Brian raised both his arms as if in surrender. Changing the subject, ‘This restaurant belongs to the Rosettis,’ he said. ‘Like most things in Sibiu.’
‘Rich, aren’t they?’ Darya murmured. At that point, Darya hadn’t known much about them. Brian, on the other hand, had done some research on them previously and gave Darya a gist of what he’d learnt. The Rosettis were an old, local family who’d moved briefly to the UK in the 1940s, before the communist rule in Romania, and had returned after its fall. They’d done fantastically well since. They owned several commercial complexes in Sibiu and its neighbouring cities; most operated as hotels, restaurants, supermarkets, and cafes. The woman who now ran the businesses was known to be clever and compassionate, but a recluse. ‘One of her parents, her father I think, is ailing and needs care,’ he said. ‘But their businesses are flourishing. It’s a good time for Romania and the Rosettis are making the most of it.’
‘Perhaps one of their cafés could employ me,’ Darya mused. Brian looked at her questioningly. ‘I’m trained to be a barista,’ she explained. ‘And I’m tired of moving around. I might stay longer in Sibiu.’ She hoped he wouldn’t think she was staying on because of him.
But he didn’t seem surprised or cagey when he said, ‘Let me see if I can help with that. I’ve been recently introduced to a few people who might know a few other people …’ He leaned back and fell into a reverie, absently fingering the mug in his hands.
‘That’ll be great,’ Darya said politely, although, from Brian’s body language, it seemed unlikely he was planning to follow through. She’d have to do something herself.
She checked the time on her mobile phone: 9 p.m. ‘Are you on Facebook?’ she asked absent-mindedly. ‘Why don’t I add you?’ Then she realised she’d suspended her account recently. Her friend Veda had warned her against it—being on social media would keep her safe and available, she’d said—but that’s exactly what Darya hadn’t wanted. To be in touch.
Before she could tell him to forget about it, ‘I’m not on it,’ he replied. Darya didn’t ask for more. If she did, she’d have to explain herself. ‘My phone …,’ he added, tapping on his pocket but not taking out his phone to show her, ‘is over ten years old. Do you recall that old model of Nokia from your childhood? I don’t know if they had the same in your country. One from Nokia’s 3000-series. That’s my model. It’s not a smartphone. There’s no social media on it. Nor Google maps. Nor GPS.’
‘Awesome! So, no one’s spying on you.’
‘Yeah, you can say that.’
Darya fingered her shot glass, wondering when Brian was going to order dinner. A minute ago, he’d asked the waiter to bring him more drinks. Darya had been starving, so she’d ordered a sarmale cu mămăligă as soon as she could get the waitress to take her order. The dish rested on the table in front of her, half-eaten. It was delicious, but she’d wanted to wait for Brian to order and eat along with him.
‘Food?’ she suggested.
‘Soon.’
After a pause, ‘Aren’t you glad though, so many of them can speak English in Romania? Especially, in Sibiu,’ she said. ‘It does make living here a breeze.’
‘True that,’ Brian said and raised a glass. ‘Noroc!’
Darya gulped down the drink Brian had ordered for her. ‘This tuica is a killer,’ she gasped and banged the shot glass on the table, silently cursing herself for drinking too fast. Her cheeks were flushed. Her throat burned.
‘Well, tuica is, after all, 45 per cent alcohol,’ he replied, with a wink. He had ordered six shots and had dunked three of them himself, one after another. Darya was tempted to follow suit, but one was making her queasy enough, and she knew what would happen if she left caution to the wind and indulged in too many drinks.
She was determined to behave herself in Romania.
‘Why did …?’ she spluttered. ‘Why did you …?’ Her head spun momentarily, and she realised her words had come out slurred.
He looked at her quizzically.
‘… come here?’ she finished.
‘To Romania, you mean?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘You go first,’ he said.
Darya had not wanted to tell him the truth. She couldn’t have told him she’d run away … from her family … from her boyfriend … from her best friend … from the crisis that had stunned her life, turning it upside down. That she’d wanted some quiet time to get her thoughts and her life back together. She’d chosen a country at random, the farthest place she could think of to go, and here she was.
Yes, she’d acted like a coward; there was no beating around it. She’d run away when a calamity had hit her—perhaps the biggest of her life—but that was the only way she knew how to respond.
By running away.
Instead of telling him all that, she told him about her life in Goa instead. The good parts. Her life in Mumbai. The exotic bits. He listened to her, fascinated by her exaggerations, interjecting with questions, professing a wish to go to both places sometime soon. As they all did.
When she finished, she felt like she’d been role-playing; and the drama she was in had just ended. She imagined the claps, felt the pressure release from her chest.
Brian excused himself. He had to go to the toilet. She watched him leave, his loose, lithe body making its way clumsily through the bustling tables.
Darya had another shot of tuica, enjoying the trickle of calm that coursed through her body.
Ah, she’d missed this. But, she told herself sternly, this is the last one for today.
Brian returned a few minutes later and took his seat. He looked pale; his skin had a copper-coloured sheen on it, and his eyes appeared more sunken than usual.
‘Are you okay?’ Darya asked, concerned. ‘You look a bit under the weather.’
That was when he told her he had a rare genetic condition and had gone to the washroom to throw up first, then take his medicines.
Darya gaped.
‘And yet, here I’m in Sibiu, thousands of miles from Calgary, glugging tuicas, with not a care in the world, no concern that a disease is slowly eating me alive.’ The drink had loosened his tongue. He flashed her an abashed grin. ‘You must be thinking why.’ Before she could reply, ‘To answer in a cliché, carpe diem and all that. There is but one life.’ His lips trembled. He wiped them with the back of his hand. ‘It’s worse than usual today,’ he mumbled to himself.
Darya waved to summon their waitress, who was chatting up a good-looking guest by the cash desk. ‘We should leave,’ she said.
‘Wait,’ Brian said. ‘I just had … something. It’ll be okay. Just … wait.’
Darya wasn’t sure that was ideal, but when Brian’s face cleared and his body visibly relaxed after a few minutes, she heaved a sigh of relief.
‘You need to eat,’ she scolded him. ‘That was terrifying.’ The waitress arrived at their table and she ordered another sarmale for Brian. It appeared barely five minutes later, and Darya stuttered a startled mulțumesc at the unexpected efficiency.
As they dug into their food, Brian told her he suffered from Alagille Syndrome, a rare genetic disorder that affected multiple organs, especially the liver. ‘Bile builds up in it, resulting in scarring, and prevents it from working properly. Essentially, it is unable to remove waste from the body like it can for normal people.’
‘I’m sorry to hear this,’ Darya said.
He told her he’d been diagnosed as a child and was used to living with it. That was also the reason he was skinny and had sallow skin. ‘Need to constantly moisturise,’ he said, and took out a withered tube of Aveeno from his pocket.
Forks and spoons clattered on plates. They had finished.
‘How old are you?’ Darya asked, dabbing a napkin on her lips.
‘Touching eighteen,’ he replied.
‘What?’ Darya gasped.
He nodded self-consciously.
‘Doesn’t your mother worry?’ He had let it slip one time that
his parents were divorced. Darya assumed he’d grown up with his mother (who’d also gifted him his bag).
‘Worry?’
‘Travelling with this illness. So far away from home,’ Darya explained. She’d wanted to add, so young, but refrained from it.
‘It’s under control,’ he replied shortly. He wasn’t curt, but Darya sensed he didn’t want to talk about it.
They turned to look when a rowdy gang of teenagers entered, chattering loudly, passing a cigarette around. Darya grunted as the group settled next to them, legs splayed, hands undulating, laughing at nothing and everything.
So unsullied by life, she thought, feeling envious at first, and then, regretful. She had little idea what was going on in their lives at other times and, for all she knew, this might’ve been the only time of the day they’d found an opportunity to let go. Why, look at Brian …
‘In any case, she died last year,’ he said.
Darya had almost missed it.
‘What?’ she said. ‘Who?’
‘My mother,’ he explained. ‘She died last year.’
‘I’m so sorry. How?’
‘A freak skiing accident.’
His words came to her like bubbles, as if from underwater. Their surroundings had grown rambunctious and suffocating. Or was it the tuica, flowing untethered in her bloodstream?
‘I’m so sorry,’ she repeated.
Brian shrugged.
‘We ought to leave,’ Darya suggested. She wanted to ask him more questions, but it was going to be impossible to do that in the noise of the restaurant.
‘Okay,’ Brian agreed.
Darya waved to their waitress.
‘How much tip should we leave her?’ Brian asked.
‘Tip!’ Darya made a horrified face.
Brian said he had to go to the washroom again. To pee this time, I promise! Darya said she’d pay for dinner and wait for him outside. After the waitress arrived with the bill and Darya paid, leaving a tip as well, she got to her feet and walked out quickly, tugging along her and his backpacks, both surprisingly heavy.
It was a relief to be out, away from the noise. She felt as if she’d escaped a posse of angry bees. Perhaps, she shouldn’t have had so much to drink.
Absolutely no control. She shook her head despondently.
A row of houses looked back at her silently: pastel asymmetric walls, now dyed in varying shades of gray. Nights were balmy in Sibiu—it was still early August, after all—but she knew it was going to get nippy soon. She ought to buy some warm clothes.
Her thoughts moved to Brian and she understood why she’d been having this nagging ‘protective’ feeling about him. He seemed vulnerable, lost.
He joined her a few minutes later.
‘When are you headed back home?’ Darya asked as they started walking.
‘To Calgary?’
‘Yep.’
‘I have a project to finish in Romania,’ he told her. Then, noticing Darya was preparing to ask more, ‘A college project,’ he added. ‘I’m an anthropology major. Romania is an interesting location for an inter-ethnic relationship study, with its Saxon, Romanian, Hungarian, and gypsy population mix. I’m meeting with a local guide tomorrow to help me with it, the same chap who told me about this place.’
‘Interesting.’
‘And you?’
‘How long am I going to be here? Well, I don’t know,’ she answered honestly. He raised an eyebrow and she felt obliged to add, ‘There are problems at home … when they settle down.’
‘What sort of problems?’
She gave his forearm a playful tweak.
‘That’s for next time.’
But when that time came, other absorptions awaited them.
Week 12: The Present Day
‘Do you know why I asked you to look into Brian’s disappearance?’ said Ana-Maria. ‘You, specifically?’ The muscles of her face barely moved as she spoke, but her eyes glittered with meaning.
Darya’s heart skipped a beat.
What does she know?
She decided to play it safe. For now.
‘Because of Alina,’ replied Darya. ‘She told you I was good…’
‘Yes, partly true,’ she interrupted, leaning forward, her hands clasped together in front of her. ‘Because Alina had told me what you’d done back in India. You are good at this. Looking into apparent non crimes … solving seemingly unsolvable ones … finding missing people and links between things.’
‘She was being kind.’
Ana-Maria pursed her lips and continued, as if Darya hadn’t spoken, ‘But that’s not the whole reason.’
Darya waited, her heart thudding in her chest.
How much does she goddamn know?
‘Because I thought… for the longest time ...’ Ana-Maria cleared her throat, as if uncomfortable saying the words out aloud, ‘… that you knew something about it. And if I got you to look for him and paid you for it, you might tell me where he was.’
Darya willed her face to remain immobile.
‘I knew something about …?’
Ana-Maria sighed. ‘Where Brian was,’ she said. ‘I was sure you knew something. Where he went or could have gone.’
Darya arranged her face in an expression of surprise. ‘Me?’ But she’d been expecting this. She was surprised Ana-Maria hadn’t led with it.
‘You knew Brian well,’ said Ana-Maria. ‘You two were intimate.’
‘We were not!’
‘Don’t … just don’t.’ She waved a tired hand. ‘Alina told me all about it.’
‘What did she say?’
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s not true.’
‘I’m not saying you slept with him,’ Ana-Maria said quietly. ‘But you knew him better than any of us.’
‘That’s simply not true,’ Darya protested. ‘Many knew him better than I did, even in this city.’
‘Yes?’ Ana-Maria murmured. ‘Like who?’
Darya gulped. Her heart was thumping in her chest.
She hadn’t wanted to bring them up right away, but Ana-Maria was leaving her with no choice.
‘Alina knew him. Bogdan knew him. The people at Sibiana, where he was, they knew him. Mihai and Irina had met him. Helenka knew him …’ she hesitated. ‘At least, she knew of him.’
‘But none of them were intimate …’
‘We weren’t …,’ Darya cut in hotly, then caught herself. Appearing defensive at this point might do her more harm than good. Drawing a slow breath, she said calmly, ‘Brian and I hung out a couple of times, that’s all. As I told you before, we bumped into each other as we travelled along the same cities. Coincidences.’
‘He didn’t seem to think so.’
‘Who?’ Darya spluttered.
‘Brian. He told Alina you were following him,’ Ana-Maria said quietly.
‘He said it in jest!’
‘Are you sure?’
Darya shook her head in disbelief. Her host was playing with her, leading her to reveal something, but what?
‘I wasn’t following him,’ Darya stated softly. ‘Yes, I came to Sibiu because of him, but I hadn’t planned on it. I was planning to go somewhere after Brasov, and this seemed like a good place.’
‘Because he was here.’
Darya repeated slowly, ‘A mere coincidence.’
Another sigh. ‘So, what happened between the both of you, after you had dinner that night?’
Darya hesitated. Should she tell her?
‘What happened, Darya? Why did Brian tell Alina you were following him?’
Darya replied through gritted teeth: ‘That is not what happened.’
Week 4: 3 weeks before Brian goes missing
Darya has lost touch with Brian but meets him again when he comes to the café. But he hasn’t come to see her.
Brian’s coming to Handsome Monk had been a surprise. He had not responded to any of her messages after their dinner together at the Harlequin and she’d assumed
he’d left the city and that she was never going to see him again. So, on a particularly busy Friday, when she returned from the storeroom and saw him leaning on the counter, talking to Alina, she blinked to make sure it was him.
He turned, as if aware of her stare, and called out cheerily, ‘Hello, there.’
He looked unwashed and unkempt; his hair was longer than the last time. His capacious brown shirt was threadbare, his knee length pants were marked with varying and mystifying shades of colour. A deep gash marked the bottom of his left eye. Only his backpack and canvas shoes appeared as if belonging to a decent human being, and thus looked out of place on him.
Darya walked up to him, squeezing the carton of milk in her hand, so she could transfer her irritation to it rather than inflict it on Brian. ‘What happened there?’ she asked.
‘Walked into a tree,’ he responded with a dimpled grin.
‘You could’ve come up with a better story than that.’
‘Perhaps this was the better story,’ he said. ‘How have you been?’
‘You two know each other?’ Alina asked. She took off her glasses and absently rubbed them with the sleeve of her blouse.
‘Yeah, we’ve met a couple of times,’ Brian said. ‘This one … she’s been following me around.’
Darya scoffed. ‘No one’s going to believe that. Looking at you now.’ Whilst she was upset with Brian, she was also glad to see him again … but he seemed different … how exactly she couldn’t say. Maybe he exuded more nervous energy.
‘Have you placed an order yet?’ Darya asked him.
‘What?’ he asked, confused.
‘Coffee,’ Darya clarified, placing the milk on the table and wiping her hands on her apron.
‘Get me a doppio?’ he replied.
Alina had left them to greet a family of tourists who’d walked into the café. Darya swung a finger in her direction. ‘How do you two know each other?’
‘We met by accident and became friends. Much as how you and I did,’ he replied, then gave Darya a long look, ‘Are you mad because I didn’t message back?’ he asked.
‘That’s called ghosting.’
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 54
