Book Read Free

The Starlings of Bucharest

Page 21

by Sarah Armstrong


  CHAPTER 34

  I typed two pages, half a page on each film, and then I went for another swim. I had more to say than I realised and while swimming I thought of more I could add. When I got back to the house Eva was there. She gave me the old festival reviews to read while she made dinner, and I made notes on my pages about what to cut and what to add.

  ‘Tell me about meeting Mircea Drăgan,’ she shouted from the kitchen.

  ‘I would, but I don’t think I did meet him. I think it was someone pretending to be him.’

  She looked around the doorway, her hands covered in flour. ‘Why is that?’

  I was struck by how much she reminded me of my mother, apron and floured hands.

  ‘It was just a feeling I got. He seemed anxious to please Vasile, and I didn’t think an award-winning director would be so deferential. He also didn’t physically match the way Alan described the real one.’

  ‘Did you say anything to this Vasile?’

  ‘No. He would never have admitted it. He was on a big sales job for Romania and old Vlad. I couldn’t trust anything he said.’

  ‘Did you tell anyone that you didn’t think it was the director?’

  ‘No. If I’d told my boss he’d have been even angrier about the bill.’

  ‘What was wrong with the bill?’

  ‘Vasile had put all of his drinks on my bill, and ordered the most expensive wines in Romania.’

  ‘You could tell them, the Secu. They would be interested. They’d probably refund your whole bill and Mr Benstrup would be happier.’

  The Secu? That suggested a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. ‘No. I won’t be telling the Securitate anything.’

  ‘Ah, they’re full of great stories. The US diplomat, did you hear about his shoes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He sent them to be resoled and the Secu put a bug in the heel. Then one of them seduced his wife.’

  I shuddered. She smiled and went back to the chicken breasts. I had eaten chicken Kiev in the restaurants, and I was glad she’d picked this to cook. I didn’t feel guilty for not helping. I could sense that something was coming. The tension in her shoulders showed that she was working up to it as she talked it over with the dog. If I’d had just a few words of Russian I could have been spying on her. That was what she was, I was pretty certain. The only question was, what did she want from me?

  She shouted through, ‘I left your shoes at the bottom of the stairs, if you need them.’

  ‘With or without a bug?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t request a bug.’

  Over dinner she told me more about Bucharest, the coal pollution and disasters which were kept secret from the population, the disappeared people. We’d finished eating before she finally spoke about anything of consequence to me.

  ‘Do you want to know why I invited you to stay, Ted?’

  I tensed my hands. This was it.

  ‘I miss my son. I miss England. You remind me of both, and I am glad that we could spend this time together.’

  Son and parent. No, that wasn’t it.

  ‘I think there’s a way we can help each other. Everything that I would like to do for Alexander, I can do for you instead.’

  I waited.

  ‘I think, during your time in Moscow, you’ve come to a realisation. The people who say that they’re on your side aren’t always. As we both know him, let’s take Christopher as an example. He will never have to worry about money. If he loses one job, he’ll have three more to choose from. Family money, class connections, nothing will ever not work in his favour. You, on the other hand, are living week to week. If you have a debt it becomes an insurmountable burden. It never goes down. A lot of this is assumption, so correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t believe that your parents can give you any assistance.’

  ‘No, that’s true.’

  ‘Now, think about how easy that was to say here, and how hard it would be in some places in England. The British behave as if poverty is a character failing. The country has to limit their electricity, but those with money get around that. If the rubbish isn’t collected, they can pay someone to make that go away too. What I want to do, what we all want to do here, is to level that playing field for people like you, Ted.’

  I wanted to believe her. I really wanted to. It all sounded right.

  ‘You’ve had a bit of time here to think about things calmly. You know that all you have had is breathing space and choices. The leisure that money and security can bring.’

  ‘I’m not staying here. I don’t want to live here. Life isn’t as easy as you are making out, and people aren’t as happy as you pretend.’ I thought of the angry waitresses, the sullen hotel floor attendants, the way no one quite looked you in the eye.

  ‘I’m not asking you to stay. Your flight is booked for Monday.’

  I felt deflated. Only two more days. I nearly asked if I could stay longer, the festival went on until Wednesday, but of course I couldn’t. This was her home. She had a job which wasn’t looking after me.

  ‘Do you mean you’re offering me money?’

  ‘Not exactly. I read through your review, and I’ve made some suggestions on it. Generally you have shown a good sense of which stories should and shouldn’t be told. You didn’t tell anyone about the fake director or the grasping Vasile.’

  ‘I told you.’

  ‘Because you knew you could trust me.’

  Did I? ‘What are you offering?’

  ‘You’ve probably been looking at routes into journalism. There are two options for postgraduate diplomas in newspaper journalism. The London School of Journalism, or City University who will open their Department of Journalism next year.’

  ‘Postgraduate courses? I don’t have any qualifications.’

  ‘We will be able to give you certificates noting your O Levels, A Levels and a degree in English Literature. Or politics. Whichever you prefer. It will be from one of the smaller, newer universities. You didn’t get a first, I’m afraid.’ She smiled.

  I drank some wine.

  ‘At twenty-two, you are just the right age for this to work.’

  ‘But why? What is in it for you?’

  ‘First, I can help you achieve what you deserve. Second, there are certain stories which we would have an opinion on which we could explain to you. You would never be under any obligation to follow our line, just be a friendly ear. We may be able to give you stories that are being suppressed. But you can be certain that our focus will always be on the working men and women of Britain.’

  ‘But I wouldn’t be told to write anything?’

  ‘Never. Let’s take a walk down to the lake.’ The dog followed her, as always. ‘Third is a personal reason.’ She put a hand on my arm to stop me. ‘One day I might want to return to Britain. I want to see my son and I want to see the England where I grew up. You could help me with that.’

  We continued walking.

  ‘They’re going to suspect something like this, aren’t they? Christopher and the rest of them.’

  Eva shrugged. ‘They can’t prove anything, as long as you don’t tell them, and we have all the contacts you might need. You don’t have to say anything now. You have until Monday to decide. I won’t say any more about it, but I will answer all your questions fully and honestly until that happens.’

  We reached the water’s edge and stood there silently. The water moved, the birds fluttered in and out of the trees and the clouds sped on.

  ‘Is that your dog?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know a Lubya who is a cosmonaut?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Where did you buy the food we’ve eaten here?’

  ‘In a special elite food shop. I got permission because you are a guest in my country, and all guests are privileged here.’

  There was a glint in her eye, as if she was waiting for me to ask a specific question.

  ‘What did you think of the review?’

  ‘A little stilted. You
need more practice, and I would cut the section on Girl from Hanoi. It won’t be published, so sometimes it’s best to make these decisions ourselves. I am pleased you saw it and liked it. If you want more writing practice, you could write up your time in Romania.’

  Ana, Marku and Vasile. And Ingrid.

  ‘I’d be happy to read it over and give you some pointers. Translating goes hand in hand with editing.’

  ‘Did you tell me the truth about what happened to Ana?’

  ‘Yes, I was told she died. It’s not something which I enjoyed telling you. Did Ingrid tell you something different?’

  ‘No. You know what she said. You translated it.’

  Eva smiled.

  ‘Will Ingrid get in trouble?’

  ‘Do you think she should?’

  I spoke without thinking. ‘No. I am not sure that she was responsible.’

  ‘Because she’s only a translator?’ said Eva, but she had turned her face to the dog and I couldn’t see her expression.

  I thought of another question. ‘Do I get a code name?’

  She looked up and laughed. ‘You have one already.’

  I wasn’t sure if that was a joke, but her smile was wide and I smiled too. That look in her eye faded and I suspected I had lost a chance to know what I needed to know. She took my arm and we walked along the water’s edge, past other houses, through their trees and under their sky.

  I felt she had answered all my questions truthfully, but still had the sense that I had forgotten to ask the big question.

  ‘Have you read Darkness at Noon, Ted?’

  ‘Some of it. I never got to the end.’

  ‘Do you remember the bit about Cell 14? The worst, more dangerous place that anyone could be sent, the threat that made everyone break down and confess?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It wasn’t real. It didn’t exist. It’s the most important thing to take from that book. The threats people hold over us are most often imagined. We even create them for ourselves.’ She sighed. ‘I love England, and this place reminds me of it.’

  I knew what she meant. It was calm and green, but only on the surface.

  ‘There’s a place on the east coast that faces west. That’s where I think of, sometimes.’

  It sounded familiar. ‘I think I’ve been there.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that,’ she said. Her hand tightened a little on my arm, then relaxed. ‘Let’s go inside.’

  KGB Second Chief Directorate

  2nd Department: British Commonwealth

  ‘FISHERMAN’ BACKGROUND REPORTS:

  FOR ADDITION TO WALKER FILE

  Suzanne Prout – Plumstead Train Station

  17.16 18th July

  Early 20s, navy blue cord trousers, pale blue blouse and denim jacket over her arm. Small patent leather handbag.

  I started a conversation with this subject on the platform at Plumstead Train Station as she travelled home after work. She tightened the hold on her handbag as I approached, and remained tense throughout. She refused to discuss where she worked or anyone she worked with. I took the same train. She alighted at Charlton and I stayed on until Maze Hill.

  Dorothy Cunningham – 159 Griffin Road, Plumstead

  14.27 20th July

  Late 40s, answered the door wearing a stained housecoat, unbrushed curly, brown hair, bare legs and brown slippers.

  Having failed to ascertain a time when the house was unoccupied, I assumed the role of someone looking for a lodging house. She happily told me that Ted was a ‘right weirdo, never here’ and ‘that Barry was a nosy bastard’ (no surnames offered for either lodger). She wouldn’t mind getting rid of either of them. She seemed to be attracted to me, so I played on this. I asked if I could have a look around Ted’s room, as it sounded as if he might be leaving soon.

  She said, ‘It’s the one at the front, my best room. But I don’t have a spare key. I did, but I can’t find it. I’ll have to get a locksmith, and you know how much those buggers charge.’

  We chatted for a while longer, and she invited me in for a cup of tea. I asked if I could call back later with some fish and chips, and she agreed.

  I brought fish and chips and two bottles of wine and returned at 17.46. We heard Barry come in at 18.12 and the footsteps in his room were clear as he moved around. After we had eaten she drank most of the two bottles and had fallen asleep by 21.57. I conducted a search of her living room and bedroom, but there was nothing of interest. I wiped over all handles and hard surfaces which had been touched before putting on the gloves.

  I waited until 00.04 and, as I hadn’t heard any noise from Barry’s room for over an hour, I went upstairs intending to pick the lock of the target’s room. On reaching the landing, and having made no noise, I was surprised by Barry opening his door allowing the light from his room to illuminate the landing. From his expression I do not believe that it was a deliberate interception, but he had seen my face. I had to react quickly and left the residence at 00.11.

  CHAPTER 35

  I woke with the feeling that I’d forgotten something, then I remembered my conversation with Eva. Had I decided? No, I had until Monday. Nothing was fixed.

  Wainwright’s list of checks for a society kept popping into my head. Are the shops empty, transport links broken, the utilities not functioning, are there too many police evident? Do people look tired and hungry? To my lengthened list, I would now add, are people too scared to look you in the eye?

  I heaved my legs over the side of the bed and put my head in my hands. If I accepted Eva’s offer, I could train properly as a journalist, but someone in Russia would always hold something over me. Yet Eva seemed to care about getting me home, and that was enough for me to think about agreeing for now.

  She was frying bacon in the kitchen. ‘I’ve been thinking, Ted. You need a bit of practice, and we are always in need of articles for our newspapers. You have the review to take back for your magazine, but how about you write an article on visiting Moscow for us?’

  I leaned against the cupboards. Had she seen the notes that I had made? ‘Vasile asked me to write an article on the Romanian tourist industry.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I didn’t trust him. He told me, rather than asked me, and he expected me to do it for free.’

  ‘I can pay you. I have contacts who would be interested. Let me think over what we can offer you, while we eat.’ She got two plates out. ‘Go outside. I’ll bring it.’

  I walked outside, the wind blowing my hair into my eyes. I never had got a haircut. One of the chairs had been blown to the far side of the garden. As I picked it up I wondered how a heavy wooden chair could be moved like that.

  Eva brought the eggs and bacon out, went back in and returned with cups of coffee.

  ‘You don’t think it’s too windy?’ I said.

  ‘I love the wind. Everything goes a little mad, unpredictable.’

  She pointed at the dog who was alert, head up, sniffing at all the little signs coming her way. She jumped and skittered around the garden.

  I ate the food quickly, but the wind had taken all the heat from the coffee by the time I drank it.

  Eva watched the dog playing with the blowing leaves. ‘Ted, do you owe money?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘It seems to be a concern of yours, but not for yourself. I would guess that you have a debt you want to pay off.’

  She was exactly right, but had she really got that from small hints? But then, no one could have told her.

  ‘I do owe some money, yes.’

  ‘And how much do you need?’

  ‘I have £79 saved. I owe £140. I thought I’d be able to keep the price of food down, but it’s difficult as there’s nowhere to cook where I live.’

  ‘And that £61 would leave you with a clean slate? Nothing owed, nothing saved?’

  I nodded. ‘I should never have taken the money. My mum had always said that whe
n my dad sold the boat they’d put that money with their savings and visit her sister in Sydney. They haven’t seen each other since 1957. Do you know how the prices have dropped in the last few years?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Going to visit became a real possibility. My mum wanted to go over for spring there, which is autumn here. I persuaded her to lend me £140 without telling Dad and swore I’d get it back to her in six months. That would be August, next month, so they could fly in September. She’d paid the deposit and everything, but whatever I seem to do, the amount I’ve saved goes down. And I’m living in a terrible bedsit with a terrible landlady and a man who steals my post, and I’m rotten at my job but I can’t leave it.’

  Eva leaned forward, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘What we can do, Ted, is pay you £20 for an article on visiting Moscow. I will translate it and it will be published in Russian. You can choose whether it goes under your transliterated name or a Russian version of Edward Walker.’

  ‘What would the Russian version be?’

  ‘How about Edik Khodunki?’

  ‘All right. I’m glad that isn’t actually my name.’

  ‘And I can add £50 to that as a refund from the Natsional who would like to apologise for taking your food vouchers and making a terrible error with your booking payment.’

  ‘They admitted it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You had all that food ready for me. I was starting to think you’d arranged it with the hotel.’

  ‘Why would I do that? I didn’t have to bring you here to talk. I could have invited you to dinner again.’ She looked amused. ‘I may know cosmonauts, but I don’t have any real power.’

  I didn’t believe that one bit. But still, to pay my parents back and have nearly ten pounds left over sounded good to me.

  ‘The other option is that you go back to the Natsional, finish watching the films and pretend none of this happened. It is entirely up to you.’

  ‘Can I think about that too?’

  ‘Of course. Are you going swimming?’

 

‹ Prev