The Starlings of Bucharest

by Sarah Armstrong

  I noticed that the men had stopped talking, then heard a second car pulling up at the church. Two more men got out, another older policeman and a man in baggy shirt and trousers, as if he’d bought them and then shrunk. I looked around. Everyone was watching them approach, apart from the younger policeman sitting with us. He was watching me. I sat up straight.

  Vasile stood up and welcomed the baggy man with a pat on the shoulder. After saluting the group, the policeman walked back to the car.

  Vasile turned to me. ‘This is Marku.’

  I nodded to Marku, unsure of why I needed to know his name, and no-one else’s. ‘Hello.’

  Vasile then talked to the younger officer, and gestured for Marku to sit between me and himself. Marku slowly lowered himself to his knees.

  ‘Ted,’ Vasile said, ‘Marku needs your help.’

  ‘What?’

  He repeated himself, pointing, ‘Marku needs,’ then pointing at me, ‘your help.’

  I looked at Marku, his eyes directed towards the ground, his hands clasped together as he knelt. He could have been praying.

  ‘I understood the words. I don’t understand how I can help him.’

  Vasile opened his hands. ‘I haven’t explained yet.’ He said something which sounded brusque to the young policeman who nodded and shrugged. ‘I am going to translate as Marku explains his situation. Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vasile nodded again, and the older policeman and the driver stood up and walked off together, smoking. The younger one, who I now realised was the more important, lit another cigarette. He gestured for Marku to start and said something to Vasile. When he spoke his voice was low and hesitant, quite unlike Vasile’s, and it made me shudder. No one his age got to be in charge without a good reason.

  Marku talked and Vasile echoed him.

  ‘My sister is called Ana. She was eleven when she became very ill. Not even the great doctors we have in Bucharest could find out what was wrong with her, although they never stopped trying. One day the hospital sent us a doctor from Berlin, who was an expert in skin disorders, and she asked my parents to allow her to take Ana to a special sanatorium in Germany where they could cure her. Elisabeth-Sanatorium, Sanatorium E. My mother wanted to go too, but they said they would send for her later. The translator was called Ingrid.’

  Marku was repeating something else, a name, and Vasile shook his head.

  ‘Nadia Osipova,’ Marku said to me.

  Vasile shouted at him, Marku remonstrated with the silent policeman, who stood and gestured for Vasile to follow him. Marku and I watched as they argued quietly, the policeman eventually pushing Vasile hard in the chest. They sat down with us again.

  Vasile said, very quickly, ‘He thinks the doctor might have been called Nadia Osipova, but I wouldn’t put too much in that name.’

  Vasile paused and lit another cigarette as Marku began to sob. Eventually, Marku took a deep breath and carried on.

  ‘We never heard anything else. We wrote to the sanatorium and never heard back. We couldn’t get visas to visit her. She must think we don’t care.’

  I was bewildered. This poor man had started crying again, and for some reason he had been led to believe I could help him. I was feeling uncomfortable, and just wanted to get back to the hotel and take a bath.

  ‘I really don’t see—’

  ‘He’s not finished,’ snapped Vasile.

  Did they expect me to go to West Germany and find her? Or East Germany? I lit a cigarette and waited for Marku to continue. Finally, after wiping his eyes on his frayed cuffs, he did.

  ‘My uncle works in films at the Buftea studios and he takes films to festivals sometimes. Two years ago he was in Moscow and he saw the translator for the doctor who took Ana.’

  ‘What?’ I said. ‘Hold on. Your uncle recognised the translator of the doctor who took your sister, how many years ago?’

  Vasile didn’t translate that.

  ‘Can you ask him how old Ana is now?’ I asked.

  He turned to Marku and they spoke for a while. Marku took a small, crumpled photo from his trouser pocket and showed it to Vasile. They seemed to argue over it.

  Finally, Vasile said, ‘Twenty-three years old.’ He held out the photograph. ‘This is Ana when she was eleven.’

  A black and white photo of a skinny eleven-year-old girl with dark hair and dark eyes, taken twelve years ago.

  ‘I won’t recognise her from that,’ I said.

  Vasile nodded as if I’d said something clever, and returned the photo to Marku, still nodding. Marku half-smiled as he put the photo away and pulled out another from his other pocket. This had been cut from a newspaper. Vasile handed this to me next, and pointed at the woman, half obscured by a smiling man.

  ‘This is the woman, Ingrid.’

  Again, black and white, but this time her features were distinct enough to give me an idea of how she looked. Marku was talking again, tugging at his hair, a strip of ribbon wrapped around his fingers.

  ‘Red hair,’ said Vasile.

  ‘Do you mean ginger?’ I asked.

  ‘No, red hair.’

  He passed me Marku’s ribbon. It was that deep reddish brown that I’d noticed many women here chose to dye their hair. I looked up. Marku was staring at me. I nodded, holding the ribbon to my hair. He smiled and held both hands to his heart.

  ‘Ana,’ he said.

  ‘Ana.’ I handed back the ribbon.

  The policeman, silent all this time, now spoke a few words to Marku and he nodded. They stood up, brushing down their trousers, and the policeman whistled for the officer in the car to start it up, ready to take Marku back. Marku walked slowly away, turning once to raise his hand to me.

  Vasile clapped his hands together, the driver returned and the young policeman wandered off along the river bank to meet up with the older man who was waiting by a fallen tree.

  ‘Dinner time,’ said Vasile. ‘You must be hungry again.’

  I stared at him, and then got up and followed him to the car. We got back into the same seats as before, and the driver pulled away.

  ‘I don’t understand what I’m supposed to do,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. If you see the woman in Moscow you can ask about Ana, if you like.’

  ‘If I like? But how do you know I’m going to Moscow?’

  ‘You told me. We’ll talk about it at dinner. Don’t worry.’

  I worried, but quietly. I watched the starlings pick at the roof of the church as we drove past.

  CHAPTER 4

  I managed to get away from Vasile long enough to wash off most of the dirt in a tepid bath, although the gritty soap wasn’t any help, and then dried myself on the rough, grey towels. The brown stain that I had noticed on the first day was still there, under the sink. I hoped it was rust, but wasn’t going to smell it.

  I soaped my face to have a shave, but my hands trembled when I held the razor to my chin and I thought, best not. The water screamed through the pipes and then stopped completely. I rubbed the soap off on a stiff towel and looked at the bags under my eyes in the mirror.

  Coming back into the bedroom, I struggled to remember what day it was. It seemed to be at least two days since I’d been woken in here this morning. The cleaners had been in, pulled the dusty black curtains open and tugged the bobbled candlewick tight again, which bore yet another copy of Holidays in Romania. Sometimes they left it on the bed, sometimes on the single chair by the window. They had put the phone back on the nightstand, and tidied bits of paper torn from my notebook, my journalism book and the novel I hadn’t read much of into a pile on the dressing table. I sifted through the loose papers. I had half a memory of the letters I’d started, but they were gibberish and I had no desire to finish them. Drinking made me think about the debt I owed which refused to shrink. I crumpled them in one hand and threw them into the bin.

  I phoned down to reception to see if the travel office was still open, but was told it had closed unexpectedly. I
had been expecting confirmation of the time of my new flight, but I would have to assume it was the same as before.

  My travel alarm said ten past eight, and I was starving now. I decided to make notes detailing what had happened earlier with that poor man, after I’d eaten.

  I pulled my dusty trousers back on and my last clean shirt, and went down to meet Vasile.

  He was leaning against the wall, a cigarette in his hand, same as ever. Which Vasile would I get tonight?

  He smiled insincerely. That one. I was glad.

  ‘Shall we?’ he said.

  I nodded.

  Back in our usual place in the hotel restaurant, the last twenty-four hours seemed dreamlike, punctuated with drink, sleep and hangover.

  We ordered our food, and Vasile lit another cigarette, before leaning across to me.

  ‘Thank you for meeting with Marku earlier. It means a lot to him.’

  ‘Did I agree to do something?’

  Vasile looked at me strangely. ‘Of course. If you see that translator you will ask her for information about Ana. If you don’t,’ he shrugged, ‘you don’t.’

  ‘Why me? Aren’t there other Romanians who go to film festivals, like his uncle?’

  Vasile held his finger up to silence me as the waiter brought our warm red wine, and waited until he had left us.

  ‘We can’t ask them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s too difficult. They have work to do. You are free to come and go as you like.’

  He half smiled, but he looked like the other Vasile and I didn’t care what he thought of me any more. I took a large gulp of wine.

  ‘I also have work to do in Moscow. This woman speaks German and Romanian. No-one has said she talks English. It’s a ridiculous thing to ask.’

  He sat back and crossed his arms. ‘What would it cost you to help out a brother who misses his sister?’

  ‘What would it cost me? It’s nothing to do with me. I can’t believe that your government shouldn’t be the one to track down one of its people that it’s been so careless with.’

  Vasile looked genuinely hurt. ‘How can you say that?’

  ‘How can you ask me to work for you? And for free? What am I supposed to do if I find out something? Just walk into the nearest Romanian Embassy and ask for you? Put a message in The Times?’

  He opened his mouth to respond just as the waiter brought over the unspecified meat pie we’d both ordered. The waiter turned to leave but Vasile stopped him and said something. The waiter nodded and glanced at me before leaving. I waited for Vasile to say something in response to me, but he started eating, so I did too. He never spoke while he was eating, as if he was scared someone would take his plate away. I raced him, finishing the pie so quickly that I could feel the pressure of heartburn building in my chest. I lit a cigarette although Vasile was still eating, and felt glad that I was leaving. I didn’t have to anticipate his moods or please him any more. He’d been assigned to me, but there must be other translators who weren’t so overbearing.

  He finished, wiped his mouth, and lit his own cigarette. ‘It’s all up to you. You have been asked for a favour by a good, kind and lonely man. You can say no. You can live with that, I’m sure, with your important job. Marku is a road cleaner. It’s all he has left, no parents, no sister. Just the big sky to look at and a broom to sweep. And plenty of time to wonder.’ He looked away. ‘I know that’s nothing to you.’

  The heartburn had turned to nausea. What harm would it do me? I was never going to meet that woman, or be able to talk to her. I probably wouldn’t even recognise her if she was standing next to me. And Marku, didn’t he deserve someone to ask for him? I sighed, and put my hand to the pressure in my chest.

  ‘So, in theory,’ I said, ‘how would I pass on any information?’

  Vasile suppressed a smile, and I regretted giving in. He looked towards the doorway and nodded. ‘You could send a postcard to me here, at the hotel. Or, put a notice in The Times, if that sounds more exciting. You can always use this kind of thing as material, can’t you? If you were ever going to write your own article, maybe.’

  Article? I remembered that he had also known about my Russian trip. He’d been researching me. ‘Have you –’

  ‘Ah.’ Vasile stood up and held his hands out. ‘Ted, this is Nico.’

  I turned around and saw a stunning woman, with long dark hair and the only fitted dress I’d seen since I arrived. So fitted. She held her hand out, and I pushed my chair backward to stand up before shaking it.

  Vasile was all smiles now. ‘Nico, this is Ted, an important journalist from Britain.’

  I flushed, ‘Not important, no,’ but her eyes had widened in such a way that I wanted to take it back. She still held my hand.

  Vasile said, ‘Sit down, Nico. I’ll get you a glass so you can share our wine. Nici o problema.’ He beckoned for the waiter.

  She sat, slowly letting my fingers slip from her grasp, and I watched her arrange the dress just above her knees. So fitted.

  ‘Aren’t you going to sit?’ asked Vasile.

  There was something in the way he said it, or the way he looked at me that snapped me out of it. I thought back to that man I had met at the airport who had told me a couple of horror stories, friends of friends, made delirious by beautiful women. I knew that there was nothing about me that would attract a woman like Nico. There was still dust on the seat of my trousers, and stubble which went way past rugged and manly.

  I smiled, and found myself half-bowing. ‘It is lovely to meet you, Nico, but I’m afraid that I have to go to bed. I am flying home tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Vasile. ‘Isn’t that more reason to spend your last night in Romania in fine company?’

  I laughed. His English had improved significantly over my stay, or he’d stopped faking that learner’s hesitancy.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I said.

  Nico looked upset, and I tried to believe that it was really because I was leaving.

  ‘Good night,’ I said, and managed not to run from the room.

  At the desk I arranged for my bill to be made up for the morning, an early call to tell me what time my plane left, and escaped to my room.

  I packed my clothes and sat on the bed, holding the novel I had brought with me, but not read since Heathrow. Darkness at Noon. On reflection, this may have not been the best book to bring, feeding my growing paranoia. I’d only chosen it because Koestler was from Budapest and I’d confused it with Bucharest. And yet, it suited this trip more than I’d anticipated. I wrote down the names that I had heard: Marku, Ana, Ingrid, Nadia Osipova, Elisabeth-Sanatorium, Sanatorium E.

  I flicked through the novel, and a business card fell out. Mr Attridge. That was the man I’d spoken to at Heathrow, although I didn’t remember him giving me this card. And yet, here it was, marking my place.

  It would be good to get home. I was strung out with nerves and wine, and in need of a pint. I got ready for bed and lit a final cigarette. I thought for a bit and, when I put it out, I carefully manoeuvred the nightstand in front of the door. I felt pleased with that, straight out of Koestler, and made a note of it in my notebook, alongside the idea of the Vasile doppelgängers. Then I packed everything else, and settled into bed. My alarm clock said half past ten exactly, a good, early night.

  I slept soundly, apart from one time when I woke, imagining someone was gently knocking for me.

  CHAPTER 5

  I woke rested and relieved that I was on my way home, until I looked at the alarm clock. It was half past ten exactly.

  I picked it up and put it closer to my face. It didn’t change. It hadn’t gone off. I noticed the second hand wasn’t moving either. My watch said quarter to ten. My heart began to pick up pace.

  I phoned down to the travel desk.

  ‘Mihaela, it’s Mr Walker.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Walker.’

  ‘What time is my flight, please?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘It w
asn’t possible to get you on the flight this morning. You are booked in for the next one, in two days’ time.’

  ‘But I have to get home.’ I hoped I didn’t sound as tearful as I felt.

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Walker.’

  She did sound sorry. She had been nice every time I’d seen her. I couldn’t think of what else to say, and put the phone down.

  I sat on the edge of the bed in my pyjama bottoms and put my face in my hands. It was only two more days, but I’d had enough of Bucharest. It was just a place of waiting and brown paint. I really needed a shave now. Then I would decide what to do.

  Clean and packed, I carried my suitcase downstairs to Mihaela’s tiny booth by the lobby to signal my determination to leave today.

  She smiled sadly, and glanced at my case. ‘No flight today, Mr Walker.’

  ‘Has it left?’

  ‘Yes.’ She checked her watch. ‘An hour ago.’

  ‘But you knew I wanted to leave today. I asked you to book it.’

  Her eyes filled with tears. I sighed, and took the seat on the opposite side of her desk. It creaked loudly, and I raised my eyebrows. It broke the tension. She made a tentative smile.

  She leaned towards me to whisper. ‘Mr Walker, I am very sorry. It was not possible to book you on that flight.’ Her eyes flicked behind me as she talked. There was no door to pull closed.

  ‘How else can I get back to England?’ I said.

  ‘There’s the train,’ she said, ‘but it takes a very long time. Nearly a whole day will get you to Austria.’

  I put the case by my feet. We looked at each other.

  ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me who told you not to book it?’