The Starlings of Bucharest Read online

  Service T has put phone and light intercepts in place and these are being monitored.

  No phone calls scheduled for this night.

  Day 2

  STARLING called on the subject early and remained with him all day. The subject did not talk much and appears to enjoy listening. STARLING reports he was able to convey a lot of positive information about the Romanian form of social progress. On a walk around the area, the subject saw people picking lime blossoms for tea and suggested that they were picking leaves to eat because they were hungry. STARLING corrected this straight away.

  The subject had some conversation starters which were designed to draw information from STARLING on the Romanian film industry, film directors and recent prizes awarded within the industry. The subject offered no opinions of his own.

  The subject did not display concern about the delay of his trip to Buftea, so he may be collecting other information. He looked towards the woman on duty in the travel office whenever he passed. Owing to this interest, it is suggested that someone look into MIHAELA ZAMFIR’s background for any links to Britain or other Western countries. Alternatively, it might be possible to introduce the subject to a connection to progress this type of interest.

  For information, STARLING was observed eating all three meals with the subject, as has been observed with other subjects.

  Bin contents – Holidays in Romania

  Noise activity – nothing coherent. Occasional humming.

  Phone calls – the subject reacted negatively to phone calls from the bar asking if he would like company. After 3:00 no calls were answered — presumably the subject found a way to muffle the sound.

  Day 3

  The research into MIHAELA ZAMFIR continues. In the meantime she was told to cancel the subject’s flight, partly to keep him in Bucharest and partly to see if she passed on this information.

  At the subject’s request, STARLING called on the subject at lunchtime instead of breakfast time, and remained with him all day. In the evening the football result where we crushed Denmark gave STARLING a reason to push more alcohol on the subject than before to see what information could be collected. The subject gave no contradictory information, and claimed to have no links to the USA or people from there. He confirmed that his jacket was indeed a second-hand purchase in London, and there is no reason to disbelieve this. He also stuck to his claim that he was from ‘London’ and not ‘Harwich’, as this is now where he lives.

  LEAF would like to record STARLING’s unprofessional focus on the subject’s clothes, as overheard near the Biserica Kretzulescu. By asking for trousers he makes the state look incapable of clothing its citizens and this must not happen again. It is also noted that he wears a jacket which is too large and is ordered to find a more suitable article of clothing from the office. It was made clear to him that any repetition of unprofessional appearance or behaviour will result in action. When confronted, STARLING assumed that the subject must have reported or otherwise complained about him. As this may lead him to think twice about asking for a subject’s possessions, we will not inform him otherwise.

  An early concern, that of the business card, is no longer thought to be problematic as the subject has not undertaken any actions nor asked any questions which would benefit a third party. It has been decided that it is safe to take him to conduct his interview, after which we will proceed with the main aim of his visit.

  Further to this, OAK has requested that the subject be used to acquire the cooperation of MARKU BOLDEA who resists providing information on his place of employment. STARLING to act on this.

  Bin contents – Holidays in Romania

  Noise activity – during his drunken state, the subject was heard to tear out paper and mumble to himself. The scratch of a pen was sometimes audible.

  No phone calls scheduled for this night.

  CHAPTER 2

  There was a heavy banging on the door, and then talking outside. I heard keys, and pulled my pillow over my head. I could hear mumbling, and someone tugged the pillow away. I managed to open one eye.

  ‘The car is ready,’ said Vasile. ‘I have been ringing your room. You have ten minutes.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Ten minutes,’ he repeated, and the door closed behind him.

  I forced myself to sit up. The gloomy brown room was a mess, even in the near dark with the curtains pulled. Crumpled papers reminded me that at some point I had written unfinished letters, and a blanket over the phone suggested that it had rung at some point but I didn’t remember waking.

  I pressed my hands into my eye sockets. Something terrible and urgent had happened, and I couldn’t remember what it was.

  Oh, yes.

  The car was ready.

  Vasile was waiting for me in the lobby as I inched myself down the wide stairs, tweed jacket in my hand. The stair treads seemed particularly red and shallow today, and I relied on the handrail to get me there safely. I spotted Mihaela at the travel desk in her booth and waved feebly. She blushed and looked away, and I felt embarrassed for both of us. I checked that I had remembered to put my notebook and pen in my pocket. The look on Vasile’s face told me that I wasn’t fooling anyone about being fit for a day’s work.

  ‘How much exactly did I drink last night?’ I mumbled.

  He shrugged. ‘Not much.’ He looked the same as ever. Actually, no, he was different. He wasn’t smiling.

  The sun bounced off the concrete block opposite the hotel entrance, and I held a hand to my eyes. Vasile took my elbow, leading me to the car parked around the corner. He got in the nearest door, so I went around to the other side. It didn’t take me long to realise that a spring had gone rogue within the seat, pushing up against the thin material. At a word from Vasile, the driver pulled away, and I concentrated on trying to open my eyes. We emerged onto the wide main road, thankfully straight and true, passing grey blocks of concrete flats, and more rounded, older buildings. I’d seen so little of Bucharest, stuck inside the hotel with my view of the crossroads and grey buildings with shaded windows. Yet, while I enjoyed glimpses of little parks filled with trees, I could feel there had been a worrying shift in my relationship with Vasile. After all those days of endless talking and smiling encouragement, he was stiff and silent.

  I sneaked glances at him, but his face was turned towards the window. No discussion of why Romania shouldn’t be linked only with Dracula in films, no mention of the evils of Hungarian land grabs, no lists of sports men and women. Nothing.

  I wished I could remember more of the previous night. I had glimpses of how it ended, and it seemed to be pleasant enough. Funny, even, but I must have insulted him somehow. I must have been rude about Romania, or Bucharest, or – oh, God, I hoped I hadn’t told him what I thought of Drăgan’s films. Or when I said he couldn’t have my trousers, was that it? Could I spare my trousers? They were nothing fancy, getting a little worn in the knees, in fact. But I couldn’t afford another pair at the moment. Not with everything. But the silence was becoming awkward now.

  I looked across again, and down at his wrist. Buttons. Buttons on his suit jacket, and surely that was a new tie. Maybe he’d been so embarrassed that he’d borrowed a suit from someone else, a brother maybe, or a friend. He turned to look at me. I smiled, but he just turned away.

  I must have done something really bad. I shuddered.

  I took out the notebook and pen, and tried to focus on why I was here. It wasn’t to make Romanian friends, it was to impress Mr Benstrup and keep my job. I was sure I’d made a list of questions for Drăgan, but in the rush to leave, hadn’t been able to find them. Had I even locked my door?

  I was doodling, and Vasile was watching. I turned the page over and smoothed it out. Questions. For a director of derivative films. I remembered that his film was based on a true event. I could ask him about that, about transforming fact into fiction, the demands of the watery set.

  The water. Full of sea monsters, according to my father. When I was a child he had re
ad from The History of Greenland every night, picking out the sections on sea-serpents and kraken, which he never claimed to have witnessed, and the disappearance and reappearance of islands, which he said he had seen. For years, I didn’t understand why a family of fishermen would pass down this book, but when I went out with him in the cold dawn, he told me to keep a look out. ‘It will make our fortune, if you catch one of them monsters.’ Our fortune. No more fishing, no more being soaked and frozen. I concentrated so hard that my hand was sliced open by the snapped section of metal railing my father never replaced, and I nearly lost the feeling in that hand.

  The doctor who stitched it up told me off for being careless.

  ‘You’ve heard the stories, haven’t you? Men who’ve been sailing for years get caught out and swept overboard. You must be aware of what’s going on around you at all times.’

  ‘I am. It was an accident. I am very observant.’

  He frowned. ‘That may be so, but are you observing the right things? I know your dad, he’s a talker. Make sure you know what is important at that moment and give it your full attention.’

  It was a big scar, but it didn’t get me out of fishing.

  My eyes had closed again and the pen fallen from my hand. I kept them closed until the car slowed and rumbled over unmade ground. We stopped by a medieval gateway and Vasile got out. The heat hit me straight away, and I realised how thirsty I was. I clambered from the car, remembering my pen, and followed him.

  An older man was waiting for us. Vasile shook his hand, and they had walked on before I was even out of the car. This new man kept looking back at me, but the openness of the studio site meant that the dust swirled freely, making me cough as I jogged towards them.

  Vasile shouted back to me. ‘He wants you to know that Orson Welles visited here eight years ago.’

  The man nodded and smiled. I nodded and smiled back, trying to keep the dust out of my mouth. We walked through a film set. Mexico, it seemed. One-storey buildings with rough walls and archways next to two-storey buildings with long, curved wooden struts holding up the tiled roofs. A tall, thin tower seemed to have nothing to do with this place, and the men in soft hats and long tunics who stood around looked like North African travellers who had lost their camels.

  Still we walked, through dusty city streets and dustier rural villages, my mouth becoming drier.

  ‘Over twenty films a year!’ shouted Vasile. ‘Many international awards!’

  Smile and nod.

  ‘Last year, Mircea Veroiu filmed Duhul Aurului, this year Mircea Daneliuc is filming Cursa.’

  Were all male directors called Mircea? I didn’t care anymore. My feet started to drag. I was going to die in Morocco or wherever this film set was supposed to be.

  The other man ran up to me and put my arm around his shoulder. He shouted back and forth with Vasile then led me towards another set with a building with windows and steps. He helped me inside and sat me down. It was some kind of office. Still hot, but at least I was sitting.

  ‘Water, please,’ I said. ‘Water.’

  Vasile talked to the man, and they both disappeared through a door. I noticed a woman at a desk, staring at me. She jumped, and began typing. The man came back and handed me a glass of water. As I drank it I saw that he wasn’t sympathetic anymore. He shook his head at me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  He tutted and walked across to the typist, making the international sign for drinking. She shook her head and said, ‘Capitalist.’ Also, clearly, an international communication.

  Vasile opened the door and beckoned to me. ‘Mr Drăgan is ready to see you.’ I stood up and placed the glass on a table, before following him along a dark corridor. He knocked on an already open door, and introduced me to the thin man standing behind a desk. He didn’t look like the dark haired forty-two-year-old I had been expecting, but closer to sixty. What hair was left around the sides was grey, and his smile was nervous as he flicked his eyes between me and Vasile.

  ‘Mircea Drăgan?’ I asked.

  He smiled and shrugged, and then indicated that I should sit. He lit a cigarette and offered me one, but I declined. Vasile took one, then sat behind me. Drăgan spoke to Vasile.

  ‘Nu,’ said Vasile.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked.

  ‘He asked if you had a tape recorder.’

  I addressed Drăgan. ‘No, I did have one, but it was taken away from me at customs.’ I turned to Vasile.

  ‘Nu,’ he repeated.

  The angry typist brought in three coffees and I burned my tongue in my desperation for more fluids. It was strangely tasteless, but after that I felt much better.

  I poised my pen over the paper and began. ‘What was it about the real incident that suggested a film script to you?’

  We were off. Vasile said something to Drăgan, he said something back and I wrote down what Vasile told me he said. It didn’t sound like any of the interviews with directors that I’d read, and I was thinking all along about how to rework and reword it before I handed it in to Mr Benstrup. But that was the benefit of not having a recording, I suppose, both for me and Vasile. He could say anything he liked.

  We were finished within an hour, and Vasile led me back to the car. This time the journey to the car took only four minutes, but I was so looking forward to being able to sleep on the way back that I didn’t bother to ask Vasile why he’d taken me on such a long detour when we arrived. To be a translator was to have all the power.

  I got in, back on the broken spring, while Vasile talked to the driver and then turned to me.

  ‘Would you say that I was professional, Ted?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you say it, please?’

  I glanced at the driver who was watching me in the rear-view mirror. ‘I think you are very professional, Vasile.’

  He nodded, looked pointedly at the driver, and sat back, smiling.

  I had no idea what that was about. I carefully folded my notebook and put it in my pocket with the pen, and let my head fall back, heavy against the headrest. I’d make my flight tomorrow, type up the article, impress Mr Benstrup and pay off my debt. Nici o problema.

  CHAPTER 3

  There was a calming, murmuring sound and a cool breeze, and I didn’t want to wake up fully, but I was thirsty again. I tried to turn over but bashed my head against something hard. I opened one eye. I had been left in the car with all the windows rolled down, like a dog.

  I rubbed both eyes, dragged my hands down the stubble on my face, and forced myself to look through the windscreen into the light outside. Vasile, the driver and two other men in police uniform were sitting on the grass by a lake. I hadn’t been taken back to the hotel.

  My hands started to shake. In a film, this was the kind of place, isolated but beautiful, where you would kill someone. They were looking away from me and for a moment I was convinced that I had to run. I looked behind me to see a large white church with pillars on the right, and a taller but similar building on the left. Apart from that it was just grass and trees.

  I wouldn’t know which way to run, even if my legs felt capable of obeying me. I turned back to the windscreen. Vasile nodded towards me and walked over.

  ‘Hello, sleepyhead,’ he said. ‘We have food and drink. Come and join us.’

  He smiled. It looked genuine, like the person he’d been before today, my friendly guide to Romania. He opened the door for me, so I straightened my stiff limbs and followed him to the others. He looked behind him, waving me on. In that moment I became convinced that there were two Vasiles, maybe twins.

  This Vasile gestured for me to sit next to one of the men in police uniform, who nodded to me as I sat down, not too close. Vasile passed me a tin mug which I took a tentative sip from, but it was water, not vodka. I drank it all, and another mugful, then ate the bread and sausage as it was passed to me. It was a Romanian picnic.

  I hadn’t expected this. I was so relieved that I couldn’t stop smiling. Vasile w
as back to normal and I wasn’t going to die of dehydration, and the place was lovely. I looked out at the cool water, and rebuked myself for thinking of it as a murder site. It was just what I needed, food and fresh air after the hot winds of Buftea. I saw a couple of fishermen on the far side of the lake, their rods just visible in front of the thick tree line. A flock of starlings swooped and then scattered around the trees. If I’d been alone, I would have lain down and watched the ripples of the water reveal the fish, but instead I stretched out my legs, leaning on one hand while the other fed me a constant supply of food and strong cigarettes from the older policeman.

  I didn’t see much water in London, and I realised how much I had missed it. In Harwich we had both the sea and the estuary, salty or fresh water, within walking distance. In Plumstead there was only the brown Thames. I did sometimes walk down to the river, but it was industrial, nothing like this clean lake with the trees growing right up to the shore. I wondered how far away from the city this place was, but I wasn’t concerned right now. Not yet.

  It was pleasant to be a part of the group but not have to listen or respond to anyone. The uniformed man next to me was older, maybe late fifties, and his younger colleague was about the same age as me, early twenties. I hadn’t heard the younger one speak yet. Like me, he seemed apart from the group. Vasile, obviously, did most of the talking. The driver did most of the laughing, and occasionally flicked his eyes towards me which made me think I was the subject of Vasile’s jokes. I didn’t care. My interview was complete, whoever it was with, and now I could rearrange my flight home and get back to London and normal life. I thought of Julia, a girl I’d met a couple of times. Maybe she would like to have a picnic on the common. A bottle of white wine from the Co-op and some sausage rolls from the bakery down the road. I could stretch to that.