by Tony Hawks
He pointed to a big barrel on the floor and boasted that this was 40-year-old Cognac. He filled a glass and forced it into my hand, instructing Iulian to film me drinking. No doubt this was intended to be a nice little touch for the insert on The Holiday Programme which he so eagerly sought. I took a sip and announced for the camera how delightfully smooth it was, slightly irritated by the fact that I hadn't had to lie. It was delightfully smooth, but I had wanted to dislike it as much as I was beginning to dislike its purveyor. His taste buds didn't deserve to be caressed by such an exquisite flavour. When Grigorii stood over me and insisted that I knocked back all the brandy in one big swig, I obeyed. For three reasons it was a good idea; it would taste good, it would please Grigorii, and best of all it would get me slightly pissed. I was happy to lose some of my grip on reality, since reality didn't feel that good just at the moment.
When we finally left this alcoholic's paradise and began to climb the stairs, Grigorii turned and said something to me which appeared to be of some import; however, before Iulian could furnish me with the translation, I cracked my head on a low beam above my head. An almost inevitable consequence of the recent infusion of brandy. After a few moments taken by those present to ensure that I was OK and that no blood had been drawn, we continued on our way.
'What was he saying to me before that happened?' I asked Iulian. 'It seemed to be quite important.'
'It was,' came the swift reply. 'He was telling you to mind your head.'
Oh.
'I must have a word with you about how quickly you provide your translations.'
Apart from the crack on the head, another consequence of the liquor now coursing my veins was diminished fear. Just like the small bloke in the pub who's had a skinful, I wasn't going to be afraid of looking up at the hulk along the bar and saying 'Yeah? Come and have a go if you think you're hard.' The problem with this course of action is that nine times out of ten the hulk is hard and the small man usually suffers a dent to his pride, as well as one to his skull. I have always felt that it is for this reason that alcohol should carry a health warning as well as cigarettes:
WARNING: THIS LAGER MIGHT CAUSE YOU TO PICK ON SOMEONE MUCH
BIGGER THAN YOU.
Temporarily emboldened by the alcohol as I was, the next time Grigorii asked me to do a piece to camera for The Holiday Programme I was somewhat mischievous. I had been ushered into a large boardroom and deposited before a fireplace with 'Tiligul Tiraspol FC' carved in stone across it, and urged to embark on another reverential tribute to the wonderful world of Grigorii.
'Here I am in the boardroom of Grigorii Corzun,' I began, smiling for the camera and adopting my most artificial TV presenter pose. 'A man whose greatest asset is the fact that he doesn't speak English and therefore cannot understand what I am saying now. So, although I am presently gesturing to things around this room and pretending to talk about how beautiful they are, in fact I am taking this opportunity to put on record that this man is in fact the 'Arsehole of the Universe'.
Grigorii applauded. A great moment for me. I looked over to Iulian who was choking back a laugh. A minor victory had been achieved. True, we were still technically the prisoners of this man with no coherent policy for escape, but the thinking was – if you're going to get kidnapped then you may as well enjoy it.
I suppose that as unpleasant, opinionated, unwanted hosts go, Grigorii wasn't a bad one. At least he offered food, and the brandy kept flowing too. We found ourselves in a kind of dining-room area on one wall of which hung a vast wood-carved plaque depicting hunting scenes and, on another, three guns arranged in a rising diagonal just like the three birds of the stereotypical English working-class home – the key difference being that those birds very rarely get used in anger. ('Choose your weapon.' 'All right – sparrows at dawn.") Grigorii began recounting a story of how he'd been on a trip to England with the national football team and he'd ended up in a hotel bar in Manchester. One beer and a sandwich, he claimed, had cost him £25.
'You were robbed,' I said.
When Iulian duly translated, the mood in the room changed dramatically. Grigorii was not happy. His face became contorted with wrath and he suddenly turned on me with an angry tirade of words, and with an unexpected venom. I had clearly touched a nerve.
'Mr Corzun says that you have made a mistake,' said Iulian, clearly toning down the language, 'and that people in your country earn big salaries and that twenty-five pounds is what they pay for what he had.'
Twenty five pounds for a beer and a sandwich? In Manchester? This bloke was mad.
'I really don't want to stay here Iulian,' I said, while Grigorii shouted at a member of his staff in an adjoining room. When he gets back let's see if we can persuade him that we're dead keen to return here but that we can't afford to lose three days out of our schedule just relaxing here – beautiful though it is.'
'OK, I'll try, but up to now he has been really insistent that we stay.'
Yes, but I want you to go really over the top. Say that I have fallen in love with the place and that I want to start talking to some contacts back in the UK about it. Also tell him that most of my dollars are back in Chisinau and I want to be able to pay him properly for his hospitality and I can't do that until I've been back there to pick them up.'
'I will try.'
Poor Iulian, he'd never been over the top in his life. It didn't appear to be a particularly Moldovan trait
When Grigorii returned, Iulian gave it his best shot. My feeling was that we had a chance, especially since I'd mentioned that my money was somewhere else. I had this hunch that Grigorii was going to be more keen on having me around the place if my pockets were stuffed full of dollars. Another factor in our favour was that Grigorii's mood seemed to have softened since he had poured himself a soothing brandy, and for the moment I appeared to have been forgiven for slandering him over the price of beer in Manchester.
Iulian and Grigorii conversed for some minutes and I could only look on, powerless to influence events. Eventually Iulian turned to me and I braced myself for what was to come.
'Surprisingly,' said Iulian, 'Mr Corzun says that we can go back to Chisinau tonight. He says that two of his footballers will drive us to the bus station in a few minutes.'
'Unbelievable – what do you think made him change his mind?'
'I told him that you are really sincere about wanting to go into business with him.'
'Right. This could be a problem when we come back here.'
'Yes. But at least we are free to go now.'
I thanked Grigorii and promised to return with a detailed business plan, omitting to mention that I didn't know what a detailed business plan looked like. We shook hands and he produced a slightly disarming smile, and Iulian and I made our way out to the awaiting car, doing our best not to break into a sprint.
In the car, the two footballers ignored us and instead shared an animated conversation in Russian. When we arrived at the bus station Iulian told me that they had been discussing how Stroenco could make back some of the money he had lost as a result of being robbed, by charging to play me at tennis. This was a potentially expensive development. A fee for each game from the millionaire Englishman.
Our only stroke of luck in the entire day was that we made the last bus back to Chisinau by five minutes. Missing it would have meant hiring a taxi and running the risk of extensive questioning at the border. As it happened, I was questioned by a Transnistrian border guard but I felt no fear. My feelings had been numbed by the brandy, and the events of the day had left me very close to the point of just not caring any more.
The soldier asked what I had in my bag and he looked a little bemused when he was told it contained tennis rackets. For someone who'd been trained to be on the alert for cigarette smugglers and stolen cars, this was an unusual development. After a confused frown he insisted that I open up the bag and sure enough, there they were. Two tennis rackets. He shrugged and moved on. Underneath them had been a video camera which wo
uld have interested him greatly and no doubt have led to further questioning, but the tennis rackets had confused him too much and he'd simply chosen to resume his search for the conventional offender. Lucky old me.
Yes, lucky old me. At every turn things were falling nicely into place. Surely only a pessimist would have viewed the day as having been wasted. I'd had the privilege of travelling to Transnistria and back on a clapped out old bus, and even if I hadn't played any footballers at tennis and Grigorii Corzun hadn't turned out to be the dream host, at least I'd had the pleasure of traipsing horse shit into his hallway. Yes, there's always an upside to everything – you've just got to look for it.
Looking for the upside in Moldova was becoming an exhausting business. It was proving to be hidden in ever more obscure places. I looked out of the bus window and into the pitch darkness of the unlit streets and shivered for the first time. There was a nip in the air which no doubt marked the onset of Moldovan winter. I began to worry that I was going to run out of spirit. In this part of the world there wasn't enough to go round.
Some selfish bastards stockpile it all in their basements.
10
The Green One
That night was a cold one. It felt like a new kind of cold to me. A drier, more penetrative one, which chilled the bones rather than the flesh. My night's sleep hadn't been made any more comfortable by the fact that the house's central heating system appeared to be in permanent rest mode. A few days previously, Grigore had taken me round the back of the house and shown me the boiler. It was unclear whether he had been attempting to explain plans for its imminent repair or whether he was simply proud to have a boiler and was keen to show it off, working or not. Warmth, I was learning, was a luxury commodity in Moldova.
As I lay in bed shivering I remembered that Anita in Soroca had told me that the school where she taught had once been closed for three months because they had no heating, and temperatures had dropped so low that it had been deemed unwise to hold lessons in classrooms no warmer than butchers' cold stores. For me, just like freedom and not being hungry, warmth had been one of life's givens. It was something you regulated with a switch or a dial and not, as I was discovering in my bed now, by the number of jumpers you wore or blankets piled on top of you.
I didn't want to get out of bed. It was cold out there. I didn't want to see Elena's sprightly, expectant face at breakfast looking up at me and asking if I'd beaten the Transnistrian footballers. I wasn't ready to explain that all I'd done was to go there and come straight back. I wasn't ready to admit that I'd failed. Failed again. I didn't want to get out of bed. It was cold out there. Getting out of bed meant undoing what felt like my only noteworthy achievement of the trip so far, which had been to get myself warm under the covers.
My other problem was that I didn't really know what to do with my day. I'd said I'd meet Iulian at the Journalism Centre but the truth was that I had absolutely no idea what we were going to do when we got there. I was running out of ideas, and bed seemed a much better option than trying to think of any. There was little doubt in my mind that I'd probably achieve more today by staying under my nice warm blankets than I would by going to meet Iulian. He wouldn't mind if I stood him up, he was probably sick to death of assisting a man in the fruitless pursuit of footballers and had a far more intellectually rewarding way of spending his time.
One idea saved me, at least temporarily, from this bed-ridden gloom, and it was simple enough. Working on the assumption that the presidents of these football clubs shared the same character traits as Grigorii Corzun, I contrived a new approach which would appeal to the largest part of these men. Their egos. It might be a long shot, but it had one significant thing going for it – it gave me a reason for getting out of bed.
At the Journalism Centre I ran my new idea past Iulian.
'I'm not sure that this will work,' he immediately retorted.
Such a frustrating response, and I'm afraid I was lacking the patience of the first week.
Well of course you're not sure,' I whined, barely concealing my irritation. 'I'm not sure either. But if we only did things in life that we were sure of, the world would be a pretty dull place.'
Moldova, in fact.
'Come on Iulian,' I continued. 'Let's give it a go. Let's call The Green One.'
Valeriu Rotaru was the president of FC Constructorul, the club from which I required the services of one player – Oleg Sischin. Everyone knew Rotaru by his nickname –The Green One, which was coined from the fact that his football team wore bright green shirts. According to the sports journalist Leonid, this man had quite a reputation. His business dealings aside, in the world of football it had been alleged that he had beaten up referees whose decisions had displeased him. Whether or not this was true Leonid did not know, but certainly the Green One commanded a great deal of respect. At least you knew where you stood with him. As far away as possible. This was not a man who was keen on delegation, being president, owner, manager and coach of Constructorul, and on the occasions when he was ill, he would hand his coaching role over to his daughter. Who else could he trust but someone of his own blood? The Green One clearly had an enormous ego, and consequently was exactly what I was after. I had lost my mind of course, but being on the very brink of surrender, I was willing to try anything. This man was about to be the guinea pig for my new plan. A new plan which involved some deception.
That's amazing,' said Iulian, hanging up the phone. 'He has agreed to see you, but it has to be right away because he is going to training later this afternoon.'
'Blimey, and you told him the things I asked you to say?'
'Yes, I think that's why he wants to see you now. Let's go.'
Iulian grabbed his coat and tossed mine over to me. Things had never happened this quickly here before. The new plan was working rather well.
We struggled out of the busy maxi taxi outside the offices of FC Constructorul, offices where we'd received an unhelpful brush-off on our first visit on my second morning. Things were very different now – we were the guests of the head honcho. Nevertheless I hesitated as we reached the doorway.
'What's the matter?' said Iulian.
'I'm just going over in my head what I'm going to ask him. I'm a little nervous.'
'Me too. Try not to make him angry.'
'OK'
We were taken up a flight of stairs by an uncharismatic security man whose unfaltering glumness made him a natural for the job (he'd always have struggled in showbusiness.) We were shown into a bright, airy office and told to wait. I sat down on one of the black leather seats and began rehearsing my questions, while Iulian rigged the camera up on its tripod.
After an uneasy few minutes there was a noisy babble of Russian outside the door and then in came a large beer-gutted man in his fifties with a well-worn, almost gnarled face. The Green One. A slightly perspiring Iulian made feeble introductions.
'Mr Rotaru – Tony Hawks.'
We shook hands, and in so doing we momentarily united two utterly divergent lifestyles. Mine – gentle and creative; his – peremptory and aggressive. Feeling rather weedy, I tried too hard to produce a firm handshake and this resulted in a contortion of my facial muscles giving me the appearance of someone about to go into a seizure. It may have been the firmest grip I could offer but my hand was still crushed by the strength of The Green One, who no doubt had more experience in the art of adversarial greetings. For me, this was a new experience. I had never met this type of man before. You tend not to run across them that much during recordings of Radio Four panel shows or book signings in Chipping Norton.
Our host moved over to his desk, sporting a figure which belonged more in a restaurant than a track suit. I suddenly found myself wondering why it is that overweight people wear track suits. Do they feel this gives them the appearance of being fit and sporty? If so, then theirs is an admirable self-delusion. The gut may be huge, but the track suit somehow proves they're still in touch with their bodies (even if they haven't seen the
ir genitalia for a month) and they know that the gym is only a cab ride away. Mr Rotaru went one better by wearing a track suit and, rather splendidly, smoking a cigar. Now what did that mean? Probably that he owned the gym.
'Is the camera running?' I asked Iulian, who nodded back. 'Right in that case, let's start the interview.'
Iulian took up his translating position and I cleared my throat and posed my first question for the President of FC Constructorul who was eyeing proceedings with some suspicion.
'Mr Rotaru, you are trainer and president of this club. Is it difficult to perform both roles?
Iulian duly translated.
'Da,' said Mr Rotaru.
'I see. And is it true that two years ago you won the championship?'
Once again, Iulian's translation, followed by a blunt 'Da'.
'I see. And was that a proud moment for you?'
Another 'Da'. This wasn't going well.
Mr Rotaru shuffled in his seat and fidgeted with the papers on his desk. He drew a long puff on his cigar. Were we beginning to try his legendary brittle patience? I took a moment to glance at the camera gently whirring behind me. It looked small and unimpressive. Was this really the kind of camera the BBC would provide for making a documentary about football in Moldova? I was relying on The Green One's displaying a naivety in television technology consistent with his name, as well as my own performance being of such aplomb that it would be hard to imagine that I was anything other than a top TV* sports pundit. Just at this moment neither of these were apparent. The yarn we had spun was in danger of unravelling. For the second day running I found myself enduring an uncomfortable and potentially explosive liaison with a powerful Moldovan entrepreneur. This was so far from my original perception of what winning this bet might involve. I had envisaged meeting the jovial semi-professional players as they left their respective workplaces, and arranging to play them at tennis, before going on to dine and drink with their family and friends. Not this. It was all going horribly wrong.