“Jean-Paul, mon ami! It’s so good to see you, after all these years!”
He hugged his old friend tightly, while the other man strongly grasped him in return.
“Good to see you too, copain!” the old Frenchman replied in his rough, raspy voice that somehow managed to be friendly. For Linda’s benefit, he spoke in English, with an accent similar to Gerard’s. “Mademoiselle”, he addressed her and kissed her hand. “You are a jewel of a woman, beauty personified!”
“Merci, monsieur!” she replied, smiling. “You are very kind.”
“Judging by your voice and by the smell, I can tell you haven’t quit smoking. Tobacco will be the end of you, mon cher,” Gerard told him, then turned to Linda.
“It’s incredible that a doctor who fights to cure other people of cancer is so careless when it comes to his own health!”
“I’m not at all careless, mon ami. Why do you think we fight to find a cure for the most nasty and terrible disease? So we can live a hundred and fifty years enjoying all the vices we love! This is Professor Blazius Olariu,” Jean-Paul introduced the other man, who had also stood. “He speaks Romanian and Russian, so you can communicate only by signs, or by using truly yours as a translator.”
The man was almost an anti-Jean-Paul—short, overweight, bald and blue-eyed. He smiled at them nodding, then said something in Romanian.
“He says he’s happy to meet you,” Jean clarified. “He was just getting ready to leave. If he arrives home too late, his wife gets pissed. Hitler himself would fear that old bat,” he added in an undertone, making Gerard and Linda guffaw.
Looking a bit puzzled, the professor waved them goodbye, after grabbing a briefcase from the desk. He left in a hurry, closing the door silently behind him.
“He’s a genius,” Jean told the couple. “He invented a procedure of tonsillectomy surgery, done by melting the tonsils with liquid nitrogen. Somebody else got the credit and patented the discovery.”
“Really? He seems quite…absent-minded,” Linda remarked.
“Appearances are deceiving, chérie! Now, let me show you to our humble home. Mariana will help you get settled. She speaks French and a bit of English. We’ll get along,” he said smiling broadly, then opened the door.
The Battiste’s house was right next to the clinic. It was a small building, made from gray brick, with copper-colored borders, which matched the roof and front door. In the front yard, beyond the fence, colorful rosebushes lent the setting a touch of color.
They entered into a narrow hallway, where Madame Battiste greeted them. She was a tall, slender woman, middle-aged in Gerard’s opinion. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a bun. She had extremely dark eyes. They were nearly black, very expressive and welcoming. Over a blue home attire, she wore a pink apron around her waist.
“Mariana, these are our friends, Linda and Gerard. First, let’s show them the room they’re going to sleep in.”
“Welcome!” the woman spoke in strongly accented English. “It’s very nice to meet you!”
She smiled warmly and gestured for the two to follow her. As they moved forward, they both admired the paintings and all the Romanian traditional decorations adorning the walls and shelves.
Theirs was the last room on the left. Mariana urged them inside, followed by Jean-Paul, who served as a translator.
“Leave your luggage here, change, and then we’ll have dinner. Right next to your room is the bathroom. We’ll leave you to get settled. After that, we’ll be waiting for you in the living room, first door on the left. In fact, our house has only three rooms, so it’s hard to get lost. Just be careful not to stumble into our bedroom in the middle of the night!” Jean joked, laughing heartily. Mariana dragged him out of the room, smiling chagrined, then closed the door and left the guests alone.
They looked around curiously. Their room was small, like the rest of the house. It was furnished with a big bed, two nightstands, a table, a couple of armchairs and a closet. Gerard wasn’t all that intrigued, but noticed that Linda was very impressed by all the knick-knacks scattered around the place. They’d both found out later from their host the name of every object.
The bed was covered by a colorful knitted macat, with a complicated floral pattern. On the wall above the bed was a carpeta—a woven colorful canvas, portraying a pastoral scene. On the opposite wall, next to the closet, hung something called a goblen—a wooden-framed canvas, onto which were sewed in vivid colors a Virgin Mary and a tiny Baby Jesus.
What she seemed to enjoy the most were the mileuri—lacy, crocheted webs, which decorated shelves and tables or sat under bibelouri.
“I wonder if all these are made by Mariana’s hands,” she mused aloud, while they were unpacking their shoulder bags and arranging their clothes in the closet.
“I think so. From what Jean told me, sewing, crocheting and weaving are her biggest passions. I believe she even sells some of this stuff. I seem to recall him saying that.”
“Fascinating!” she remarked admiringly, as she was undressing and preparing to put on a simple housedress.
“Very,” he whispered softly into her ear, sliding his arms around her from behind. “I just hope they don’t stumble upon us tonight,” he added, skimming the delicate lobe of her ear with his teeth and tongue.
She cleared her throat, then stepped back reluctantly.
“Shame on you!” she said in a faked demure tone, lowering her eyes coyly. “Don’t even think we’re going to do indecent things in the home of these decent people!”
“Have I ever done anything indecent to you, Linda?” he asked wickedly. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, before kissing her deeply and thoroughly. “We’ll hide under the quilt,” he said breathlessly a moment later. “I just hope the bed doesn’t squeak.”
He winked at her, laughing when he saw the pink stains rising into her cheeks.
The living room was as prettily furnished as the rest of the house. A round table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by six chairs. Other furnishings included a huge bookshelf, a couch and a TV, which seemed to be a replica of the one in The Flintstone Family.
Dinner was delicious, consisting of ciorba de perisoare, gulas de porc and gogosi cu branza. While Gerard talked with Jean about their business, he could hear Linda praising the food. She’d even learned a few words in Romanian, mainly food names. Using English and sign language, she asked Mariana if she could write down the recipes of the dishes they’d had. When Mrs. Battiste agreed gladly, Linda excused herself to go get her notepad.
Meanwhile, Gerard and Jean-Paul put together a plan, describing to one another the progress they’d made in their attempts to eradicate, or at least reduce the sufferings produced by cancer.
“For now, I have four patients at the clinic. I’d like you to see them tomorrow,” Jean-Paul said.
“What’s their diagnosis?”
“Two of the women have breast cancer. One already had a partial mastectomy, but the disease relapsed. Another one has an area covered with melanomas—here, I think your treatment would come in handy, if she agrees to try it. There’s also a man who, unfortunately, I don’t think has many chances left. Pancreatic cancer. He’s already in metastasis. There’s not much I can do for him,” he continued on a long breath, regret roughening his voice. “Maybe just to send him to a hospital in the capital. I don’t know if he can handle chemotherapy. He’s very weak.”
They all kept a moment of silence, which was interrupted by Linda’s appearance in the doorway. A puzzled expression shadowed her beautiful face.
“Gerard, do you know where my notepad is?” she asked. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
He shrugged, gnawing thoughtfully at his lower lip.
“I’ve no idea. Wasn’t it in your handbag?”
She sat again at the table.
“I usually keep it there, but I think you had it after you finished reading the road directions.”
“What directions?” Jean-Paul asked curio
usly.
Gerard sighed, putting his fork down.
“Ah, it’s a long story, my friend. On the way here, we got lost somewhere into the woods. We stumbled upon a cabin, which seemed to have been there since the last century, and a woman explained to us how to get here. You were right when you told me how great this country is. From a geographical point of view it is gorgeous, but…”
He trailed off, noticing that Mariana and Jean were no longer eating, but watched him strangely.
“What happened?”
Linda, who had also remarked their odd behavior, addressed the question to no one in particular.
“In what woods where you lost?” asked Jean.
“Some forest named Hoia or something like that. I can’t remember the exact name.”
The look the two Battistes exchanged, combined with the expressions on their faces, was so strangely alarming that Gerard felt how an inexplicable shiver crosses through his entire body. He knew Linda felt the same, because she became motionless. They all stood still for a long moment, until he broke the tense inertness.
“What’s the deal? Why are you looking at us like we’re crazy or something?”
Jean-Paul didn’t answer, just gazed at him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
“Why don’t you tell us more about this? And who do you say gave you directions? What woman?”
Because Gerard didn’t reply, Linda took over. She related in detail the entire episode that had taken place into the forest, then concluded by saying, “That’s why I thought Gerard had my notepad. On it was drawn the route that woman, Madame Maria, sketched for us. But I can’t find it. I can’t possibly imagine where it’s disappeared,” she added perplexed.
“I don’t believe you’ll ever find it.” Jean’s firm and somewhat somber tone tensed the atmosphere even more. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Hoia-Baciu Forest?”
The young couple looked at one another, and shook their heads.
“No,” Gerard replied. “Should we have?”
“It’s quite well-known, worldwide. There seems to be a very high frequency of, ehm, paranormal phenomena around there. There have been numerous documentaries, extensive research, even pictures and recordings with UFOs. They appear to be authentic. Yoga and Wicca practitioners from all around the world come here to explore the depths of this forest, but without much luck. Many witnesses stated that, no matter to which direction one walks, after less than three hundred meters one finds himself back to the same point from where he left. Also, most of them claim they’ve heard strange noises there. Radios, cameras, phones, composes don’t work in that area. Its nickname is The Romanian Bermuda Triangle.”
While Jean talked, Gerard and Linda remained quiet, listening motionless. As the older man went on speaking, the two felt cold shivers sliding down their spines. All the hairs on their bodies grew erect, like in the presence of a huge source of static electricity.
After he took a sip of water, Jean-Paul put the glass down and continued, “Romania was formed as an official state in 1862, when Transylvania, Tara Romaneasca and Moldova were united by Alexandru Ioan Cuza, one of the most important rulers of this country. Obviously, he’d made many enemies, so in 1866 he was forced to abdicate and was exiled. It was speculated he had an informant, his most trusted man, whom he wanted to leave here in the country.”
“I’m sorry, but what’s this history lesson got to do with what we were talking about?” Gerard interrupted, slightly reclining in his chair.
“I’m going to tell you in a moment. In the Hoia Forest—which back then didn’t have this name—that mysterious informant and his family had built a cabin. They lived many years in the heart of the woods, safe, without anybody even suspecting their existence. But shortly after Cuza’s exile, the informant’s hiding was discovered. The members of the coalition that had discarded the ruler ordered their men to burn the cabin to the ground. And so they have. They set it on fire one night, secretly, and made sure there were no survivors.”
The only thing perturbing the stunned silence that followed was the small hum of the old-fashioned ceiling-fan. Because it seemed that Gerard and Linda hadn’t grasped the meaning of what he was telling them, Jean went on, “In spite of all these, even now, after nearly two hundred years, there are plenty of people who claim to have seen the cabin in the woods from a distance. They all say it appeared whole and untouched by flames. Generally, the others prefer not to believe them or to avoid the subject. But no one has ever mentioned meeting or talking to somebody out there.”
He sighed, looking at his guests’ stricken faces. Then he added, “The informant’s name was never known, but his wife was legendary in Transylvania. She was the daughter of a great nobleman and had run away from home to get married, thus provoking a huge scandal. Her name was Maria.”
Linda was shaken by a chill so strong it rattled the ice in her glass. Gerard saw her trembling hand take the glass to her mouth, to wet her dry lips.
“What…What are you trying to tell us, Jean-Paul? That we’ve imagined the whole thing?” he asked, incredulous.
The old Frenchman remained silent for a moment, then looked at his wife, who had stayed quiet, her dark expressive eyes fixed on the guests.
“I don’t know if imagine is the correct verb for this, my friend. These so-called paranormal phenomena are not a fruit of our imagination. They are something beyond explanations and the logic we know.”
Linda put her glass down and lifted a hand to interrupt him.
“Wait a minute. All this is very interesting, but we perfectly know what we saw. You can doubt the word of one person, but there are two of us. We didn’t dream. We didn’t hallucinate. That woman was as real as you. We talked to her. She drew a route for us. What more tangible proof do you want?”
“Where is this drawing?” asked Jean reasonably.
“On that freaking notepad I can’t find,” she replied, frustrated. “It must be in the car.”
“I’m going to look for it,” said Gerard.
He stood up abruptly, feeling the acute need to counteract this bombardment of incoherent information with action, with something concrete.
He went into their room and grabbed the Jeep’s keys, then walked the short distance to the place it was parked, on the side of the street. He searched all the places and corners where an object could have been placed or dropped, but his efforts were in vain. He found no trace of the notepad, nor of the drawing they’d used to guide them.
In his mind, he recalled dozens of times the episode in the woods, reliving each sensation, seeing each detail of the cabin, of the woman’s appearance. He remembered every line that had been spoken.
It seemed absolutely impossible for it not to have been real. A figment of imagination, of a dream, of another type of phenomena? Unconceivable! Then where was that damned notepad? So he can flaunt it into Jean’s face, then laugh together at the theories and phantasmagorical tales he had blabbed about.
He stopped suddenly, remembering something. He locked the car and rushed back to the house.
“The pictures!” he exclaimed, as he entered the living room. “Linda took pictures. Isn’t that solid proof? I don’t think the cabin actually appears in the photos, but…”
He paused, noticing that Linda was in fact holding the camera. But the expression on her face was far from encouraging.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, an unpleasant, sinking feeling bearing down his shoulders.
No one said anything for a moment. Linda looked at him with such helplessness and panic that he was instantly alarmed. He went quickly to her and cupped her shoulders with his palms, massaging them gently.
“What happened?” he asked, now thoroughly concerned.
“They’re not here,” she replied weakly. “The photos don’t appear anywhere. Look!”
He took the digital camera from her hands and accessed the menu, which displayed the photos recorded on the memory-card. Indeed, there was no trace of the pictures taken
into the forest. He went over all the images twice. There were the beautiful photos of the landscapes they’d admired together, taken from inside the car, or on stops. The pictures they’d taken at the restaurant, images of all the dishes served, a picture he’d taken of Linda while she sassed him with her tongue out. He’d thought that was very hilarious at the time. However, now it was the last photo from the gallery, then the images repeated cyclically. Not a single photo from that damned forest was here.
Damned? he asked himself, amazed by his choice of words. Yes, he couldn’t find another word. His mind seemed to be blocked. But that particular word conferred a maleficent aura to that place, yet they hadn’t seen anything evil there. Strange, bizarre, but not evil, he thought, remembering the kind woman who had opened her home’s door for them and showed them the way back to civilization. True, all of the objects and the cabin itself seemed detached from another era, but still…They were in a country unfamiliar to them. He couldn’t know how civilized or primitive these people were. After all, Jean and Mariana’s house wasn’t exactly a technological center. But at least they had electricity.
“I remember now,” he said abruptly, capturing everyone’s attention. “That cabin didn’t have electricity. It was lighted only by some kind of lamps.”
“And that woman asked us where we’d left our carriage,” Linda put in, nestling closer to his chest. “She was so awed by our clothes, by the pen we gave her. She seemed never to have seen such things in her life! My God, Jean, are you really serious about this? Is it truly possible it has all been a paranormal experience?” she asked, her voice rising in a tone of absolute incredulity.
Jean looked at Mariana, then nodded.
“I can’t think of another logical explanation, and I don’t think you can either,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “You’re not the only ones who had unusual experiences in the Hoia Forest. But no one mentioned an occurrence like the one you described.”
Both couples stood still as statues, while dozens of thoughts crossed their minds, in an unavoidable vicious circle.
A French Kiss in London Page 12
