Her cheeks flushed, she shook her head.
‘Will I definitely make the plane on Friday?’
She shrugged. ‘I will give you the details,’ she said, and wrote them down on a headed slip of paper. She slid that across, and then sighed before taking a copy of Holidays in Romania from a drawer. ‘Maybe you will find something good to do in here, while you wait.’
‘I’ve had a few copies of this brochure,’ I said. ‘Please don’t give me another one.’
Mihaela wasn’t making eye contact any more. She looked quite tearful. I was starting to think that she wasn’t really cut out for this. Neither was I. My dad would’ve had a handkerchief ready for this kind of thing. I just squirmed.
‘Have you read the article on Dracula?’ she asked.
I had read the article, twice. The Romanians were fighting back against the film and book destruction of their heritage with a tour, Dracula: Legend and Truth.
‘We can arrange a special two-day version of the trip for you.’
‘Ah.’ This was the trip that Vasile had wanted me to take. The trip he wanted me to write an article about. Vasile had stopped me getting on the plane. I leaned back in my chair, and it creaked again.
‘Do you have any other things I could do instead?’
‘Yes.’ Mihaela’s face brightened, as she began to pick out leaflets from the rack next to her. Churches, museums, art galleries. I could keep myself occupied.
‘Thank you, Mihaela.’
She beamed at me. ‘You’re welcome, Mr Walker.’
‘Could you ask someone to get a new battery for my alarm clock?’
‘Of course.’
I took my case back to my room but didn’t unpack it.
At the crossroads beside the hotel I assessed my four options and wondered how I would describe this city. It reminded me both of the Paris and the East Germany I’d seen in films, an accidental clashing of new and old, but the people weren’t like film extras. If I was the camera, they kept looking at me, slyly, before hurrying away. It was unsettling. I wasn’t used to being looked at.
Nico remained the only person I had seen to have properly fitted clothes. Everyone else had trousers that were too wide or too short, or baggy dresses that seemed designed just to cover rather than clothe. The streets were dusty but clear of rubbish, and everyone looked tired and just this side of hungry. Wainwright’s book on journalism, which I was still using to teach myself, had a series of questions to ask of any place you visited. Are the shops empty, transport links broken, the utilities not functioning, are there too many police evident? It didn’t ask, do people look tired and hungry? There was something missing from Bucharest, but I was hoping I wouldn’t be here long enough to work out what it was.
Mihaela had told me that it was only short walk to the National Museum of Art of Romania, so I crossed the road to head north on Calea Victoriei, people scattering in front of me. I was glad to get inside, away from watchful eyes, but there were no other people in the endless rooms of religious art, so the grim guards in each room had nothing to watch but me.
My shoes squeaked loudly on the cold marble floors so I sat down in front of enormous golden iconostasis, wondering how this possibly fitted into a Communist state now, the dozens of beautifully painted icons on an ornate golden background, with further large icons and an intricate door underneath. I supposed it was like Stonehenge, an ancient relic of a past people, admired but not understood. Not by me, anyway.
It took only a few minutes for someone to join me on the wooden bench. I waited for Vasile to speak.
‘No trips for you, then,’ he said.
‘No. No trips.’
He raised his head to the ceiling and then looked around.
‘You don’t like the gold?’ I said.
He looked at the wall of gold in front of us. ‘The gateway in heaven’s wall. My mother believed in that kind of thing. It’s not important to me.’
‘Isn’t this the Romanian heritage you want people to know about?’
‘Our leaders are the heritage we need to promote.’ He took a breath. ‘I could make the trip even shorter, just for you, because I respect you. We need to put something up against this stupid Dracula idea. We don’t want people to see us as a superstitious and ignorant people. We are brave and loyal and fierce.’
I tried not to smile. He changed tack, speaking low and confidentially.
‘I have an uncle who would be very grateful for a positive article on the historical roots of your stupid Dracula novel.’
Everyone had an uncle here. No-one had aunts. ‘Listen, Vasile, I saw a program about these Dracula tours on the BBC last year. People in Britain like vampire stories. If that is what gets them over to spend their money, what is the harm?’ I didn’t say that people in Britain also liked to view most other countries as full of peasants.
‘But our Legend and Truth tour is better than the films,’ he grumbled.
I said, ‘I like Bela Lugosi.’
‘No!’ he cried, before realising. ‘Ah, you are tricking me. We talked about that Hungarian beast.’ He folded his hands. ‘Romania is a modern society where the socialist project raises everyone. We don’t need your money.’ His eyes slid to the icons. ‘We want you to understand our history. That is all.’
‘I know what we should do. I’ll interview you about the history, and then I’ll write a review as if I have been on your tour. I can’t promise it will be published, but we can try.’
‘Ah,’ Vasile said, looking at the floor. ‘Maybe, maybe.’ He decided. ‘Yes, that will be a good thing to do. Do you have a pen?’
‘Not here, not now. Let me explore the city today, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’
He nodded. ‘Tomorrow.’ He shook my hand. ‘Tomorrow.’
I watched him walk away before leaving myself. Alone, but for who knew how long this time, I decided not to try to find any other recommended places, but just to follow my nose and see where I ended up. I soon realised that this wouldn’t be a good plan. I passed new grey blocks, and old grey blocks. No churches or museums or anything. There was a group of people ahead eyeing me suspiciously, and I took a sudden left so I didn’t have to walk past them.
I walked through a small park and sat by a concrete-walled lake, before becoming self-conscious when an old man stood and stared at me. I moved on. This direction was more promising. An English-looking church was followed by a strange white box of a church, with two high towers, like dovecotes. Panels had been painted in muted colours, and the far end was angled like half an octagon. I was tempted to step inside, but somehow I didn’t dare.
I decided to get back to the main road but, in my changes of direction, found myself in front of the British Embassy. I felt quite tearful as my eyes ran over the brass plate. It was homesickness. I wondered if I should go in and tell them that I had been kept here against my wishes, but imagined them viewing my booked flight on Friday with a stern eye. If I was delayed again, I would go inside and tell them.
I saw a Kent cigarette packet discarded on the ground, and picked it up. This little bit of Britain shouldn’t have rubbish outside it. I held it tightly as I found my way back.
CHAPTER 6
The wind had picked up during the night and I had woken often. I kept hearing birds squawking and pecking although I could see it was still dark through the gap I’d left in the curtain. I turned over and over again, but the noises continued and it seemed that every time I had nearly drifted off my eyes pinged open.
In the morning I regretted remembering to set my alarm, now working again, but dragged myself downstairs for breakfast. Mihaela was in her booth, and Vasile was at the doorway to the dining room, waiting. Of course.
‘Did you sleep well, Ted?’ he said. It was good Vasile, but I wasn’t in the mood to be polite.
‘How did you get into my room the other morning?’
‘You didn’t lock your door.’
‘I always lock my door. I lock it in London and I lock
it here. I don’t forget that kind of thing.’
‘You were very drunk, my friend. Don’t worry about it.’ He slapped my shoulder. ‘You look like you need a good breakfast.’
I grunted. We took our seats. Vasile turned his chair to face the window and leaned back, his hands behind his head.
‘Nico was asking if you were free tonight,’ Vasile said, looking at me from the corner of his eye. ‘She’s a very good girl. Well,’ he snorted, ‘good might not be the right word.’
I blinked. ‘I have a girlfriend, thank you.’
The waiter brought our coffees and we ordered meat and cheese. The same as every other morning, there being no actual choice. Vasile turned his chair back to the table.
‘You have a girlfriend.’ He shrugged. ‘You don’t like Nico?’
‘She looks very friendly.’
Vasile leaned in. ‘Is something wrong?’
I rubbed my face. ‘I slept really badly, much worse than the other nights. There were weird noises and I woke up too many times to count.’
‘It might be a guilty conscience.’
He looked serious, but there was a twitch in his mouth that looked like the start of a smile.
‘When will you be ready for the discussion about tourism? I have lots of material for you. It will be the best article you’ve ever written.’
I couldn’t be bothered with this. ‘You know the magazine I write for, International Film Monthly? Can you guess what we write about?’
‘I know you usually write about films, yes. I must say, Ted, I’d never heard of your magazine. I know Sight and Sound.’
‘Oh yes?’ Like I hadn’t heard that before.
‘And Film Review, of course. That went up to ten pence on the cover, I saw.’
I drank my coffee.
‘Screen International. That’s a good name.’
I put my cup down on the saucer a little too hard.
He concluded, his arms spread wide, ‘But now, Ted, I will search out International Film Monthly just to see your name.’
That didn’t cheer me up. The reviews I’d written so far, small summary pieces, didn’t have my name under them. I had a horrible feeling that Mr Benstrup was aware that employing me was a terrible mistake and he’d sent me to Romania to give me time to realise it myself. Who cared about the Romanian film industry?
I realised that Vasile was talking to me. ‘Sorry?’
‘I was asking whether you had ever worked in film. Maybe behind the scenes, acting, or even scriptwriting?’
‘Screenwriting. I haven’t, no.’
Vasile looked surprised. ‘No desire to write for film?’
‘Not really.’
‘But maybe other kinds of writing?’
This was getting too close for comfort. I began to wonder if he’d been in my room at other times and seen my book on journalism. I had been drunk the other night, but I definitely remembered turning the key. Even if the grumpy woman had a spare, and I was sure she did, my key would have stopped another getting into the keyhole. If he had been in my room, he might have read my notebook on ideas for articles. I shifted in my seat, signalled to the waiter for more coffee, and changed the subject.
‘I want some time to get cleaned up after breakfast. Shall we chat for an hour before lunch?’
‘We can start then, and carry on over lunch. Good idea.’
I sat up straight and clenched my hands. One more day. One more, and I could leave.
I managed to escape Vasile after learning more than I would ever need to know about the evils of Hungary, and the wonders of Vlad Ţepeș, who I was pretty certain was well known for impaling people. Vasile hadn’t mentioned that.
Outside, finally alone, I let the hot wind blow me along Calea Victoriei in the opposite direction to the day before. I visited the National Museum of Romanian History, or a tiny part of it before I was told they were closing, and felt annoyed with myself that I hadn’t used my first few days to visit more of it. I’d just stayed in, as I was told, and waited for Vasile to arrange the trip to Buftea, or listened to Vasile ramble on and on, when there were places like this to see. What a waste of my time here.
I didn’t return to the hotel straight away, but wandered down towards the river which ran through Bucharest. When I got there, there was only river on the right of me. The left side had been covered over by road, hidden within a tunnel. I went right up to the water, crossing the tram lines, and leaned on the balcony, watching the water disappear into the hole. I listened to the cream and red trams passing behind me and the odd car rumbling along. There was black graffiti on the concrete bank, but I couldn’t guess what it said. Further along there was a red star with a black line through it.
On the far side of the river there was a woman sweeping the street, and a man passing her with a kind of urn strapped to his back. It had a long spout, and he offered the cup to her, but she shook her head. I felt that I shouldn’t be watching. It seemed to be a private moment, even on the street. This part of Bucharest didn’t feel like a capital city at all, but a village. After living in London I had got used to adverts, noise and lights everywhere. Here they didn’t even have streetlights at night.
I felt the inevitable shadow of someone standing next to me.
‘Not again,’ I said, but it wasn’t him. It was Mihaela, blushing, and looking down. ‘Sorry, Mihaela. I thought it was Vasile.’
She looked up at me, smiling awkwardly. She had make-up on now, blue eyeshadow and bright pink lipstick, so she looked even younger than usual. Was she even eighteen? She reached out and put a hand on top of mine. She was blinking so much to keep back the tears that it began to make my eyes water too. My heart sank. Someone had told her to do this.
‘Mihaela,’ I said, ‘you’re very lovely, but I think you should know that I have met a girl in London. I would very much like to have a walk with you, though.’
That got a genuine smile. I held my arm out and she slid her hand through the gap. We walked left, along the invisible river and she began to point out interesting buildings, ignoring a poster of Ceaușescu looking paternal.
We crossed the road onto a little patch of green, scaring off a handful of dusty sparrows, and she pointed out where the river re-emerged.
‘It used to flood all the time, so they put it underground,’ she said.
How symbolic.
‘It’s a very beautiful city,’ I said.
Mihaela glanced around, and shivered. ‘It was.’ She held her hand out to me and I hesitated before taking it. Her fingers were so small, her palm rough.
‘Ted, please could I ask you a favour?’
‘Like what?’
‘I have a sister in England, and I haven’t seen her since our mother died. Could you take my mother’s ring back to England for her?’
I hesitated. I wanted to help her, but at the back of my mind was the thought that this was something I shouldn’t do. And yet, if I didn’t, my flight could be postponed again.
‘Of course. We should go back,’ I said. ‘It’s cold without a jacket.’
She looked at my jacket, my covered arms, and said, ‘You won’t give me your jacket because you love your girlfriend. Yes?’
‘I can lend you my jacket,’ I said, but she put her other hand on mine.
‘Tell Vasile that is why. I don’t want to get into trouble.’
Then she let go of my hand and we walked back in the direction of the hotel. All the while I thought about what I’d said. I didn’t know Julia well at all, and using her as an excuse felt cheap.
Had Vasile wanted to use Mihaela to get my jacket? I remember thinking that maybe he was stealing a pair of my trousers while I was out, but it wasn’t a pair of trousers that I discovered were missing, but the notes I’d made from the meeting with Marku. I could have thrown them away by accident, but I didn’t think I had.
CHAPTER 7
On the way to the airport, Vasile was more excitable than usual, his leg jiggling up and down. He rolled
down the car window and let the dust blow in.
‘Fresh air. It’s the best.’ He rolled it up again, and tried to push his hair down. ‘Will you send me a copy of the article when it is published?’
‘On Drăgan?’
‘Yes, maybe, yes, OK. But the one on tourism too.’
‘If it’s published, you mean. I don’t know where you live, though. Where would I send it?’
‘To the hotel. They know me there now.’
‘Probably.’ I was trying to think whether I’d taken everything from the bathroom. It felt as if something was missing. It wasn’t my trousers, or the jacket I was wearing.
The driver pulled up at the airport entrance, and Vasile fetched my suitcase from the boot.
‘I can take it from here,’ I said.
‘No! You are a guest in my country. I will carry your suitcase. Nici o problema, my good friend.’
I followed him into the building, and he went straight to the plastic seats of a small bar.
‘One last drink for the journey.’
‘Just coffee for me,’ I said. I checked my watch. Enough time for a last effort at conversation. I would be happy when I could walk around unhindered by the thoughts that spilled from his head. He put my suitcase next to a table.
‘Sit down, I will get it.’
I took a flimsy seat and sat down gingerly. It didn’t collapse. I checked where Vasile was, and then leaned forward to pull my suitcase towards me, and clamped it between my legs. Now I had my case, my passport and my tickets, he couldn’t stop me catching my flight, and I could relax. I noticed how tight my shoulders were, and I rotated them before stretching my shoulders back.
‘We have very good treatments here,’ said Vasile, putting two coffees on the table. ‘You should have said if you were suffering from muscle pains. Was the bed not good?’
‘It was fine. I’m just anxious that my employer will be cross that I took longer than was agreed.’ The bill had been bigger than I was expecting, even taking into account the extra days. I’d handed over the American Express card that Mr Benstrup had entrusted me with. What else could I do?
The Starlings of Bucharest Page 4