The Madonna on the Moon

by Rolf Bauerdick

“Hoffman? Like the famous actor? Dustin? The legendary Marathon Man?”

  “Exactly. And as things look now, you’re going to achieve not inconsiderable fame yourself. I must have had a good nose. As of today, my photos of you have historic significance. I’ve already sold two dozen of them. And your train has hardly left the station yet. The swan song of the Conducator has ushered in a new era. Your face will appear on the cover of the next edition of Time magazine, just in time for New Year’s. Not bad, right? The title story is already in the pipeline. Headline: ‘Light in the Realm of Shadows’ or something like that. My colleagues have already faxed the first copy to Washington. Perhaps I should introduce you to my Italian colleague. Angelique Gabo from Milan. Next to her is the indispensable and indefatigable Herr Paul, our interpreter.”

  I twirled my finger at my forehead and gave a bored yawn. “Indefatigable, always on call, and all for a handful of dollars. But in view of the late hour, we don’t want to take up too much of your time. In a word, we hope to interview you, Dr. Stephanes—how soon may we address you as Mr. Prime Minister?”

  “You’ll have to be patient a little longer.” Stephanescu could hardly contain his pride and vanity. “The appointment won’t be official until tomorrow afternoon. But when did you want to do the interview? Not right now, I hope?”

  “No, not now. But it should be soon—tomorrow noon at the latest,” answered Fritz. “With a seven-hour time lag, the editors will have it on their desks at breakfast time. Three days later your picture will be on display on every newsstand. And other magazines and newspapers will follow suit. All over the world. But we need an exclusive interview for the American market. The boys from Newsweek are buzzing around here somewhere, too. You mustn’t grant them access until the day after tomorrow—I hope I can count on your cooperation? Would two thousand dollars be acceptable as a fee for your time and trouble?”

  “You Yanks are really smooth operators. Slick, really slick!” Stephanescu unbuttoned his sport jacket. He was back in a jovial mood. He emptied his brandy snifter in one swallow and called for another bottle of Rémy. “You must forgive me—it’s the strain of the past few days. A revolution like this is also a war of nerves. Brutal, I’m telling you. Lots of stress. At some point, you have to wash it all down. But about that exclusive interview—of course, that can be arranged. For you: anytime. The new cabinet is meeting tomorrow at noon. Shall we say ten thirty? Here in the hotel? In my suite, so no one will disturb us.”

  “Okay, at ten thirty then. And just one little tip while we’re on the subject. You don’t need to tell the Newsweek reporters about our little Q-and-A, ’cause if you do, they’ll leave their dollars in their wallets. I suggest a down payment of five hundred.” Hofmann turned to Buba. “Angelique, take it out of the account for special expenses if you don’t mind.”

  Buba looked right and left and fidgeted uneasily with the gold cross between her breasts. “Too many men here,” she whispered to Stephanescu in feigned modesty. Then she discreetly lifted the hem of her dress, reached slowly under her garter, and made a great show of coaxing out a few bills. Stephanescu stared at her thighs. When he didn’t take the money right away and instead turned to yell at the dumbfounded waiter that he’d ordered champagne for the lady, not just Rémy, Buba Gabor knew that the fish had taken the bait. It was obvious that the hook had also been set when Fritz and I rose from our seats and Buba gave the impression she was leaving as well.

  “Must you leave so soon? I insist on treating you—treating you all, that is. Today, on this historic day. Besides, who doesn’t like to be among friends on Christmas?”

  “To be honest, dear colleagues”—Buba played her role with amazing credibility—“I don’t really feel ready for bed yet. A glass of champagne after all that excitement today—well, why not? And anyway, it’s nice and warm here. You need to know, Mr. Stephanescu, that there’s no heat in my room at the Interconti. It’s freezing cold, atrociously cold. Meanwhile, my two colleagues can’t fall asleep because their rooms are so hot.” Buba was so convincing that she really had goose bumps on her arms. As the intimidated waiter was uncorking the Dom Pérignon, Fritz and I took the opportunity to take our leave. We wished them good night, and Buba promised to catch a cab in an hour or two.

  “Are you still cold, my dear? I hope you will permit me to address you as such?” Stephanescu stroked Buba’s arm almost paternally. She indicated she was feeling more comfortable. Then he poured her a glass of champagne while he stuck with cognac. “A drop of the good stuff will warm you up. From France! I must tell you, I won’t stand for any criticism of France. A perfect dream of a country—the cuisine, the wine, the culture. Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur, Pigalle. Fantastique! Paris! Mon Dieu! That’s what the French say. But the women, they stick up their noses a bit too much, don’t you think, Angelique? Angelique—that sounds more French than Italian, doesn’t it?”

  “My mother gave me that name. My friends call me Angie. It sounds more American. My father was Italian, but my mother’s from Paris. And I was born in that wonderful city but have never lived there long. I’ve traveled all over Europe, always on the go. Madrid, London, Munich, sometimes here, sometimes there. Like a Gypsy.”

  “I knew it! I could see it right away. You have some mysterious fire, a glow. Your husband must consider himself a lucky man.”

  “Please! Let’s talk about something else.” Buba’s hoarse voice sank to a deep sigh. “Believe me, Mr. Stephanescu, that man was no . . . Let’s forget it. It was a long time ago. He died a few years ago in a motorcycle accident.” Buba hurriedly crossed herself.

  Stephanescu took her hand. She smelled his alcoholic breath. The acrid smoke from his cigarette made her tear up.

  “After the shadows comes the light. Your American colleague said something like that. That’s absolutely right! But please, call me Stefan! Mon Dieu! A native Parisienne! Right here in the Paris of the East. I’ll tell you what, Angie: in all honesty”—Stephanescu refilled his snifter—“our Paris is dead. You should have seen what it used to be like. But today is the day our people emerge from the shadow of the past. I will resurrect this city. I promise you, my dear, on the ruins the Conducator left us the new Paris of the East will blossom. We’re going to live again!”

  His tongue loosened by the cognac, Stephanescu had spoken so loudly that the men at neighboring tables started clapping and cheering at the words “Paris of the East.” A drunken officer had the idea to strike up “The Internationale,” whereupon some took aim with their index fingers and yelled “Pow, pow, pow” while others thrust their right fists into the air and bellowed, “So comrades, come rally, and the last fight let us fa-a-ace.” Stephanescu drank.

  “Getting a little wild here. Maybe not a good place for a woman.”

  Buba brushed her hair back and reached behind her with both hands to undo the chain and take off the golden cross. “It does bother me a little.” She smiled at him, picked up her glass, and toasted him before drinking. Immediately he slid nearer to Buba, put his arm around her, and stared unabashedly at her cleavage. “It’s too loud in here for me, Stefan. And too many eyes.” Beneath the table she ran her hand slowly up his leg and gently massaged his crotch. She felt his reaction and whispered, “Right now I need a real man who knows what he wants.” By this time the man was staggering drunk but trembling with lust, and it took less than five minutes for them to reach the Presidential Suite of the Athenee Palace.

  A quarter hour later he was sprawled naked and snoring on his bed with his underpants around his knees. Two long-stemmed glasses and an open champagne bottle from the minibar stood on the night table. Buba hadn’t drunk any more. Stephanescu had emptied about half his glass, which was more than enough. Buba poured what was left into the toilet. Then she concealed the little bottle with drops for fending off unwelcome advances in her bra again, picked up the house telephone, and dialed the reception desk.

  Fritz and I were waiting in the black armchairs in the h
otel lobby. Sooner than expected, the woman behind the desk announced, “Herr Hofmann, a call for you from the Presidential Suite. I’m supposed to let you know that the photo session can take place as scheduled.”

  The red illuminated numbers of the alarm clock built into the headboard of Stephanescu’s bed showed 1:28 a.m. as Fritz set about arranging the scene. I provided the props. I put a portrait of the Conducator on the nightstand and shook up the bottle of champagne. Buba exposed her feminine charms to just the extent necessary and without a trace of shame. Knowing how interchangeable reality and illusion were, she mounted Stephanescu’s prone form and leaned back with an expression of voluptuous ecstasy. With the remark, “Okay, that’s perfect,” Fritz pressed his shutter release a half-dozen times. The flash caused Stephanescu’s closed eyes to twitch almost imperceptibly, but that was all.

  While Buba and I lay wide awake with exhaustion in Fritz Hofmann’s room in the Interconti, the night staff of the newspaper Voice of Truth considered it their duty to help out the international photojournalist. Although the technical capacities of their in-house photo lab were limited, Hofmann was able to develop the film, get usable negatives, and produce some prints he found very satisfactory. Then he had them ring up the editor in chief out of a sound sleep—a man who had published a courageous editorial in which he didn’t conceal his preference for the engineer Ion Iliescu as head of state instead of Stephanescu, whom he labeled an opportunist. The widely respected editor was a man of few words. He took a look at the photos and said only, “Professional job. He won’t survive this. We’ll drop this bombshell day after tomorrow on page one.”

  On Monday, December 26, shortly after 10:30 a.m., Buba was already on her way to her uncle Dimitru when armed militiamen accompanied Fritz and me into the elevator leading to the suite on the top floor of the Athenee Palace. Dr. Stefan Stephanescu opened the door. He was alone and looked hungover. He offered us seats in a grouchy voice, making no attempt to hide his foul mood. “Where’s your Italian colleague?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “A woman, Italy, and punctuality . . . Forget it,” Fritz said. “Angelique must have gotten to bed pretty late last night.”

  “She didn’t show up for breakfast anyway,” I added. “I guess we can take care of the interview without her.”

  “Then shoot. But keep it short. I don’t have as much time as I thought.”

  Fritz Hofmann spared Stephanescu any more wasted time. “Dr. Stephanescu, your opponents have attacked your past politics. Let’s take a look back. During the developmental phase of Socialism you were in charge of collectivization in Walachia. You are said to have put down rebellious farmers with a heavy hand. Today, you’re leading the people’s revolution. Aren’t those two things incompatible?”

  “I’m glad you asked. It gives me the chance to clear up a few things. Yes, I was a genuine believer in the idea of collectivization. No question about it. I’d never deny it. But do you have any idea how dirt-poor the smallholders were after the war? Did you see the appalling lot of the mothers? Did you look into the eyes of the starving children? We had an obligation to do something about it. Socialism! Wealth for everyone! Yes, indeed, that’s what we in the party believed. I parroted Marx myself. But in Walachia, I always trusted in the power of the word. Persuading the people to accept the inevitable, ideological education—call it what you will, even propaganda for all I care. But the work was important, and it was the right thing to do. The problem was President Gheorghiu-Dej. He yielded to Soviet pressure from Moscow—too much for my taste. The Little Stalin they used to call him—just so you know. And it’s true, there were some unpleasant cleanup operations. You have to break eggs to make an omelet. I never liked that proverb, by the way. But what was I supposed to do? I was young, an idealist if you will. Fresh from the university with a degree in economics, but still a political greenhorn. Worst of all, I didn’t have any influential friends who thought the same way. And as you know, there’s strength in numbers.”

  “I don’t quite understand. You seem to have had no lack of political cover; otherwise how could you have had such an impressively rapid rise? If our information is correct, as party chief in Kronauburg you were the youngest district secretary in the country. You had that post for more than thirty years. And this afternoon you’re going to be named prime minister.”

  “Correct. I got a lot done during my time in Kronauburg. Cleared away a lot of sleazy bureaucracy. Administrative efficiency, new jobs in the agro-industrial complex in Apoldasch, optimization of the food supply and nutrition, etc., etc., etc. The town of Kronauburg was flourishing. So was the entire district. Let’s not forget the new schools either, even in the remotest mountain hamlet. Children are our future. I came up with that slogan myself, if I may be a little immodest. Feel free to confirm it. All of which is to say, without meaning to boast, that I was popular with the people. That’s one of the reasons why the leadership was hesitant to cut me out. They kept my flame turned low, but they couldn’t extinguish it completely.”

  As Fritz Hofmann nodded in agreement, and I also showed that I understood his plight, Stephanescu’s initial grumpy hangover gave way to a verbosity on autopilot. He stood up, walked over to the minibar, and got out a glass and an already open bottle. We declined the proffered drink. As Stephanescu took his first swallow, I knew we had our enemy where we wanted him. Dr. Stephanescu smiled. He thought he was on solid ground.

  “Konjaki Napoleon. Not the best brand, but it drives out the ghosts of the past. Ghosts I admit to being haunted by as well. But let’s keep going. The central role I played in the development of the Kronauburg District was talked about in the capital, especially after the catastrophic floods. The Tirnava River destroyed wide swaths of the countryside. When I was able to get a dam and hydroelectric plant built in record time, thus securing electric power even in the remotest regions of the mountains, I gained more influence in the party. I was even mentioned as a candidate for the post of minister of the interior. But with the rise of the Conducator, the atmosphere changed. He took all the credit for the hydroelectric project and arrived by helicopter for the dedication. Cheering crowds surrounded him. From then on, he put nothing but stumbling blocks in my path. New roads, bridges, construction projects—nothing got approved by the Central Committee. The taps were gradually turned off. And you know why? You can’t have missed seeing the Conducator’s gigantic palace, all covered in gingerbread. He had half the center of our wonderful Paris of the East torn down to make room for it. You can imagine how much of the people’s money was thrown away on that. I was always against that pompous pile. But take it from me: the voice of reason counted for nothing in our delusionary dictatorship. The individual was powerless. All opposition was quashed. The Conducator and his unspeakable wife couldn’t stand having anyone beside them.”

  “That means that you and the Conducator were enemies?”

  “Frankly, that would be giving myself too much credit.” Stephanescu poured himself a second glass. “To be honest, I knew the Conducator well. Not during the Golden Age, of course. His delusions of grandeur had caused a break long before that. I met him during my student days. His—how shall I put it?—uncivilized lack of taste had already begun to manifest itself. His bad character didn’t escape my notice, but it wasn’t that prominent yet. If you ask me, it was his wife Elena who really awakened the evil in him. By the way, here’s an intimate detail especially for the readers of Time magazine: at that time, when the Conducator was just a simple party official, his nickname was Koka. He was literally addicted to American Coca-Cola. He put it into whatever he was drinking: red wine, bubbly, whatever. An awful person. Basically always was. But I don’t mean to whitewash my part. And to my shame I have to admit that I went into politics to do good and in the end merely averted the worst. I must say it’s a sense of guilt felt by many of us in my country. And you can quote me on that.”

  “As long as we’re talking about guilt, Dr. Stephanes
cu, are you a religious man?”

  “Oh yes, I believe. Otherwise we wouldn’t be sitting here. In the depths of our being, our entire people never lost their faith. Even though the Conducator once declared us the first atheistic nation, we remained believers in our souls. Not everyone, of course. Some had no respect for life. But I invite you to go to Kronauburg. When the recent rebellion spread from Timisoara to my city, we were prepared for the worst. Ask people how many deaths the Securitate in my district has on its conscience after the rebels stormed the State Security headquarters. Not a single one, guaranteed. On my orders, no one fired a shot. Here’s another piece of confidential information: you should know that there were forces in the country who wanted to take God from the people, turn churches into halls of culture with party slogans in place of prayers. When religion dies, the community dies. I always resisted. Let the people have their churches, that was my motto. I wish I could have prevailed. There was an influential security agent in Kronauburg who had the churches cleared out of their treasuries, icons, statues of saints, Madonnas. I’m no coward, but I’ll tell you I was always afraid of that man. Please keep this confidential, but his name is General Raducanu, and I don’t know whether at this very hour he’s on the side of the revolution or its betrayers. My advice is watch out for him. At any rate, Raducanu acquired Western currency by diverting the most valuable antiquities via Polish channels into the capitalist art market. The stuff that couldn’t be sold is gathering dust in the cellars of the Securitate. It was a mistake to violate the pious soul of the people. But I guarantee that the people will get back their Madonnas and their saints. And the churches will be full again.”

  Fritz and I were silent.

  “What else would you like to know? Oh yes, before I forget: let’s handle the interview fee in a different way. If it became public knowledge, people might misunderstand it as a false signal. I think I’ll donate the remaining fifteen hundred to an orphanage or to widows of the revolution. What do you think, Mr. Hofmann?” When he uttered Fritz’s name, Stephanescu suddenly stopped short and then started to stammer, “You . . . you . . . could take a picture of me handing over the money . . . What . . . Why aren’t you taking any notes on the interview? Where’s your tape recorder?”