One year, one journey, one love.
CONTENTS
Chapter: One
DEPOUL ALEXANDRIA
So why did he end up here of all places? Well, to be frank, his story was one of selfishness liberally shaken in a large glass of fate. It was full of tawdry misgivings, weakness and vanity wrapped in a comforting blanket of supposed intellect.
He had always thought of himself as intelligent, but had no way of proving this; it was just his 'well formed' opinion. In fact, it was more a sensation, despite his constant dropouts and failures, which obviously would indicate otherwise. He was described as entertaining by his acquaintances, but in reality he was quite vacuous, a flash in someone else's pan. He chose to ignore these condemning facts, such was his omnipresent eloquent cockiness. Anyway the term 'clever' may be a better description of him; an acumen that enabled him to cheat life and shirk work of most kinds that didn't interest him, and pursue his lifelong quest for a pretty face and a tall cold beer; his life was slap dash hedonism personified. But behind the mask of gaiety and politeness he was just a scowling wreck with few pleasures and fewer friends, he didn't seek solitude it found him.
It was just a fluke that he landed there over ten years ago. He was flying to another destination, but the BA flight was overbooked. He was offered an alternative city as compensation the next day. The check-in assistant suggested Bucharest for free so he took it on impulse.
"Do l need a visa?" He asked.
"No, Sir."
Perfect...
He had a vague idea of where it was, and only knew two facts about the country: it had once had a mad dictator and he thought Dracula came from somewhere around there. He couldn't even remember if it was next to the Baltic Sea or not.
He quickly found some private accommodation online, and packed a large book of some seven hundred pages; Crime and Punishment a classic and a 'must read' or so he had been led to believe.
He boarded the 737, which was indirect to Bucharest. After two and a half hours the near empty plane landed somewhere in the middle of the country. Urgently, a group of passengers made their way to the back of the plane and started smoking vigorously. Apparently, once in Romanian air space it was permissible. He found this unusual and vaguely hazardous.
It took off again for the second leg. Approaching Bucharest and flying low the snow began to whip past the window and, peering through the oblong fenestra, he saw a carpet of white way below; appealing he thought.
The plane started to drop and dive in the blizzard. He wasn't the best flier and he began to become slightly edgy and nauseous. Next to him the rather attractive woman, whom he had sheepishly looked at the entire flight, squeezed hard on the foam armrest, and crossed herself rapidly. He had wanted to talk to her, but he lacked the courage to accost her. She had dressed in her best, with chic make-up and heels, and smelt overly flowery of cheap perfume. Obviously taking the plane for her was a special occasion or she wanted to die looking good.
The plane then dropped like a stone, it felt like one hundred metres, and his stomach hit the bottom of his pelvis. The fuselage bucked and struck the ground heavily, scudding sideways over the ice-clad runway. Finally the plane slowed, juddering over the rough piste and its nose settled. Immediately the terrified passengers broke into spontaneous applause clapping with communal relief. He smiled.
After an irritating ten minute wait, they all got out of the plane. At the border gate the passport controller viewed him suspiciously double checking his documents. It was obvious that not many UK passport holders came this way.
He was cleared through, and he viewed the outside of the airport. It was grey and indeed cold. He scanned the pack of lurking taxi drivers and picked out the least dodgy looking one and beckoned him over. He held up to the driver a note on which was printed the address of the office where he had booked his flat.
The taxi driver ushered him in and immediately overcharged him with a neat little trick on the meter; he pushed a button three times which made the reading accelerate precipitously as they drove. It was no big surprise and he just let it go. The driver swore constantly in Romanian smoked continuously, the dangling rosaries and Saint Christopher's swung back and forth smashing into the windscreen under heavy braking, accenting the local music blaring from the radio.
After a circuitous route they drew up outside the address with a squeal of the brakes, and he paid the exorbitant fare. He entered a rather stylish Art Deco staircase and climbed to the second floor, found apartment thirty-five, and rang the doorbell which didn't work. He knocked loudly. The door opened and the man introduced himself. The owner of the accommodation was a Cypriot guy who told him the flat was nearby and only 20 dollars a day. Nick placed a wedge of notes on the desk. The man counted the piled pounds assiduously double checking the exchange rate and accepted the payment for two weeks.
They both chatted and walked to the studio flat as it was close, opposite the British Embassy. It overlooked a small tree-lined square with pleasing buildings in various forms of decline. The owner gave him the door keys and left.
The flat was self-contained and tidy. Looking through the window outside the light dusting of snow on the pavements and roofs gave the area a dreamlike effect.
He studied the general surroundings and facades. He admired the hodgepodge of styles from Swiss to Greek. Stucco moulding and scrolls flanked by a floral presentation of vines topping Doric columns in relief next to sham Tudor frames. It was eclectic and some of the houses were like small palaces, but a high percentage were unoccupied. Terracotta tiles awry and some render had fallen away, intricate wrought iron railings which needed painting, but it all had a fantastic patina. Bucharest had luck during the war, the Luftwaffe had omitted to bomb this city centre level to the ground.
The flat was clean and comfortable but more importantly cosy. He spent the first day reading, but soon Dostoevsky got on his nerves, and he was reading page upon page and absorbing nothing, he was just on auto-pilot.
The evening came, and he thought a beer and some music would lighten his mood and fresh air would be good for his soul. During his chat with the Cypriot owner, the guy had recommended a few places to go, so he decided to check them out.
Leaving the safety of the apartment he milled around the streets listening out for some music that sounded like it had a groove, but it was still very quiet
He soaked in the atmosphere on the streets. The intersections were full of hungry looking packs of mongrels, and there were huge holes in the roads and the accompanying pavements. He had to watch every step so he didn't break an ankle. The traffic lights barely blinked a signal and the cars ignored the zebra crossings speeding passed spraying slush, their slip-stream buffeting alarm into the hesitating pedestrians. The snow did not delay their progress.
The cars were mainly copies of the Renault 12, he hadn't this model seen since 1976 and it was a bad car then. The buses were large, robust, rusty yellow and belched out plumes of black exhaust smoke, this combined with the constant plumes of cigarette smoke wisping in the air caught the back of his throat leaving an unpleasant sulphur taste.
He popped into restaurants and studied the menus and passers-by soaking up as much information as quickly as he could. He came to the hasty conclusion that there were some advantages to this sprawling city: the beer was cold, the smokes were cheap and the girls were hot, an excellent combination!
In the past, he had always tried to find the 'perfect girl'. He studied women at length trying not to be too overt. Invariably the previous girlfriends he had gone out with always had some minor fault, after they had left, a bit plump, a bit short, a bit too stupid. He once thought he had found the perfect woman, she was taller than him, which he liked, but she had left in haste. It was unsurprising when he reflected back upon himself.
The evening weather had changed and warmed a little, melting the snow off the roofs in small waterfalls, which had re-frozen on the cold ground to form a slippery icy coating covering all the pavements. As he walked he gripped with his ungloved hands, alternately walls and cars for support. His fingertips started to ache from the cold and he lost some sensation, and eventually he fell flat on his back; it was inevitable. The hard pavement resonated in his rib cage and it hurt to his core. He took more care after that.
After some searching he found a place the Cypriot guy had mentioned. The club was called 'The Office'. The flat owner said it was one of the best disco-bars in town, during their brief discussion about Bucharest nightlife.
He descended the stairs into the dark basement. He looked around and selected a bar stool, sat alone and started to down the local beer, which was cheap and not bad. The music was okay, a bit housey and the club had a small dance floor. He looked round, the girls dressed differently here compared to back home, quite chic with high heels and pointy shoes which he found alluring. Gone were the jeans and casual wear he normally found so uninviting. So he danced a little on his own, and in the early hours of the morning the place started to fill. He watched the groups of people and drank more beer, and contemplated about heading back to his flat, but just at that moment he felt a light tap on his shoulder. A small, insignificant thing that was about to change his life forever.
Strange how such tiny events can shape one's destiny. Not the big things like, birth, death, marriage, these are planned. It was like chaos theory he had read about in some magazine. The beat of a moth's wing over Mongolia could change the weather over a continent. His hinge of fate had opened,
Next to him stood a nice looking girl, who handed him a note and said something in his ear which he couldn't understand above the loud bass line. He looked at the note; it had a name and a mobile number written on it. He shrugged and pointed at his ear to indicate he hadn't heard her.
She shouted once more above the music,
"I love the way you dance can you teach me?"
He nodded and offered her a drink. She asked for a beer. He ordered it, and the cheapness of her request indicated she wasn't high maintenance, a type of girl he liked automatically. They sipped the beer together, then they both headed for the dance floor without saying another word. The next record mixed in and he saw she could move alright and on the beat, but it was a little angular.
The evening progressed and he gradually became very drunk. In his stupor he tried to be more entertaining and had a brilliant brain wave. He decided that the Latin-style music required him to teach her his salsa skills. He took her hand and showed her the basic step. The four small steps with a paused on the third beat. She picked it up quite well. Then he pulled her in by her waist, pressing her body against his and showed off his best moves; a few turns some cross steps, ducks, a spin and some arm loops. He liked salsa because you had to be close to a woman. You could instantly tell her weight, how thin she might be, and the distance across the knuckles always gave away her bone structure. Wide hands usually meant she was a big girl once her clothes were off. Lastly but most importantly, you knew if she actually fancied you, no room for pretence. She started to become hotter with the increasing tempo, and he drew her even closer and she blew clammy sweet beery breath gently into his ear and made a small purring sound. Now he knew.
Towards 4am he decided to really kick in the moves. The manoeuvre was a twist, where he bent the girl over his knee in his arms. He knew the girls loved this step, but by this time the drink had taken its harsh effect and he overshot the mark, and she slipped from his hold. She fell to the floor and he followed, landing on top of her. It was embarrassing to say the least, but worse, he had actually broken the heel of her shoe.
He picked her up and took her back to the bar apologizing profusely. She said it was nothing. The drink and the unusually late night had finished him totally. He told her he was 'exhausted' and he needed to go back to his flat. He asked if she needed a taxi. She answered,
"No, I am coming back with you tonight."