Darya was impatient to meet Mihai and Irina. The two sounded fascinating.
She didn’t have to wait for long.
The Friday of her very first week at the café, Mihai asked to meet Darya who happily complied.
It was a sunny afternoon. The air smelt heavy and ripe: of candles and pumpkins. Sparse and scattered clouds hung over rooftops, like swatches of fabric laid out by a clumsy seamstress. They were many-coloured: white, pale pink, rain grey, luminescent beige.
Darya had been standing at the café’s porch when she saw them arrive. She didn’t see the car; she knew Irina drove herself and parked a few meters away, next to the family-owned medical store, where she purchased Mihai’s medicines for the week. Darya noted that Mihai was already on his wheelchair and Irina behind him, portly and shuffling. She appeared to be struggling, but when Darya strode forward to help, she demurred with a smile, ‘Nu, nu. I’m strong. Used to it.’ Mihai fluttered a weak hand to show his agreement. His face was immobile; his neck slightly askew, as if he had lost the strength to straighten it. His body looked small and frail in the large-enough-for-two wheelchair the wheels of which were scruffy with mud and leaves, seeming as if the two had been mucking about in a garden before they got here.
A mouse. Alina’s description of Mihai was not far off the mark.
Darya let them pass, trying not to stare. Alina joined them at the door and ushered them inside. Over the next few Fridays, Darya would see Alina do this every single time.
It was the first time Darya was seeing Mihai, but since Alina had described everything so perfectly, it felt as if she were having a déjà vu.
Thus, when five minutes later, Darya stepped back inside the café and Alina told her Mihai wanted to meet her, she was not surprised. Irina had looked at her a bit too long, and she’d felt Mihai’s appraising eyes as they’d moved past. She knew she’d evoked their curiosity and she was excited to make their acquaintance.
Trying to keep her eagerness under check, ‘Did he say why?’ she asked Alina.
‘He likes talking to newcomers,’ she answered with a shrug. ‘I’ve told you before.’ She arched an eyebrow and with a smug smile, ‘He’s not about to bequeath a legacy, you know. Keep it in your pants.’
Half-an-hour later, Darya was standing in front of Mihai and Irina, hands clasped tightly together, legs awkwardly crossed. Irina had asked Darya to pull up a chair and sit with them, but she’d declined. She felt more comfortable standing; it made her feel in control.
Although, at that moment, she felt anything but.
Her heart was pounding in her chest with anticipation and she felt inexplicably timid, although the two in front of her were hardly intimidating. Their curiosity was nosy but in a harmless way, the questions akin to the ones she got asked by her rarely-visited older relatives. And with Mihai and Irina, Darya did not mind; she was happy to play along.
Mihai sat withered in his chair, a soft smile playing on his face. He appeared to Darya like a rag doll; when he wanted to say something, he jerked to life, his body jolted as if by electricity, but then he went back to being lifeless again. He appraised Darya with an honest curiosity and spoke with gestures and whimpers. Sometimes his lips formed words, but Darya couldn’t understand what they said. However, it was not a problem for Irina. Sitting straight-backed next to him, she was a figure of patience. Her eyes lingered fondly on his face often, and every now and then, her ears cocked towards him, waiting to catch the smallest of cues. And like a mother who understands her babbling toddler perfectly, she comprehended and interpreted for him. Thus, their conversation flowed seamlessly, although Darya wondered every now and then if Irina was making some of the questions up on her own because there was hardly ever a pause.
‘Tell us about yourself,’ Irina said and waited, hands folded in her lap.
Darya gave a nervous chuckle.
She kept it short.
‘My name is Darya Nandkarni, as Alina must have told you. I come from the seaside state of Goa, in India. Plenty of tourists visit it every year. Have you heard about it? No? Well, I wasn’t born there, I just live there now. My parents …’ Darya paused for a fraction there, ‘… live a train ride away. We visit each other often. I don’t have any siblings.’
‘Are you married? Have a family?’
‘My parents are my family. I just told you about them.’ She kept her tone polite.
‘Husband? Children?’ Irina persisted.
Darya cringed inwardly.
Although Darya loved children, she wasn’t quite sure she was ever going to have them. And a foreign caregiver she barely knew, digging into one of her deepest quandaries made her feel ill-at-ease.
Then again, she knew they didn’t mean any harm. She’d learnt during her time in Romania that locals preferred to speak their minds rather than beat around the bush. They were often uncomfortably direct, and how could Darya grudge them when she herself was that way?
‘I live with my boyfriend, Aaron, in Goa,’ she answered quietly. ‘We … well, we may get married in the future. As of now, we are happy with the way things are.’
‘Not missing him?’
Darya bobbed her head with an extra dollop of enthusiasm to quell the disquiet in her heart. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course.’
‘You always work in coffee shop?’
‘I used to be a workplace consultant … you know, like in a corporate office … but have since trained to be a barista … a coffee-maker. I hope to run a coffee shop in an eco-hotel my boyfriend and I are setting up.’ (And because she knew this question was coming …) ‘I came to Romania for a break after my barista training got over.’
‘Why Romania?’
‘Because I’d heard how beautiful it was. And …’ Darya chuckled, ‘I’m a fan of Dracula.’ Although, she’d learnt within her first week in the country that Bram Stoker’s inspiration for the 1897 hit novel Dracula had been the Prince of Wallachia, Vlad III, and not an actual vampire (of course, those creatures didn’t exist!). Vlad’s claim to fame had been impaling the marauding Ottoman invaders on stakes, which had earned him the nickname Vlad the Impaler, leading to his ultimate infamy across the world, admiration from his own people, and an inspiration for Stoker.
Mihai pointed a wobbly finger at Irina. She leaned forward to wipe off the corners of his lips, then folded the napkin neatly, placing it back on the table. The smile returned to Mihai’s face as his eyes darted from side to side.
Irina addressed Darya again. ‘Like it in Romania?’
Darya nodded. ‘Very much. It’s as beautiful as I thought it would be.’
‘Don’t you miss your parents? Your boyfriend?’
Darya let out a sigh. ‘Well, yes,’ she replied unwillingly. ‘But I talk to them. Every day.’ She’d told them what they’d expected to hear, but her heart felt heavy because she’d lied.
‘They must miss you,’ Irina said sadly. ‘You are too far away.’ She turned to Mihai and stroked his sleeve. ‘Mihai says you should be safe. Enjoy our beautiful country. Romania is not dangerous, but who knows what can happen? Do not trust easily. Stay around good people.’ She flashed her employer a smile and nodded as if he’d said something. But he had not. ‘Get married and have children. Family is important.’
Feeling positively awkward now, ‘Alina told me you used to be a nun,’ Darya interjected. She wanted to ask a few questions of her own and make this a conversation.
Irina blinked her beady blue eyes, as if surprised. ‘Yes. Long time ago,’ she replied.
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Church closed,’ she answered.
‘Why not join another one? There are many in Romania, after all. Every few miles.’ Darya had always thought one got a calling to be a nun. At least that’s what the sisters back in her Catholic school used to tell her. We were not poor or uneducated. We had prospects. We were not forced to do it. Christ called to us. She remembered feeling sympathy for them when she didn’t know any better, which turn
ed to admiration and awe as the years went by. Their steadfastness to a higher purpose was inspiring.
Irina had said something.
‘Sorry, did not get that,’ Darya said, training her eyes back on the portly nun.
Irina was leaning forward and with a flare of her nostrils, ‘Them … communists ruined everything,’ she hissed.
Darya stared at her, startled.
‘We were strong, with real power,’ she said. ‘Doing God’s work.’
A sudden unexpected movement.
Mihai had lifted a hand.
Darya watched in surprise as he reached out feebly and encircled Irina’s elbow. The action seemed to immediately calm Irina. ‘It’s good,’ she murmured. ‘All over now.’
‘I’m sorry …’ Darya started to speak.
Irina waved a dismissive hand and rose with her arms extended, indicating it was time for them to hug and then leave them.
Darya leaned forward obediently.
‘Happy you are here,’ Irina murmured into her ears. ‘Enjoy Sibiu. Enjoy Romania.’
After Irina released Darya, she gently prodded her to hug Mihai. Darya leaned over to give him a clumsy pat on his back. The leathery skin of his cheeks pressed against hers; the fabric of his T-shirt felt warm and moist. He smelt of mud and mildew, and Darya was reminded of her grandmother.
A nice, old-person smell.
He patted her back in response.
Later, when Darya told Alina she’d had the nagging feeling that she’d somehow disappointed the two of them, Alina dismissed it with a laugh.
‘You’re thinking too much about it. It’s sort of a past-time for Mihai, you understand. It’s the only entertainment he has. Talking to new people.’
‘And he comes out only on Fridays?’
‘Yeah, as far as I know. Irina takes him for a spin around the city, they go to the pharmacy, and they come to get their coffee here, talk to new people, and grab a movie afterwards.’
‘As if on a date.’
‘Yeah,’ Alina chortled, rolling her eyes. ‘Only they are Mihai and Irina. Nothing’s happening between them.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Gosh, yes.’
‘The conversation lost steam mid-way. They lost interest in me,’ Darya muttered, wondering why she felt bad about it. She’d wanted to impress them.
‘Stop mulling over it,’ Alina scolded. Then, cupping Darya’s chin playfully in her hands, ‘You cannot disappoint anyone, my love.’
Darya swatted her hand away playfully.
They both turned, startled, as the café door opened.
Helenka sashayed in.
‘Are we on for tomorrow?’ she asked, addressing Darya.
‘Why, of course!’ Darya replied.
Alina and Helenka looked alike—tall, slender, blonde—and, so that they were not mistaken for sisters, they took care to dress differently. Alina’s preferred style was garconne, a style popular in the 1920s: bobbed hair, androgynous silhouettes, clothes in black, of different cuts and textures, military boots on her feet. From time to time, she also added a pair of large, black-rimmed glasses that had no business being there; her eyes were perfectly fine.
Helenka, on the other hand, favoured large prints; frilly dresses in primary colours; and knee-length patterned stockings. She had long, luxurious hair which she either kept loose or tied up in a French chignon. She owned at least a hundred pairs of shoes, mostly heels, in fruity colours and animal prints. She was an in-your-face dresser, yet elegant, and each time Darya saw her, she looked to her as if a nymph had walked through an Andy Warhol painting.
As the only brown girl for miles around, Darya often invited stares and unabashed questions from the locals. While no one was rude, they were not at once friendly either. Romanians were known for their deep distrust of the gypsy community in their country—nomads who’d come from India in the eight century and settled in the cities, usually on the outskirts. It wouldn’t have been inconceivable to mistake Darya for one amongst them, despite her markedly different bearing and attire. Yet, to her surprise, she’d been accepted easily into the close circle she was a part of in Sibiu. Most, including Alina and Helenka, were well-travelled and well-read, and took her as one of their own almost immediately. In that, Sibiu was different from the other Romanian cities she’d been to. They were interested to know about her, and once they did, the differences in their culture and colour dissolved, and they became one.
Noticing that Darya was as tall and slender as the two of them, Helenka often joked that together they would be ideal for a United Colours of Benetton advert. ‘Give them a group discount and all that.’ Darya hadn’t thought the joke too funny but had laughed hysterically—so taken in by Helenka was she. Especially with her voice—raspy and low—almost startling in someone as delicate as she looked.
‘Helenka must turn a lot of heads?’ Darya had asked Alina one time to which she’d responded with a non-committal shrug. Darya had persisted. ‘So, how do you two know each other?’
‘From Uni,’ Alina had replied. ‘Everyone wanted to be her friend. I did, too. She’s gorgeous, you see that yourself. The life of every party. Eats and drinks like crazy. The only fun one in her family. The rest are boring old cops and diplomats.’
Two days ago, Helenka had come to the café and said she wanted to watch a stand-up show. Alina said she couldn’t make it, and Darya asked if she could go instead. It was her evening off, and she thought it might be a good way to meet other people. Also spend some time with Helenka, get to know her better. Helenka readily said, ‘Yes! How exciting for us!’
The stand-up was in English and had been organised by a local expats’ club. Only a smattering of foreigners lived and worked in Sibiu, and for them, modes of entertainment were limited, apart from what the City Council put up at Piata Mare—the ‘big square’ or the city centre—which were almost always in Romanian. To remedy this, a motley group of them—doctors, writers, travellers, the retired—had formed an underground club that held meetups every now and then and hosted events in English: jam sessions, debates, and stand-up nights. They worked out of a leased erstwhile-fancy-and-now-gone-to-the-dogs club to hold these sessions. The cosy, cavernous space had a low ceiling and exposed brick walls, with artfully faded graffiti. All very avant-garde.
Having discovered them through Facebook, Helenka made sure to attend at least one event a week and claimed never to have been disappointed. The performers were an ensemble cast: expat hobby comedians, locals wanting to practice their English, a singer or two thrown in to buoy the mood when things got dull. And every now and then, when the organisers managed to pull it off, a semi-famous comedian headlined the show.
How Oleg Shamir had managed to snag a spot that night was a mystery. He was not the ‘international’ performer they said he was; Darya learnt later, he’d performed only once outside Sibiu, at a nondescript bar in Belgrade. While he had a master’s degree in history and archaeology, and worked part time as a tour guide, he was otherwise unemployed. Thus, Darya presumed he’d pushed hard to be on the show, hoping one successful show would lead to another. Or perhaps the organisers were impressed by his lineage—his father was a media biggie—and hoped that someday their informal productions might get featured on one of the television channels he ran.
Half the night went well: three amateurs performed and left, one disarmingly cute. Darya was plotting to meet him afterwards and she was in a breezy mood. During the break, she spotted Oleg at the back; she knew what he looked like from the poster outside. He was chugging from a bottle of pale ale, his cold, sand-coloured eyes assessing the relaxed, chattering audience.
Their eyes met briefly across the room.
He looked away, disinterested.
Daniel, the emcee of the show, had sneaked up beside her. To her embarrassment, he bellowed—the sound piercing her eardrums—‘Hey, man, Oleg. Get over here.’ Heads turned. Darya surveyed the walls, mortified. Oleg looked surprised, yet joined them in a few l
ong strides.
‘Oleg’s the headliner,’ Daniel said. Then, jiggling a finger at Darya, ‘This is Darya from India,’ he said. ‘She’s taking a break in Sibiu. She’s Helenka’s friend.’ He jerked a finger vaguely towards the crowd and then turned to give Darya an appreciative nod. ‘Very beautiful, no? Like a gypsy goddess.’
Darya waved a self-conscious hand by way of a response.
Daniel was short, square and portly, in his late forties, and happily married. Darya had met Daniel at the café, and they’d gotten talking. His only wish—he’d said as he was leaving—was for Darya to date a local. What a waste, he’d told her, that dark, smouldering beauty.
‘She works in one of the Rosetti cafés,’ he added.
‘Which one?’
‘Handsome Monk.’
Oleg’s eyes stayed longer on Darya this time. He brought the beer to his lips and took another leisurely sip. A nerve twitched in his jaw.
After bestowing them with an avuncular smile, Daniel left the two alone.
The next few minutes were some of the most uncomfortable ones of Darya’s life, and, she’d had many of them.
Attempting small talk, ‘So, what are you joking about today?’ she asked, keeping her tone light.
‘Me,’ he answered.
Darya didn’t get it. ‘What about you?’ she asked.
A slow chug of beer; his last.
‘I … me … am entertaining enough. I have many stories to tell,’ he said, cocking his head at Darya, seeming as if he thought she were being daft asking him these questions. She sensed he didn’t want to talk to her as much as she didn’t want to anymore.
‘Alrighto! See you in the second half then,’ Darya said hastily and slunk away, carrying a burn on her cheeks.
Moments later, she caught up with Helenka who’d been watching them from a distance.
‘That Oleg?’ she asked. ‘The headliner?’
The Darya Nandkarni Misadventures Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 56
