The Starlings of Bucharest

by Sarah Armstrong

  MINISTRY OF THE INTERIOR

  OFFICER’S NOTE – CONCLUSIONS

  The subject has potential drawbacks. The meandering journey on Day 5 and unresolved purpose of the cigarette packet leave some points unanswered. Equally the unfinished letters retrieved from the bin could have been left there on purpose to confuse our picture of him, yet they tally with other reports of his behaviour. He rejected NICO, but also claims to be in the early stages of an emotional attachment. The biggest concern is that he put the notes (from his discussion with STARLING) in the bin, having agreed to a course of action that either he did not mean to stick to, or meant to at the time and reneged on. The uncertainty over the behaviour of STARLING (below) makes this difficult to ascertain. (It has further been noted that STARLING has an uncle who heavily invested in a hotel in the area he is promoting. The service cannot and should not be used for this kind of personal or familial advantage.) We wait to hear whether the subject successfully delivers the package.

  Conversely, the subject has many positive attributes from our perspective. He is agreeable company, he is not overtly political and does not try to promote the Western form of society. Neither does he mention the differences between his social experiences and material goods and our own. He did not offer any provocations, and he did not submit to any. He appeared to be open to different points of view, and is accommodating to the point of being malleable. Most importantly, he took the proposal of finding out information for the unknown Romanian as an important assignment. This could be from a sense of honour, a willingness to please, or a deception (although this is thought unlikely).

  This introduces one of the pressure points we have identified. This sense of honour or willingness to please could stem from a low self-esteem which would be easy to manipulate. His interest in how much things cost could indicate that he has little income, or has recently had little. The letters offer another approach: there is something he feels he needs to apologise for to a parent concerning a promise, a repayment and forgiveness. If this were to be linked with honour and money, it might suggest that he owes them a debt that he cannot currently pay (he defers the payment rather than rejects it). Therefore, our assumption is that all three pressure points are linked by the third.

  The potential complications related to our source in the London office have been assessed to be slight. The subject would not know her by the name of ‘Nadia Osipova’. Nevertheless, she has been alerted to the issue.

  It is unlikely that the subject will return to Bucharest specifically or Romania more generally so it has been agreed that this file will be passed by STARLING to Colonel ——— through the usual channels, in the hope that it strengthens the bond between our two organisations and produces reciprocal information.

  Additionally, LEAF was very impressed with ZAMFIR, and she has agreed to undergo further training.

  LONDON

  CHAPTER 8

  On the plane the man who sat next to me, stinking of cheap Romanian cigarettes, looked at me in a way which was unsettling until I realised that he just wanted to try one of my Kent cigarettes. He didn’t speak English, so we exchanged signs. The meal was standard and dry, the wine was sharp, and I woke up as we landed.

  All very uneventful, and yet I felt like kissing the tarmac at Heathrow, like a sportsman who has come home with the trophy. After I’d dumped the notes, I’d nearly convinced myself that Vasile was going to storm back in to prevent me getting aboard my plane. Those policemen from the lake would appear and drag me off somewhere dark and cold.

  But, no. I had my suitcase, with trousers, and I was through customs with only the standard amount of guilty eye evasion, and on my way to the train. I had an unnatural affection for my fellow British men, and thought, maybe this is why people go abroad. The grumpy businessmen had a new charm as I joined them on the way to the train, and I looked around with a sense of affection before I spotted a familiar face. I struggled to remember his name. Mr Attridge, of course. The business card. Which I’d now lost, it being inside the book I’d given to Vasile.

  He removed his hat to wave it at me, and made his way through the people waiting on the platform.

  ‘Mr Walker, how was your trip? First time abroad, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was interesting, thank you.’ I felt my hand creeping to cover the pocket with the ring box. He noticed the movement but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Did you achieve everything you wanted?’ he asked.

  ‘Eventually, yes.’ I hadn’t thought about how I was going to explain what happened. ‘Thank you for your warnings about the friendly ladies.’

  ‘Oh.’ He waved his hat again. ‘We businessmen have to look out for each other.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go and meet someone who is landing. I’ll see you soon, I expect.’ A final wave of the hat, and he strode back towards the terminal. His dark suit was entirely smooth, as if pressed moments ago. I would have to ask for tips, as my trousers looked as if I had slept in them. I thought of Vasile. At least I had two pairs.

  When he’d disappeared, I exhaled. I didn’t know what I was going to do about this ring. I’d take the box apart properly when I got home, and see what was there. I wondered how much it was worth, just for a moment. Just if I couldn’t find out who to get it to.

  I sat down on the train, watching people get on and off as we headed towards London. They were heading for home with food and spare trousers, and I was glad I didn’t have to go back to Romania. Being in a country like that made everything feel not quite as stable as it used to. Governments could change, wars could break out, and everything you were ever confident about could disappear. At least here, should someone speak to me, I’d know it was just because they were interested in what I had to say. I was of no more value than anyone else. And I could understand what they were saying behind my back.

  On the underground I noticed a woman sitting opposite who I was sure had got on the train after me at Heathrow. She had black hair, brushed high and thick, and vibrant red lipstick. She was reading a book titled in another language, Sonnenfinsternis. The author was Arthur Koestler. The novel that I had given Vasile, Darkness at Noon, was by him too. The woman glanced at me and I looked away. At the next stop the seat on my left became free and she swapped seats to sit next to me. The tube started to move again and I kept my gaze fixed on the dark blur outside the window, not her reflection.

  She leaned towards me, her perfume pungent.

  ‘Do you have something for me?’ She had a strong accent, but I didn’t know what it was.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She tapped her finger. I fumbled in my pocket and pulled out the ring box. She took it and kissed my cheek. I looked around to see if anyone had seen, and then focused back into the darkness. She got off at the next stop and I watched her walk away, her book in one hand. Was that the right thing to do? How on earth did she know who I was?

  Still shaken, I paused at Charing Cross for a sandwich and a mug of tea from a stall outside. I had to decide whether to face Mrs Cunningham first, or try to get my pay for the week from Mr Benstrup. Or I could see if Julia was around. Home, work, and then Julia.

  I’d noticed people looking at me oddly, and as I got on the train I noticed in my reflection a smear of red on my cheek. Lipstick. I tried to rub it off all the way to Plumstead, but it just seemed to spread itself over my face.

  Seeing the long stretch of Victorian terraces all the way up Griffin Road made me feel safe. I let myself into my boarding house halfway up the steep hill, closed the door and listened for Mrs Cunningham’s footsteps. Every Friday, at each sound of the front door, she would race to her private entrance which kept the downstairs separate to the rooms she let out upstairs. She poked her head around the door and frowned.

  ‘You gonna have my money by six?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ I checked my watch. It was half past four already.

  ‘In and out, I don’t know. You’ll wear the door out.’ Her frizzy curls bounced as she moved her head
in demonstration. ‘Where ya been? Haven’t seen you in days.’

  ‘I went to Bucharest. I did tell you.’

  ‘I don’t think you did tell me, and that Barry didn’t know either. Next time leave a note, or I’ll end up letting your room to someone else.’

  ‘But I paid my rent.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ She closed the door.

  She wasn’t kidding. She kept the advert up in the Co-op on the off-chance, or in the hope, that me or Barry would do a midnight flit. Ever since I’d moved in, I’d only seen her face poking around the door and, in my nightmares, she’d become a disembodied head. From my room, at the front, I could hear the radio on all day. Other than that, I had no idea how she spent her time. There was no sign of a Mr Cunningham and I thought he’d had a lucky escape, even if that meant he’d died.

  I looked upstairs and my heart sank. I’d got used to not having to lock any doors when I used the bathroom attached to my hotel room in Romania. Here, Barry would be straight into my room, going through my things. Every single time I’d forgotten to lock my door, I’d found him in there, ‘looking for me.’ He never had a reason why he wanted to see me, though.

  I took my suitcase to my room, and unpacked it on the bed. I took the hotel receipt and the credit card, changed my shirt, and scrubbed my face before I left the house again.

  I walked back down Griffin Road and, at the bottom of the hill, turned right at the station, past the Radical Club, and ran up the two flights to the offices of International Film Monthly. Suzanne had already left her desk, but Mr Benstrup was still in, his cough giving him away.

  ‘Ted!’

  He said it as if he’d heard I died, and was more surprised than pleased to see me. I often had the impression that with his wide and varied repertoire he was waiting to be spotted by an agent. An agent who specialised in the more mature man. Definitely a character actor.

  ‘Come for your wages, have you, even though I expected you back days ago?’

  I took the papers from my pocket and spread them out. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Benstrup. The interview was delayed, and the hotel cancelled my flight twice without asking. I did get the interview though, and it’s all ready to type up.’

  He looked at the receipt. ‘Don’t you think this is a lot?’

  ‘It’s in leu, so I wasn’t sure. It did seem more than I was expecting, but I thought I might have worked out the conversion rate wrong. And it was extended from three days to seven, which might explain it. I didn’t have any choice. They kept cancelling my reservations.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Mr Benstrup had unfolded the hotel invoice. ‘Ted, there’s rather a lot of alcohol on here. And food. You have been entertaining, I take it?’

  ‘Is there?’

  He turned the invoice around and I saw that it contained not only what I’d had, but everything that Vasile had consumed too.

  ‘My guide wouldn’t leave me alone. He ate with me every night,’ I stuttered, ‘but I had no idea that I was paying for it.’

  ‘You weren’t paying it, though, were you?’

  I hadn’t even told him about the tape recorder yet.

  ‘You’ve been here six weeks, Ted. We don’t know each other well, but I expected more of you. You know what I’m aiming for. An internationally renowned film magazine. It’s in the title. But, if I can’t trust you to manage my money…’

  He was going to cancel Moscow. That was fine with me. In fact, if I’d known this was a possible outcome I’d have invited more people to the table. I needed the job until I found something else, but it was going to be impossible to look around properly if I kept going away.

  ‘Ted, I’m going to have to think about this over the weekend.’ He looked about as devastated as I felt. ‘See you on Monday. By the way, Suzanne is very angry that you didn’t let us know where you were. You might want to apologise to her.’

  I was dismissed. At the bottom of the stairs I slumped against the wall. No big date for me and Julia. I’d dip into my savings, again, to pay Mrs Cunningham her rent. Next week things would get sorted out.

  I walked up to The Old Mill on the common, just in case Julia was there, with 60p in my pocket. Enough for a pint and a packet of cigarettes before I had to face Mrs Cunningham and work out what I was going to eat this week.

  I was 2p short for a pack, inflation, so I bought five singles from behind the bar. I stretched out my pint for over an hour, but there was no sign of Julia and I went home.

  CHAPTER 9

  It took days for Suzanne to forgive me for not contacting the office. I wasn’t sure why she’d taken it so personally. I didn’t think she even liked me.

  In the weeks following my return I’d sorted my savings into piles but they kept dwindling. From the £140 I’d borrowed in February I’d only saved up £80 to give back. What with rent before I got a job, and food and too much drinking in those first weeks of freedom, and some lost along the way, clothes which became an essential, Mr Benstrup docking me wages, and £5 for the passport which I’d bought before anything else, I wasn’t doing well in saving up to pay the money back to Mum. The thinness in the sole of my right brogue had finally worn through, but it would have to wait.

  I pushed most of the money back into the biscuit tin, saving a pound for the weekend, and put it back in the bottom drawer.

  A chest of drawers, curtains, a lamp, a bed and a chair with no desk, all for £8 a week. I could have got somewhere cheaper, I realised afterwards, but by then I was keeping my head down and avoiding ‘that Barry’ across the landing. It was as badly decorated as my Bucharest hotel room, but at least that room had space to breathe and the wallpaper wasn’t peeling off. I wasn’t even sure what the chair was for, as I wasn’t allowed visitors. Just a change of scene, maybe, so I could look out onto Griffin Road in comfort, which I didn’t do.

  I had typed up the interview at work and Mr Benstrup had grunted for a while, and then decided to let me go to Moscow anyway. I knew he’d rather go himself, and I’d rather he went, but Suzanne had told me that his wife had cancelled all trips abroad for the foreseeable future. I’d seen the back of her once as she went into Mr Benstrup’s office, remembering only her fur stole and high heels and the lingering scent of her perfume, and wondered what on earth she wanted him at home for. In any case, the visa had to be applied for weeks in advance. It was me or no one. She was the reason I had a job.

  I jingled the change in my hand. A pound. I could get a sandwich and a pint and a full packet of cigarettes. That would do. But, before I got to The Old Mill, I saw Julia walking across the common. Her overlong jumper was stretched over her hands, knotted hair pulled to one side. I’d asked her once how she got it so rigid. She said, ‘soap’. From then on, I’d worried about her getting caught in the rain.

  I ran to catch up with her.

  ‘Hi,’ I said, falling into step.

  She looked at me, confused.

  ‘I’ve been away.’

  ‘Yeah? Where have you been?’

  ‘Romania.’

  She nodded.

  ‘For work. I’m a journalist.’

  She looked mildly surprised.

  ‘I thought I told you before.’

  ‘Yes. That’s good.’ She was walking fast, as if she was trying to get somewhere.

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘There’s a meeting. Isn’t that where you’re going too?’

  ‘No. I was just heading to the pub. What kind of meeting?’

  ‘The London Squatter Campaign. Wanna come?’

  I laughed nervously. ‘I can’t right now.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  ‘I was thinking, wondering, if you wanted to go out one time.’

  She frowned, as if she was trying to remember something.

  ‘I’m Ted. We talked a couple of times, last time about the Plumstead Make Merry. In June?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘You said 2p was too much for a programme. Indian dancing and piano smashing?’ This
was awful. ‘It doesn’t matter. I wondered if you’d like to see a film, or something?’

  ‘Don’t you think films just divert the masses from real life, from solving real problems?’

  Her eyes were a little unfocused, but she was looking at me and I felt, maybe, it would be worth going along to these meetings just so I could sit next to her. She wasn’t leaving yet, though. If I could just keep talking, I could keep looking at her, and the way her smudged eye make-up made her eyes look huge.

  ‘I’m going off to Moscow soon. I just had to get my visa sorted out. It’s 20p now to get a set of photos, you know, in a booth.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll be writing about Moscow?’ Now she was interested. She even pushed some hair away from her eyes.

  ‘Yes. It’s a fascinating place. I’ll be there for a couple of weeks. If you wanted to meet up before we could talk about it.’

  ‘We’re off to the Hackney marshes tomorrow.’

  ‘Your squatter group?’

  ‘And some others. I’ll see you when you get back, maybe.’

  She didn’t remember me, which was bad, but I’d had a conversation with someone that I didn’t work with, which was good. And she might remember me next time. I went for a celebratory pint.

  It was later, in bed, that the implications hit me. Julia would want to know what I had written about. She might even ask where she could read it. If I told her I’d covered films, those diversions of the masses from their miseries, she wouldn’t want to see me again. I wasn’t entirely sure that she did want to see me, other than to hear about Moscow. Did she want to know about housing? I should have asked.