The Beauty of Bucharest

by S. J. Varengo

  And getting out posed her with another coin-toss: did she backtrack and come out where she’d entered, or did she follow the hint of fresh air up the passage to the left? It had taken her several hours of twisting and turning on the paths of the underground maze to get where she was. She’d left torn scraps of paper at all of the junctions she’d encountered along the way, so getting back out in reverse shouldn’t be too difficult. Unless this was a far more elaborate trap than her gut was telling her, that would probably be the safest way to go. She knew what to expect if she went back.

  Still that faint trace of breeze was intriguing, and the thought of not having to spend a second long stint in the dank environs of the catacombs had its own appeal.

  “Relaxați-vă ușor, Viktor,” she said. “Rest easy. I’ll find the bitch who did this to you, and she’ll wish I was a vampire.” She walked to the passageway and took a deep breath. There was, without question now, fresh air ahead. With a decisive nod, she began to walk up the sloped tunnel thinking, I’m way scarier than any fucking vampire.

  Dan quickly realized that he had no idea what he was doing. Aside from his wife’s horrified facial expression in his dream, and a vague notion of the direction she’d been traveling when he’d last seen her, he didn’t know where to go, what to expect, and what the hell he’d do if and when he found her.

  She’s probably fine, he told himself. It was a goddamn dream. But even as he thought the words, they rang hollow. Dan was not one to dismiss dreams as the mere bookkeeping function of the brain, sorting through and filing away the million bits of sensory input that assail us on a daily basis. He believed they served many other functions as well. He had proof. No less than three of his best-selling video games had their genesis in dreams.

  And he even believed they could be a kind of message from... well, from where or whom, he didn’t know. But there had been instances. As a boy, he’d dreamed about his grandmother’s famous boysenberry pie cooling in the window and woke to his mother holding the telephone and weeping, having learned of her passing. He dreamed J.J. was hurt and crying, and later that day, she’d fallen from her bike and broken her wrist.

  But he also had to admit that every dream didn’t come true. Every dream wasn’t a prophecy.

  Still, this one had the feel... It had been so clear, even with the fuzziness of the scene’s periphery. And it had been terrifying to observe Nicole’s agony.

  So even though he had no notion of what he was doing, he was convinced he had to do something!

  After walking somewhat aimlessly in the neighborhood of the hotel, he hailed a cab after all and, not knowing the names of the streets in the area they’d dined... almost dined... the night prior, he told the driver to take him to Club Goblin.

  “Is closed,” the man replied. Dan nodded, indicating that he knew. The driver shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he was sure Dan was crazy, and then drove him to the corner of Selari and Smărdan in Old Town.

  The streets looked different in the pale earliest hint of daylight, and Dan, his head pulsing with the angry evidence of last night’s over-indulgence, was calculating just how buzzed he’d been when he’d stumbled on Nicole in the dark shadows. His conclusion: very.

  He knew he’d been in this exact spot the night before, but today, he found himself having to look at it from a half-dozen different angles before things looked even vaguely familiar. When he’d finally positioned himself so that what he was seeing now resembled what he remembered seeing last night, he stood for a moment to get his bearings, then realized he was awkwardly standing bent slightly backwards with his head tilted to the side. An instant later, he also became aware that even at this early hour, there were a handful of people walking along the street, a couple of whom had stopped to look at the odd tourist (obviously) who looked as though he was practicing some extremely painful form of yoga. He could tell from their dour expressions that this sort of behavior was not something they tolerated, and he quickly straightened up. Giving an older woman who was standing with her hands on her hips a quick, nervous wave, he ambled in the direction he remembered Nicole going.

  As Dan moved along Strada Smărdan, he caught himself thinking big-picture thoughts again. He had, since retiring, stopped his habit of plotting out, at least mentally, a blueprint for the upcoming week. When he’d been running Dsoft, that routine had served him well. He had mixed flexibility with a solid plan and could, on any given day, have at least some idea of what he’d face on any other. Since his days no longer required that level of structure, he didn’t map things out now. Then he let out a sigh, admitting that he was lying to himself. He still planned days in advance, and four days ago, he’d planned that today would be a great day to get some Christmas shopping done in downtown Denver. Nicole had a business trip planned and...

  And this was that business trip. This was that trip and he was here on some fucking street he couldn’t pronounce with a gun stuffed inside his coat instead of walking through Macy’s or Nordstrom at the Cherry Creek Shopping Center. He was here looking for his wife, who in turn was looking for the person (the people?) that she had come here to kill.

  Across the street, he saw a man walking with an old-style wooden sandwich board advertisement. As the man moved toward him, Dan saw the Romanian words crudely painted on the front of the sign, and not knowing the language, thought little of it. But then the young man did an abrupt about-face, and on the back of the sign, the words were repeated in English. It read: “These are the Final Days. Repent and Be Found Worthy!”

  Final days. No shit, Dan thought. With this level of insanity injected into what he’d thought was a pretty fantastic life just days before, maybe the end was nigh. He almost called over to the fellow that he should paint that on his sign, because it sounded so much classier.

  But then he remembered to start thinking small-picture thoughts. Namely, he needed to find Cole.

  In the distance, Dan could see the impressive bank building, though he had no idea what it was. The sight of it was somehow comforting to him. He’d always been impressed by neoclassical architecture, especially on the scale of the NBR. When he came to the end of the narrower Smărdan and reached the wide boulevard that was Strada Lipscani, he allowed himself a moment to stand and look closely at the Corinthian columns and the warm color of the stone. He felt himself being torn between wanting to stay in this spot and just stare at the soothing lines of the structure and deciding which direction he needed to turn to find Nicole. He stood on the street as the sun was threatening to rise in earnest and he had the sense that its rays would expose him for what he was: a man out of his element in every sense of the word.

  For all his belief in the power of dreams and of their ability to portend important situations, they weren’t doing him a damn bit of good at the moment. So, for no better reason than that he was right-handed, he turned in that direction and started walking, and he felt slightly more deflated with each step that he took.

  9

  A Series of Unexpected Events

  As Dan walked east on Lipscani, he noticed a couple of things begin to happen. One was that the street was getting busier, with an uptick in both foot and vehicular traffic. It was to be expected, he supposed. After all, it was Monday morning, and just like in every other city in the world, Bucharest was filled with people who had to go to work. He might have felt a sense of comfort in this, as it was always easier to be less noticeable in a large crowd than on an empty street. But ultimately, all he could think about was the fact that he was carrying a concealed weapon and these were all people who might be able to pick him out of a lineup.

  This made him laugh. As much as they love old television around here, will I get the stark, black and white Joe Friday treatment or the more pastel Crockett and Tubbs? “Just the facts, ma’am,” or “Fire up the Ferrari?” He guessed that even here, Dragnet was probably passé. Miami Vice, then.

  The second thing he noticed, and this one happened far more gradually, was that Dan was be
ginning to feel a strange sensation. It was the feeling that he was doing something right. This was not totally unfamiliar to him. He’d felt it in the Dsoft years many times. A choice that had been confounding his people for days would be presented to him, and, sometimes for no apparent reason, he’d instantly see the right direction to go. Or he’d realize that he needed to bring someone onto the team that possessed some ability or characteristic that he couldn’t, on the surface, even define. Yet when he met that person, he knew instantly that this was the man or woman for whom he’d been looking.

  In the few days since his poles had been inverted, however, he’d felt nothing of this level of awareness. He let out another short laugh, this one laden with the full weight of irony that the situation demanded. He knew that kind of decision-making required a level of confidence that he definitely hadn’t felt in a while.

  But now, as he moved through the thickening throng, he was feeling it again. Without anything to base the sensation upon, he was sensing that he’d headed in the right direction. He still had no idea where Cole was, but he felt somehow that he was moving toward her.

  Up ahead, he saw a group of about ten people, and even from a distance, he could tell they were tourists. Between the clothing, which was obnoxiously Western, almost garish in comparison to the more conservative dress of the natives, and the preponderance of cell phones, being held in a manner that suggested camera use and not any hint of actual telephony, it was clear that this was some sort of tour group. Dan wondered what they’d gathered to see.

  As he neared the small company, he saw that one man stood out, both with his more Eastern European facial structure and his less off-putting outfit. He also had a hairstyle that, ironically, would have fit right in on Miami Vice: parted in the middle, feathered back, and expertly blown dry. Clearly, he was the tour guide. Dan listened as the man, whose English was impeccable, though still gilded with a Romanian accent, talked to his customers.

  “The catacombs began as a series of underground wine cellars, built by merchants and innkeepers somewhere in the late fifteenth century. At first individual, they eventually became linked together as more and more people found use for subterranean passages. Some wealthy individuals used the tunnels to move their animals about, while others utilized them to run from inn to inn. In fact, the current location of the National Bank of Romania was built above the tunnels constructed to service the Serban Voda Inn.” He pointed in the direction of the building with which Dan had been so enamored.

  The more Dan listened to the man, the more excited he became. The impression that he was onto something was growing in intensity. He had noticed while the tour guide was talking that they were standing in front of a stairway that led below the surface of the street, no doubt into some branch of the very grottos to which he was referring. Without considering the complex social ramifications of interrupting someone while they were addressing a group, as well as listening in on such a lecture without actually being a paying member of the assembly, Dan blurted out a question. “Where do these tunnels come out? Where’s the other side?”

  The tour guide frowned slightly upon realizing the question came from outside the ranks of his patrons. Fortunately, he was sensitive to the potentially negative effect rudeness could have on his business, so adopting a strained and slightly stained smile, he said, “As I just explained, sir, the catacombs are like a tree’s root system. They spider out in many directions.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Dan pressed, making no effort to hide his impatience. “But I’m talking about these tunnels right here.” He pointed down the short staircase to the entrance, marked with a sign whose words he could not read, but the design of which left no doubt it was some sort of safety warning. “Where might someone come out if he followed them all the way through?”

  The tour guide’s smile became more obviously plastic as he answered, “There are a number of places, but if I’m understanding your question, the main tunnels cross under the DN5 highway and slope back up to street level not far from the Templul Coral.”

  “Templooo...” Dan struggled with the word.

  “Temple,” the guide interrupted, translating in growing exasperation. “The Coral Temple. It is a large and beautiful synagogue on Strada Sfănta Viveri. The stairs to the tunnels are not as accessible...”

  Dan did not hear the rest. Capping his colossal demonstration of American bad manners, he ran off while the man was still speaking, and each time he came to an intersection, began to ask people which way to the Coral Temple. Although most people clearly thought he was insane, they pointed in more or less the same direction, which he followed until reaching the DN5, which was an extremely wide and dangerously busy highway, cutting through the heart of Old Town. Dan could see no safe place to cross in his immediate vicinity, so, taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, he dashed into traffic where he was, safety be damned.

  He quickly learned that the drivers of Bucharest were as adept at using their car horns as motorists in any U.S. Metropolis, and the combined din of screeching tires and blasting horns followed him as he traversed the thoroughfare, running for all he was worth. Owing more to the mercy of the drivers than to any athleticism he might have accidentally displayed, he eventually made it to the other side.

  Once safely on the sidewalk, Dan again began harassing the passersby, asking where the Coral Temple was. After what seemed like an eternity, the question was answered by a teen boy, who Dan couldn’t help but think might be skipping school, who answered in passable English, “Right there, man!” He pointed to a building that Dan should have been able to recognize just by the name, for the Coral Temple was indeed a coral-colored building of obvious religious functionality. For the second time that morning, he found himself momentarily overwhelmed by the presence of the imposing architecture. Before the boy could leave, however, he snapped out of his reverie and asked, “The tunnels... do you know where the entrance to the tunnels is around here?”

  “The tunnels? Why go there? To pee? What are you, hoinar? Just find a McDonalds!”

  “No, not to pee! What’s a hoinar?” Dan asked, laughing in spite of his frenetic energy level, the display of which was obviously freaking the kid out to no end.

  “Tramp, vagabond, hobo. I don’t know, man,” the boy said. “I pee in McDonalds.” But then, before Dan had a chance to be angry at his fixation with where to best relieve oneself, he pointed in the general direction of a side street and said, “Maybe somewhere that way.”

  Dan thanked him and ran off. The street to which he’d been directed almost seemed out of place amid the busy roads in the area. It was narrower, too narrow for cars to pass comfortably, and there were only a couple of people walking around the area. He moved quickly up and down the street but didn’t see anything that looked like the stairway into the chambers similar to the one where the tour group had been gathered. On the verge of despair, Dan noticed a vacant lot, not far from the rear of the temple. About halfway into the plot, he made out what looked to be an opening, sloping downward beneath the empty space’s surface. A modern chain link fence surrounded the lot. After looking around to make sure that none of the smattering of people looked like a police officer, he climbed the six-foot barrier and threw his leg over the top upon reaching it. As he swung his other leg over and prepared to drop to the ground, his long coat caught on the pointed metal links that protruded from the top of the fence, and as he leapt down, a six-inch tear formed in the fabric. His somewhat fastidious nature meant that he realized he’d ruined his expensive duster immediately, but his newfound bloodhound-like focus meant that he didn’t even pause to mourn the loss. Instead, he sprinted toward the passage.

  Reaching it, he found it was indeed a way underground. He also found it gated with a barred door, which was held shut with an antique-looking padlock. No way, he thought. No way I’m coming this far and being stopped by the first padlock ever made!

  Turning back to the field, through which was scattered equal measures of litter and
what appeared to be solid fill, he spotted a fairly large rock, which he grabbed. Returning to the gate, he attacked the padlock with it, and after a single heavy blow, it snapped and fell to the ground with a satisfying clink.

  The gate, like the lock, was old and rusted, and when he pulled on it, it did not open willingly, but again, he refused to be dissuaded. With as hard a pull as he could muster, the gate groaned and opened far enough for him to slide through the opening.

  “Okay, Cole,” he said aloud, “I have no reason for thinking this, but my gut tells me you’re in here, and I’m coming!”

  Even though Nicole could definitely feel a breeze in the upward sloping passage, she couldn’t detect any light ahead, but that was likely due to the fact that in addition to ramping up, the tunnel also bent in a soft, gradual curve.

  The thought of getting out of the catacombs drove her forward, and though the immediate crisis of the hidden hit man had been averted, she had not let down her guard one iota. She did not know for certain that she’d eliminated the problem. If Ileana was as good as the evidence was suggesting, the chances were that Nicole was still not out of the shit.

  As she continued around the bend in the tunnel, the scent of fresh air became less of a subtle hint and more of a welcome reality, and after another couple hundred feet, she could see the ambient light of the passageway brightening. She was coming to the end. The catacomb path turned more abruptly and as she rounded the bend she could see that the grotto indeed came to an end about a hundred feet ahead. She also saw that it appeared to be secured with a barred gate. She sprinted toward it, and when she reached the rusted door, she realized with a sick feeling in her stomach that it was locked tight from the outside. Putting her head against the bars she could see that the solid area where the lock was located was held tight by an oversized, and apparently, very antique padlock.