter? I told you, people are biased,” the pajama man said, as if not understanding why the reporter couldn’t figure it out. “They would think my dream is to work in an office.”
“And you don’t want to work in an office?”
Pajama man lifted his hands and grunted in exasperation. “No, I can’t! How can you rule the world while you have an office job? So stupid.”
The audience rewarded the comic troupe with more laughter.
The reporter moved to another candidate: a slim guy, casually dressed and smoking a cigarette.
“What is your name?” the reporter asked.
“My name is Perfect,” the man replied with a silly and exaggeratedly prideful grin. Then he blew smoke into the reporter’s face.
“Did you just say your name is Perfect?”
“Yes. My father insisted I should be called that.”
“Why?” The reporter’s brow furrowed; he obviously didn’t understand this peculiarity either.
“Because he thought that would help me in school. If the teacher is supposed to ask me a quest
ion and I don’t know the answer, my teacher would say, ‘Ok. Sit down, Perfect.’"
They were the comedy group Crazy Nerds. There were five on stage, but their number changed: over time, new members joined and the old ones left the group. Their jokes were different from the humor you would see on TV. The Summer Theatre was the best place for them to perform. Students loved them. Old generation didn’t get their jokes. The young generation had a taste for their bizarre humor. I loved them.
I wished I could stay and listen more, but the backstage area had become crowded and loud, and I had to leave.
It was the first time I had sat behind the scenes. I watched the band start to prepare for their live performance.
Did Vladi change his hair color?
He was accompanied by Alin and a skinny, honey-blond girl about my age. I approached them happily.
“Hey, Alin, we’re next.” Teo winked at me while taking a bite from a big fried meatball covered in a greasy napkin. Jony ignored me; next to him, a blond girl with short hair possessively touched his arm while talking to him. I couldn’t help noticing Jony’s biceps. He was wearing a beige tank top and loose, dark jeans. No tattoos, no jewelry to be seen.
The blond girl, who was talking with Vladi, approached me. She was friendly and smiling. “Hey, come and join me. You must be Mona. I am Geta, Vladi’s girlfriend.”
Suddenly, it made sense to me. Geta was the feminine version of Vladi. The more feminine version of him. You could have sworn they were brother and sister.
I was amazed by her romantic hairstyle: ribbon-shaped, large curls, parted in the middle, cascaded over her shoulders. The honey-blond color was enhanced to full brilliance by discreet platinum highlights. Her dark-blue-and-black makeup emphasized her dark blue eyes. She wore a short, tight-fitting, spandex silver dress. The dress molded her perfect body and her hardly noticeable breasts. Her extremely high-heeled shoes complemented her long, beautiful legs.
Just a Monumental Summer: Girl on the train Page 4