After her great grandfather died, the house had lain vacant for many years, until a Romani gypsy family moved in, illegally, of course. They lived there for God knows how long until one day, inexplicably, all three of them died from a horrific illness. Grandma disliked the tigani gypsies, but feared them, too. Andrea didn’t remember what she’d said—either they’d died of a curse or had left a curse on the house when they’d died—but apparently, everyone agreed with her grandma, and the house had been empty since.
Andrea didn’t believe in curses. She knew the gypsies didn’t have that kind of power. No one did. Not even her father.
Nonetheless, the house gave her the creeps.
The main door was locked. The windows were boarded up. The house lay in ruins but in her mind’s eyes, it seemed to hold itself proud, emitting a forbidding force, as if warning Andrea not to come too close.
But Andrea didn’t care. When someone told her not to do something, it made her want to do it more.
Why Andrea climbed the roof that day, she could not explain. Not even later, when she had had a lot of time to think about it. It was as if her feet were moving forward of their own accord, across the garden, past the koi pond, and up the spiral staircase that led from the side of the house up to the roof.
Leaves crinkled under her feet as she crept on the slanting roof, half bent, hands spread for balance. She placed her feet precisely, careful not to slip. Her fingers patted the bottom from time to time, as she re-balanced herself, then straightened to carry on.
A madness had overtaken her. The urge to do something brave. The roofs of the houses in her city had always fascinated her, but she’d never gotten to see what it was like from the top. Imagine the view!
Also … Andrea was terribly upset with Mihai and her father. She needed to prove to both of them and her own self: she was better than what they thought of her. Maybe if she did something brave, they’d be impressed and include her in their get-togethers. She had to do something ‘manly’ and brave—almost forbidden—and emerge out of it, unscathed.
She was going to go inside the house.
If she were to get inside the house, she could only do it via the chimney. She remembered her grandfather and father had done it a few times, at the odd family gatherings they used to have at this place, and everyone had laughed and clapped, praising their dexterity. It was dangerous and risky, but if she managed, she flushed at the thought of the respect her father and Mihai would then feel for her.
She whistled a soft tune to mark the joy of having thought this up. Once or twice she stumbled, but she straightened herself quickly. She was going to persist. It was her adventure. She’d show her father and him; she was as good as them.
Heart thudding, legs shaking, Andrea reached the rim of the chimney. Exhaling in relief, she pulled herself up and sat on its edge. Although she was tall for her age, her legs dangled, barely touching the flat of the roof.
This one was much bigger than the chimney of their city house. Her grandma had told her they used to make it bigger in the farmsteads, because they cooked more and ate heartily.
Andrea waited for her breath to steady and gazed in the far distance. The view was not as good as she’d imagined; her line of sight was obstructed by tall trees. She wondered if Mihai had woken up yet. She hoped not. But if he had and came here looking for her, she hoped to open the front door to greet him. How shocked would he be? He was terrified of the house, believing all the silly curse stories, and she would prove to him she was better than him, because she wasn’t afraid.
Resuming her merry whistle, she turned around and peered down the chimney’s pit.
At first, she saw only an immense darkness. A gaping black hole.
Then her eyes grew used to the darkness.
And she saw it.
The twin hollows in the skull, which had once been eyes. They stared up at her, underneath a handful of matted blonde hair.
The open jaw, its two front teeth protruding, the rest of it jagged and grimy, but unbroken.
Later, everyone wondered how she’d kept her balance.
Because she screamed. And screamed.
Like the world was ending.
The body Andrea found in the chimney was identified as belonging to four-year-old Draco Lambru by the local police. They suspected Draco had tried to climb down the chimney, curious about the abandoned house—much like Andrea had planned to do herself—and then gotten stuck inside and died. Draco’s mother, a tigani gypsy, had reported him missing a year ago, but when days turned to months, and then a year, and nothing turned up, she gave up and had moved out of town. No one knew where she’d gone and how to find her to tell her that her son had finally been found.
The body had been rotting in the chimney for a year. Draco was found as he had probably died: struggling to crawl out, his face staring up, hands stuck to the sides, spindly legs curved, knees dislodged. There were no visible signs of trauma.
‘It was not an instant death,’ Inspector Vasile told news reporters. ‘How he died is only a matter of speculation. Maybe he starved to death, which takes many weeks. Or he was dehydrated, which can take just a few days. The other possible cause could be hypothermia, which could take a day or two. We have no way to say which one came first.’
The coroner said the abandoned house’s location—a wooded area, with no adjacent homes—likely made it impossible for anyone to hear the boy’s cries for help. Later, he added Draco most likely died either of starvation or positional asphyxiation. ‘But the primary question is,’ he said, ‘how did he get there in the first place? The city is at least an hour away by car. He was no more than a child, so someone must have dropped him off. Perhaps he accompanied his mother who sometimes came to clean the house. Had he been playing around and decided to go down the chimney, just for fun? He’s a little boy and his mother may not have been able to hear his cries.’ However, since the mother couldn’t be located, this theory couldn’t be corroborated.
Inspector Vasile was asked about the similarities between Draco’s death and the death of the three squatters found there four years ago. He dismissed the speculation. ‘Those gypsies had died of a water-borne poison,’ he said. ‘The chimney didn’t kill them.’
A week later, the hubbub died somewhat, and the number of gawkers idling around the farmhouse receded. Feeling emboldened, a shepherd steered his wards closer to the house. He’d avoided the area in the past few days—his sheep being the nervous sorts—but he’d wanted to see what the fuss was all about. Everyone in his family, including his two sons and three brothers, had already been there, and they wouldn’t stop talking about it.
He herded his flock of sheep a few meters away from the house and left his faithful Carpathian dog to keep them together and safe. He then walked closer, looking around furtively and often, hoping not to have company. A few minutes later, he was standing next to the police tape.
He took in the view. Nothing extraordinary in comparison to the last few times he’d been there, before the discovery of the body. The place looked cleaner, if anything. In any case, the scene had been described to him so many times, he felt he’d witnessed it in his mind’s eye already.
But there was something on the walls, something he hadn’t seen the last time he’d been there. His family hadn’t mentioned it to him either.
It was new.
The man ducked below the police tape and headed in to see properly. His feet split fallen twigs and grass. He scared easily and believed in the sanctity of the dead, so he prayed softly as he moved closer.
He steadied his breath. Wiped the sweat from his palms onto his pants.
From twelve feet away, he saw the drawing clearly.
A massive sleepy eye covered the wall, from edge to edge. Underneath it were strange symbols and words, written in a big, cursive hand. The black paint on them was still fresh.
The shepherd’s spine curled.
He knew something was wrong.
He turned on his heels
and ran.
The thumping of his feet on the ground echoed in the woods. Squirrels scattered; birds flew away in alarm. When he saw his sheep grazing at a distance, relief flooded over him. He slowed down.
Then he heard.
It was not his feet alone that were making a racket in the woods.
There was someone else with him.
He turned his head towards the sound.
To his right, in the thick woods, there was somebody else. A small, shadowy figure. He was running faster than the old shepherd. He was farther away, but the shepherd saw the swinging can of paint in his hand.
His heart thumping painfully in his chest, the shepherd spun around and ran faster.
He collected his sheep, tapping their behinds, shouting for them to hurry up. He had to get away from there. The dog cavorted around his master, not understanding the reason for his sudden agitation.
As soon as the old shepherd reached the city, he went to the police and told them what he’d seen. Afterwards, he told his neighbours. Word spread like wildfire. Many more came to look.
One of them realised the poor shepherd hadn’t been able to understand the words written under the gigantic eye because he hadn’t been able to read them. The man was illiterate.
Consequently, the words were read out to him. It was a sentence in Romanian.
Până ajungi la Dumnezeu, te mănâncă sfinţii
Before you reach God, the saints will eat you.
And not unexpectedly—because this was Romania—the ominous words gave rise to a new superstition, imprinting itself on local folklore forever.
The story that went around was this: The gypsies who’d been there earlier had summoned an evil spirit with their magic and left it behind in the chimney as a curse. This spirit snared, killed, and ate whosoever came close. The very same spirit had also killed Draco and stuffed his body down the chimney. And now …
… God had sent an angel to them. It was this angel that had painted those words on the wall … to keep evil away from the house. He had painted the eye as a warning—ține departe ochii răi—keep away, evil eyes. Afterwards, the angel had, in fact, run alongside the shepherd, paint can in his hand. The shepherd cursed himself for being frightened instead of grateful, and not running towards him, but the boy had been much too fast.
The impact of this tall tale was far-reaching.
Inspired by it, a tradition was born.
The locals of Sibiu started to build lidded eyes into the roofs of their houses, to ward off the evil eye. ‘An eye for an eye’ took on a whole other meaning in Sibiu. Soon afterwards, the locals realised these eye-shaped windows were particularly useful to keep their grains—usually stored in attics—well-ventilated. Thus, superstition melded with practicality, and the practice continued.
But what about Draco?
Well … whilst his name lived on in local memory—as if his body had been discovered just yesterday—none had yet realised the true story behind the boy’s tragic death.
Not until Darya Nandkarni came to Sibiu.
Key characters and words
Setting
Sibiu: A city of 400,000 people in Transylvania, Central Romania, Europe
Main characters
Draco Lambru: A dead gypsy boy; aged 4
Andrea Rosetti: Heiress to the Rosetti hotel and chain of supermarkets; ran them until her death in 2000, aged 63
Mihai Rosetti: Andrea’s husband, suffering from muscular dystrophy; aged 70
Ana-Maria Rosetti: Andrea and Mihai’s daughter; has been running the Rosetti businesses for the past ten years; aged 37
Radu Rosetti: Andrea and Mihai’s son, died of a drug overdose at age 18
Darya Nandkarni: Accidental detective; aged 31
Brian Roberts: A Canadian missing from one of the Rosetti hostels; aged 17
Alina D: Owner of Handsome Monk, the café where Darya works; aged 28
Helenka: A local, and Alina’s friend; aged 25
Irina Brasovnski: Mihai Rosetti’s aide and nurse; aged 33
Oleg Shamir: A tour guide and part-time stand-up comedian; aged 27
Veda Nagpal: Darya’s best friend who is in Nagpur with Veda’s ailing mother for a few months; aged 31
The Rosettis have been living in Sibiu for over two decades, post the fall of communism. The events of this book take place between August and October 2010 in Sibiu, Romania.
Local words used in this book
Sarmale: Romanian cabbage rolls
Mămăligă: Stuffed cabbage with polenta
Papanași: Fried cheese doughnuts
Gogoși: Traditional doughnut-shaped pastries
Tuica: Traditional Romanian spirit prepared from plums
Tigani: Gypsy
Bunăziua: Hello
Nu înţeleg: I do not understand
Mulțumesc: Thank you
PART I
I read that every known superstition in the world is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so, my stay may be very interesting.
― Bram Stoker, Dracula
Sibiu, my lovely city
It is the One
On which, by taking walks
At quiet times,
It filled my heart with ... Beauty!
―Elena Sandu, Sibiu, My Love!
Week 12: The Present Day
‘Well done, Darya,’ Ana-Maria said, a rare smile lighting up her face. ‘I wasn’t completely on-board when Alina said you could do it …’ They sat facing each other, a large oak table between them. ‘… but you did.’
Ana-Maria Rosetti was thirty-seven, with a wide face, deep set eyes, florid cheeks, and painstakingly curled velvet-brown hair. While expertly applied make-up concealed most of her wrinkles and the yellow sheen of her skin, age was catching up with her faster than she would’ve liked. Her body was hard and square, petite but all right angles. She favoured severe Elizabethan clothes; today was a monochromatic sage green coat dress embellished with pearl buttons. Her finely arched eyebrows were reminiscent of the Sixties, and they were the most striking feature of her face. The other striking trait was the gap between her two front teeth. Darya wondered why she’d never done anything about it; it was not like she’d lacked resources.
Ana-Maria stopped speaking and gave a meaningful pause, as if to provide Darya time to react to the compliment. Darya responded with a slight shrug. It didn’t matter. A difficult task lay ahead of her, she knew. The less she spoke now, the better it was for the both of them.
Because what was coming was not going to be pleasant. Ana-Maria didn’t know the half of it.
And Darya wasn’t sure she had prepared well enough. Could she go through with it?
Well, at least she was packed and ready to leave as soon as this was done.
When Darya had come to Romania three months ago, she’d brought very little with her. She’d decided to travel there on a whim; people barely knew anything about the country; no one she asked could tell her very much; and so she’d thought it would be the ideal place for her to hide in; to shake off the demons pursuing her; to avoid falling off the cliff yet again.
But she hadn’t anticipated what was to follow. More tragedy, sordid secrets, a serial killer, a loved one dead.
Past life bad karma, Darya mused. Murder and mayhem followed everywhere she went, even showing up at this picturesque, medieval city in Romania.
Ana-Maria cleared her throat, indicating she expected Darya to begin.
Darya’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. She’d rehearsed the words several times in the past few hours. It had to be done right, with just enough surprise. Because whilst she knew a few things with certainty, a few others depended on what Ana-Maria had to say in response. Of course, Darya wasn’t going to be able to tell Ana-Maria everything—parts of the story would have to remain hidden in the dark grottos of her mind—but she was going to try and answer the question she’d been asked as best as sh
e could, revealing roughly how she’d gotten to the end point.
‘You’ve got to start somewhere,’ Ana-Maria remarked, noting Darya’s hesitation.
‘I’ve got to start somewhere,’ Darya agreed.
‘So, go on,’ Ana-Maria said, leaning back in her chair. ‘Tell me about Brian. Start from the beginning.’
Week 1: 6 weeks before Brian goes missing
Darya meets Brian.
Darya had been on the train from Bucharest to Brasov when she’d met Brian for the first time. She recalled the day had been hot and she’d been sweaty, especially after she’d lugged her suitcase up and down the stairs and across platforms several times.
Should’ve opted for a rucksack, she’d rued more than once. She’d left in a hurry, overnight, and her rucksack was at her parents’ home. In Nagpur. Where she wasn’t going to go back in a hurry.
She’d bumped into Brian already, at the ticket counter, when she’d frantically asked him to hurry up with his purchase because she’d feared she might miss the train. The next time was on the train’s floor because neither had managed a reservation. They had what the locals called a ‘standing ticket’.
They wouldn’t have talked if they hadn’t been sitting side by side, next to the train’s tiny lavatory, shifting gingerly each time people stepped over their luggage and their feet, to go in and out. Darya locked eyes with him a couple of times as they stifled groans and their bums scraped the dusty floor. One time, when the lavatory door was left open, and Darya clambered to shut it, shooting Brian a theatrical can you believe it? look, he spoke up, breaking the ice. ‘The last train I was on was worse than this.’
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 52
