“It’s just a bat, baby,” he whispered hugging her even tighter. “We’re almost there. Look, you can see our carriage,” he joked, in an attempt to relax the atmosphere.
The car was in the middle of the road, right as they’d left it - a sign that no man or car had crossed by.
After they got inside and started on their way, the Jeep’s strong headlights illuminating the road, they both began feeling safer. Gerard turned on the radio, letting the rhythmic music to reestablish a state of comfort.
He drove carefully, following closely the directions on the notepad. Shortly, they were on a highway flanked by houses. In the horizon were contoured mountains – or maybe just some high hills. On their surface glowed a light here and there, indicating the presence of some isolated huts.
Darkness had really fallen, but the road was brightened by street-lights. The traffic appeared quite animated, convincing the two they were back in the civilized world.
Even the GPS gave signs of life, because suddenly it started functioning again, easing the deciphering of their route.
The buildings of Cluj-Napoca were beautiful, mostly old, with their own personality, seemingly having imprinted on each brick the town’s history.
They passed by houses, churches, blocks and shops, finally reaching the place the GPS indicated as their final destination: CLINICA BATTISTE.
The building was simple, white, having two stories and a small yard, delineated by a thin fence. Lights glowed through most of the windows.
Jean-Paul had told Gerard he lived in a tiny house right next to the clinic. The two got out of the car. Stretching, they studied the surroundings.
“Let’s go inside,” he urged, taking Linda’s arm.
They climbed the few steps leading to a massive wooden door that opened easily when Gerard pushed it.
Inside, a well-illuminated corridor ended in a spiral stairway. On each side of the corridor were a few doors. On the second door along the right wall, a small sign announced: Dr. Jean-Paul Battiste. From inside came masculine voices, talking something in Romanian.
Gerard knocked then opened the door, letting Linda enter first. Two men sat on each side of a desk, in the room stuffy with cigarette smoke rings.
Although he hadn’t seen him in many years, Gerard recognized Jean-Paul immediately. He was tall and extremely thin, dressed in the white robe of their profession. While he rose to greet them in the native tongue he’d missed so much, Gerard noticed his hair was now completely grey.
“Jean-Paul, my friend, it’s so good to see you after all these years!”
He hugged his old friend tight, exclaiming enthusiastically while he was strongly grasped by the other man.
“Good to see you too, my son!” the old Frenchman replied in his rough, raspy voice that somehow managed to be friendly. For Linda’s benefit, he spoke in English, with an accent similar to Gerard’s. “Mademoiselle”, he addressed Linda, kissing her hand. “You are much more beautiful in reality than in the newspaper. A jewel of a woman!”
“Merci, monsieur!” she answered smiling. “You are very kind.”
“Judging by your voice and the smell, I can tell you haven’t quit smoking yet. Tobacco will be the end of you, mon cher,” Gerard told him. He turned to Linda:
“It’s incredible that a doctor who fights to cure other people of cancer is so careless when it comes to his own health!”
“I’m not at all careless, mon amie. Why do you think we fight to find a cure for the most nasty and terrible disease? So we can live a hundred and fifty years enjoying all the vices we love! This is Professor Blazius Olariu,” Jean-Paul introduced the other man, who had also stood. “He speaks only Romanian and Russian, so you can communicate only by signs or using truly yours as a translator.”
The man was almost an anti-Jean-Paul: short, overweight, bald and blue-eyed. He smiled at the two, nodding, then said something in Romanian.
“He says he’s happy to meet you,” Jean clarified. “He was just getting ready to leave. If he arrives home too late, his wife gets pissed.”
The professor waved them goodbye, grabbing a briefcase from the desk. He left in a hurry, closing the door silently.
“He’s a genius,” Jean told them. “He invented a procedure of tonsillectomy surgery, by melting the tonsils using liquid nitrogen. Somebody else got the credit and patented the discovery.”
“Really?” asked Linda. “He seems quite… absent-minded.”
“Appearances are deceiving, cherie! Now, let me show you to our humble home. Mariana will help you get settled. She speaks French and a bit of English, but we’ll get along,” he said smiling broadly, opening the door.
The Battiste’s house was exactly next to the clinic. It was a small building, made from grey brick, with copper-colored borders that matched the roof and front door. In the front yard, beyond a thin fence, colorful rose-bushes gave the ambient a touch of color.
They entered in a narrow hallway, where they were greeted by Madame Battiste. She was a tall slender woman, middle-aged in Gerard’s opinion. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a bun. She had extremely dark eyes, nearly black, very expressive and welcoming. Over a blue home attire she wore a pink apron around her waist.
“Mariana,” Jean told her, “here are our friends, Linda and Gerard. First, let’s show them the room they’re going to sleep in.”
“Welcome,” the woman told them in strong-accented English, smiling warmly. “It’s very nice to meet you!”
She gestured the two to follow her along the hallway. As they walked, they both admired the paintings, as well as the Romanian traditional decorations along the walls and shelves.
Theirs was the last room on the left. Mariana urged them inside, followed by Jean-Paul, who served as a translator.
“Leave your luggage here, change, then we’ll have dinner. Right next to your room is the bathroom,” he showed them. “We’ll leave you to get settled. After that we’ll be waiting for you in the living room, first door on the left. In fact, our house has only three rooms, so it’s hard to get lost. Just be careful not to stumble in our bedroom in the middle of the night!” he joked laughing. Mariana dragged him out of the room smiling chagrined and closed the door, leaving the guests alone.
The two analyzed the new surroundings. Their room was small, like the rest of the house, furnished with a big bed, two night-stands, a table, two chairs and a closet. Gerard wasn’t all that intrigued, but noticed Linda was very impressed by all the decorative objects. They’d both found out later from their host the name of every object.
The bed was covered with a colorful macat, having a complicated floral pattern. On the wall, above the bed was a carpeta – a woven colorful canvas representing a pastoral scene. On the opposite wall, next to the closet, was hanging something named goblen – a wooden-framed canvas on which were sewed in vivid colors a Virgin Mary and a tiny Baby Jesus.
What she seemed to enjoy the most were the mileuri, spread all around the house – lacy crocheted webs that decorated shelves and tables, or stood under bibelouri.
“I wonder if all these are made by Mariana’s hands,” she told him while they were unpacking their shoulder bags’ contents, arranging their clothes in the closet.
“I think so. From what I know from Jean, sewing, crocheting and weaving are her biggest passion. I believe she even sells some of this stuff. I seem to recall him saying that.”
“Fascinating!” she remarked admiringly while she was undressing, preparing to put on a simple house-dress.
“Very,” he whispered roughly in her ear, sliding behind her, enveloping her in his arms. “I just hope they don’t stumble upon us tonight!” he added, kissing the lobe of her ear.
Linda cleared her throat, stepping back reluctantly.
“Shame on you! Don’t even think we’re gonna do indecent things in the home of these decent people!”
“I’m not planning to do anything indecent, baby. We’ll hide under this wonderfully weave
d quilt. I just hope the bed doesn’t squeak.”
He winked at her, laughing when he saw the pink stains rising in her cheeks.
Chapter Seventeen
The living room was as prettily furnished as the rest of the house. In the middle of the room stood a round table surrounded by six chairs. Other furnishings included a huge book shelf, a couch and a TV which seemed to be a replica of the one in The Flinstone Family.
Dinner was delicious, consisting of ciorba de perisoare, gulas de porc and gogosi cu branza.
While Gerard talked with Jean about their business, he could hear Linda praising the food. She’d even learned a few words in Romanian, mainly food names. She asked Mariana, using English and sign language, if she could write down the recipes of the dishes they’d had. When the latter gladly agreed, she excused herself to go get her notepad.
Meanwhile, he and Jean-Paul put together a plan, describing the progress they’d made in their attempts to eradicate or at least reduce the sufferings produced by cancer.
“For now, I have four patients at the clinic. I’d like you to see them tomorrow,” his older colleague told him.
“What’s their diagnosis?”
“Well, two of the women have breast cancer. One already had a partial mastectomy, but the disease relapsed. Another one has an area covered with melanomas – here I think your treatment would come in handy if she agrees to try it. There’s also a man who, unfortunately, I don’t think has many chances left. Pancreatic cancer. He’s already in metastasis, there’s not much I can do for him,” he went on, regret roughening his voice, “maybe just send him to a hospital in the capital. I don’t know if he can handle chemotherapy, he’s very weak…”
They all kept a moment of silence, interrupted by Linda’s appearance in the doorway, wearing a puzzled expression on her beautiful face.
“Gerard, do you know where my notepad is?” she asked. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
He shrugged.
“I’ve no idea. Wasn’t it in your handbag?”
She sat again at the table.
“I usually keep it there, but I think you had it after you finished reading the road directions.”
“What directions?” Jean-Paul asked curious.
Gerard sighed, putting his fork down.
“Ah, it’s a long story, my friend. On the way here we got lost somewhere in the woods, we stumbled upon a cabin which seemed to have appeared from the last century and a woman explained us how to get here. You didn’t tell me how great this country is. From a geographical point of view it is gorgeous, but…”
He stopped abruptly, noticing Mariana and Jean weren’t eating anymore, but watching him strangely.
“What happened?”
Linda, who had also remarked their odd behavior, addressed the question to no one in particular.
“In what woods where you lost?” asked Jean.
“Some forest named Hoia or something like that… I can’t remember the exact name.”
The look the two Battiste family members exchanged, combined with the expressions on their faces had an element so strangely alarming that Gerard felt how an inexplicable shiver crosses his entire body. He knew Linda felt the same, as she grabbed his hand, uneasy. They all stood still for a long moment, until he broke the tensed inertness.
“What’s the deal? Why are you looking at us like that?”
Jean-Paul didn’t answer, just gazed at him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
“Why don’t you tell us about that thing? And who do you say gave you directions? What woman?”
Because Gerard didn’t say anything, Linda took over. She related in detail the entire episode which had taken place in the forest, concluding by saying:
“That’s why I thought Gerard had my notepad, on it was drawn the route by that woman, Madame Maria. But I can’t find it. I can’t possibly imagine where it’s disappeared,” she added perplexed.
“I don’t believe you’ll ever find it.”
Jean’s firm and somewhat somber tone seemed to tense the atmosphere even more. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Hoia-Baciu Forest?” he asked them.
The young couple looked at each other, then shook their heads in denial.
“No,” Gerard replied. “Should we have?”
“It’s quite well-known worldwide. There seems to be a very high frequency of… paranormal phenomena around there. There have been numerous documentaries, research, even pictures, recordings with UFO-s appearing to be authentic. Even Yoga and Wicca practitioners from all around the world come here, trying to explore the depths of this forest, but without much luck. Many witnesses declared that, no matter in which direction you’re heading, after maximum nine hundred feet you’ll find yourself in the same point where you left. Also, most of them claim they’ve heard strange noises. Radios, cameras, phones, composes don’t work in that area. Its nickname is The Romanian Bermuda Triangle.”
During this speech, Gerard and Linda remained quiet, listening motionless. As the older man went on speaking, the two felt cold shivers sliding down their spines. All the hairs on their bodies grew erect, like in the presence of a huge source of static energy.
Jean-Paul continued:
“Romania was formed as an official state in 1862, when Transylvania, Tara Romaneasca and Moldova were united by Alexandru Ioan Cuza, one of the most important leaders – Romanians call them domnitori or rulers – of this country. Obviously, he made many enemies, so in 1866 he was forced to abdicate, being exiled. It was speculated he had an informant, his most trusted man, whom he wanted to leave in the country.”
“I’m sorry, but what’s this history lesson got to do with what we were talking about?” Gerard interrupted.
“I’m gonna tell you in a moment. In the Hoia Forest, which back then didn’t have this name, that mysterious character and his family had build a cabin. They’d lived many years in the heart of the woods, safe, without anybody even suspecting their existence. But shortly after Cuza’s exile, the informant’s hiding was discovered. The members of the coalition that had discarded of the ruler ordered the cabin to be burned to the ground, secretly, one night, with all those who lived in it. In spite all these, even now, after two hundred years, there are plenty of people who claim to have seen the cabin in the woods from a distance, whole, untouched by flames. Generally, people prefer not to believe them or to avoid the subject. But no one has ever mentioned meeting or talking to somebody out there. The informant’s name was never known, but his wife was legendary in Transylvania, being the daughter of a great nobleman. She had run away from home to get married, triggering a huge scandal. Her name was Maria.”
Linda was shaken by a chill so strong it rattled the ice in her glass. Gerard saw her trembling hand taking the glass to her mouth, to wet her dry lips.
“What… what are you trying to tell us with this, Jean-Paul?” he asked. “That we imagined the whole thing?”
The old Frenchman remained silent for a moment then looked at his wife, who had stayed quiet, with her dark expressive eyes fixed on the guests.
“I don’t know if imagine is the correct verb for this, my friend. These so-called paranormal phenomena are not a fruit of our imagination. They are something beyond explanations or the logic we know.”
Linda lifted a hand to interrupt him.
“Wait a minute. All this is very interesting, but we perfectly know what we saw. You can doubt a single person’s word, but there’s two of us. We didn’t dream, we didn’t hallucinate. That woman was as real as you. We talked to her, she drew a route for us. What more tangible proof do you want?”
“Where is this drawing?” asked Jean.
“On that fucking notepad I can’t find,” she replied frustrated. “It must be in the car.”
“I’m going to look for it,” said Gerard. He stood abruptly, feeling the acute need to counteract this bombardment of incoherent information with action, with something concrete.
He went in their room and grabbe
d the Jeep’s keys then walked the short distance to the place it was parked, on the side of the street. He searched all the places and corners where an object could have been placed or dropped, but his efforts were in vain. He found no trace of the notepad or even of the sheet they’d used to guide them there.
In his mind, he recalled dozens of times the episode in the woods, reliving each sensation, seeing each detail of the cabin, of the woman’s appearance, each line spoken.
It seemed impossible, absolutely impossible for it not to have been real. A figment of imagination, of a dream, of another type of… phenomena? Unconceivable! Then where was that damned notepad so he can flaunt it in Jean’s face, laugh together of the theories and phantasmagorical tales he had blabbed.
He stopped suddenly, remembering something. Hurriedly, he locked the car and rushed to the house.
“The pictures!” he exclaimed entering the living room. “Linda took pictures, isn’t that a concrete proof? I don’t think the cabin actually appears in the photos, but…”
He paused, noticing Linda was in fact holding the camera, but the expression on her face was far from encouraging.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, an unpleasant feeling bearing down his shoulders, sinking his entire soul.
No one said anything for a moment. Linda looked at him with such helplessness and panic he went quickly to her, cupping her shoulders, massaging them gently.
“What happened, baby?” he asked, now thoroughly alarmed.
“They’re not here,” she replied weakly, “the pictures don’t appear anywhere. Look!”
He took the digital camera from her hands and accessed the menu which displayed the photos recorded on its memory card. Indeed, there was no trace of the pictures taken in the forest. He went over all the images twice: the beautiful landscapes they’d admired together, taken from inside of the car or on stops, the pictures they’d taken at the restaurant, images of all the dishes served, a picture he’d taken of Linda while she sassed him with her tongue out… He had found that very hilarious. However, now it was the last photo from the gallery, then the images repeated cyclically. Not a single photo from that damned forest was registered.
Mirage Beyond Flames (Coriola) Page 11