by Mario Bolduc
He was told by a German soldier that Kraków had already fallen. The Russians had been in Auschwitz for days already. German officers had been captured in their flight back to Berlin. They were hanged or shot. Emil worried about Christina, she who’d saved his life once more. He would never be able to return the favour. Yes, he was free, and there was gladness in that, but his heart was rent at the thought of never seeing her again.
Next came the interrogation. The prisoners stood in a long line, giving their names and ranks. His Paolo Soprani strapped to his back, Emil stuck out his chest. He sought his courage, his strength. He had survived the worst carnage of the twentieth century. The future was his.
“My name is Emil Rosca. I am no soldier. I’m no German. I am Roma, son of Anton Rosca, King of the Roma.”
The Russian soldiers looked at him, confused. Emil crouched and drew a Z in the dirt. He showed the number tattooed on his forearm.
“From this day forth, I am the King of the Roma in Romania.”
The Russians burst out laughing. That was a good one! The King of the Roma! A dynasty fit for a travelling circus! King of half a rubbish heap!
17
Bucharest, November 29, 2006
The conflagration caused by Laura Costinar’s death reached Max O’Brien all the way to his hideout on Sepcari Street. Toma Boerescu had sent him to a single room in a building. The apartment was on the fifth floor of an ancient structure without an elevator. Right over him, the attic, with the sound of pigeons cooing. In the distance, a steeple, Bărăţia’s church tower, if he wasn’t mistaken. A stone-faced woman handed him the keys, soap, and towels without asking questions.
The next morning at a press conference Adrian Pavlenco stated that fingerprints had been found in the bathroom of the Alexandriei Boulevard building. They pointed in one direction: Robert Cheskin, also known as Max O’Brien, a Canadian-born con man operating out of New York. He was to be treated as a potential accomplice of Kevin Dandurand in the case of the Zăbrăuţi Street fire. O’Brien had killed a Romani woman who could have denounced him. The woman in question had been a pillar of the community: Ioan Costinar’s widow. O’Brien and Dandurand had both fled, which was rather incriminating.
However, Pavlenco wanted to reassure the Romani community and MP Marineci in particular that the police were doing everything in their power to get their hands on these Romani-killers. They would see that Romanian justice took its fight against perpetrators of hate crimes seriously.
Max turned off the television, disgusted.
That damn Pavlenco, using Laura Costinar’s death to peacock.
More news came, this time from Canada. A man on Cambiano’s board of directors claimed that Raymond Dandurand had been a victim of fraud, conned by a man calling himself Carlo Negroni. The man had never been found. Asked about this by investigative journalists, executives at Nordopak — now a branch of the Italian company — confirmed board members’ allegations. Was the suspected killer of Laura Costinar also responsible for a fraud orchestrated by Kevin? Why not? The story was becoming far more scandalous and intriguing, and another dark mark was added to Raymond Dandurand’s ingrate son.
The following day, Canadian media outfits began speculating on the deaths of Raymond and Sacha. There had to be dirt there, as well. Perhaps the deaths could be pinned on the murderous duo, talking heads on one news channel suggested. Max O’Brien and Kevin Dandurand: bloodthirsty killers, accomplices since forever, travelling the world and leaving death in their wake. Max could imagine Josée thinking that she, too, had been deceived by this inveterate liar, this thief. Adrian Pavlenco was asked how in the world he could have had the thief in his office and not catch him! Max guessed that Marilyn Burgess was cursing herself for not having been more careful. Thankfully, she had the decency to stay far away from the spotlight. Though Max knew a woman like that wasn’t about to let such a humiliation lie. She was sharpening her claws, laying a trap this very instant, he was sure. Max O’Brien, the elusive con man, had been unmasked. He’d been lucky so far to have escaped the law, as had Kevin Dandurand. In a foreign country, unable to speak the language, the two suspects wouldn’t last long. Their silver tongues would be useless. Sooner or later the two men would turn themselves in — unless the Roma themselves decided to hand down their own brand of justice.
A Romanian television reporter, the most syrupy of the bunch, described in detail in a falsetto the formidable Kris romani, the Romani court before which troublesome and quarrelsome delinquents were brought to justice. The kumpaníya’s degenerates, killers, thieves. Sometimes they were sent to face gadjo justice, but more often than not, punishment was handed down by the family, informally, without giving notice to outsiders. Of course, the Kris only handed out judgments to Roma, but the journalist insinuated otherwise, perhaps to cause a little shiver of fear and delight in his audience. These Gypsy killers would get what was coming to them … and from the Gypsies themselves! Their brand of justice was no stroll in the park, no! Max O’Brien and Kevin Dandurand would be found somewhere in a ditch, their heads chopped right off! Like the chickens Gypsy parasites were known for stealing.… Oh, yes, they would be tortured with hidden Gypsy magic …
In short, Max was screwed. And Kevin, as well. The Romanian police, humiliated, would try to get back in the good graces of the public, who’d begun demanding answers. And Marilyn Burgess was right behind the good Romanian people, pushing the cops as hard she could, desperate for that promotion. Not to mention the Roma themselves, out looking for justice. Max felt surrounded, encircled by three groups who all had the same objective: to neutralize him. The Romanian authorities would certainly demand harsh justice as an example. He’d never be extradited. The two criminals, Max and Kevin, would face a Romanian judge. They’d get a well-publicized trial with lights, camera, action. That was if they weren’t caught by the Roma beforehand, of course.
Max was boxed in. Nowhere to turn.
On the third day, Toma Boerescu walked up to his bolthole, half carried by the owner. He laboriously reached Max’s room under cover of church bells ringing nearby. Max’s saviour collapsed in a wicker chair, and it took him a good ten minutes to catch his breath. The old man would have probably climbed all the way to the top of the Arcul de Triumf just to contemplate the sight of a bested Max O’Brien.
“So how did you know where I was?” Max eventually asked when Boerescu had caught his breath.
“I bugged you the other day, Cheskin. Or should I say O’Brien?”
“Please, Max is fine.”
“Your pin.”
Max examined it closely and noticed a micro-emitter.
“And your cellphone.” Boerescu smiled. “Old habits die hard in Eastern Europe. Forty years of totalitarianism will do that to you.”
Clearly, Max had underestimated his fixer.
The man added, “More bad news. This morning Pavlenco’s men found the body of a photographer in the southern suburbs. The poor bastard was found stabbed in his Dacia.”
Cosmin Micula.
“An anonymous call to make sure the body was found quickly.”
It was a foregone conclusion who the suspect would be.
Max sighed. “Of course, they found my fingerprints in the car.”
“Do you touch absolutely everything on purpose?”
Max had fallen straight into a trap as deep as it was wide. He was a lamb to the slaughter. Who were Laura Costinar and Cosmin Micula’s killers — the same killers, presumably, who had lit the fire on Zăbrăuţi Street? What did these people want? To make sure Max and Kevin took the fall, clearly. They would be thrown under the bus.
Why?
To Max it was clear that Kevin was still being held by his captors, if he wasn’t already dead. One thing was certain: his friend was in grave danger. No way would Max abandon Kevin to his fate. Max had no intention of disappearing. The bastards behind this whole affair d
idn’t know who they were messing with.
“You’ve got another passport?” Boerescu asked.
“For what? I’m not leaving. I’m going to find Kevin.”
Boerescu sighed. “You’ll get nowhere with the cops after you.”
And Max still needed to figure out why Kevin was in Bucharest in the first place. The photographer, Micula, had been vague about that. How had he gotten mixed up in this whole affair? He probably didn’t care a whit about Ioan Costinar’s killer. So why this sudden flurry of activity?
Max realized he might just find a few answers in North America. He could start in Manitoba, where Costinar had been murdered. His killers were likely the people responsible for the fire in Bucharest. Back in Canada, Max would be able to move freely and investigate as he saw fit. He’d have room to breathe.
Boerescu sweetened the pot. “I’ll put my friends on it. You can trust them. They’ll leave no stone unturned, and those who don’t want to talk, they’ll get them to talk.
Boerescu was right.
“I promise to find your friend. So, the passport?”
Max always kept two or three backup passports in the lining of his coat.
His fixer scanned them critically. “This one should work.”
“The airports are going to be under surveillance,” Max replied. “We need to find another way out.”
“You’ll drive toward Serbia. You’ll cross at Orşova and be in Belgrade a few hours after that. You could also cross through Bulgaria, but Giurgiu is too close to Bucharest, and the cops will likely be looking for you at that border crossing.”
Boerescu smiled. “I’ll go with you. Killers and thieves don’t normally drive around with old men. Especially not former cops. It’ll be good cover.” He sniffed. “You’ve got money, of course? Cash?”
Max nodded.
They would leave the next day. Max slept fitfully, the slightest noise waking him. He woke often that night, and his mind turned to Kevin and what was in store for him. Kevin’s presence in Romania intrigued him, especially since Laura Costinar’s murder. What relationship did he have to the country? Surely, the link was his mother, Roxanne. That Max was sure of. Had she some connection to Costinar’s cause, and through her, to Kevin?
As dawn broke over the city, the stone-faced owner climbed up the stairs and woke Max. A waft of coffee tickled his nose through the open door. Boerescu waited for him in a rusted truck. He was wearing his heavy coat, a spit-shined medal pinned to it. Boerescu ordered Max to sit in the middle seat, between him and the driver, without introducing the man. The vehicle rumbled off through the deserted capital. No police patrols to bother them this early. Soon the city turned into suburbs, and the suburbs into countryside.
According to Nine O’Clock, an English-language daily printed in Bucharest, the Conference of European Cities had ended on a statement reaffirming the desire of each and all to look into the concerning state of the Romani people in order to find a permanent solution to the deplorable situation that had lasted for centuries. The representative for Copenhagen — a tall blond man — spoke of a new era for stateless peoples. A statement supported by Hamburg’s mayor and three other politicians from Western Europe. In short, the usual. Next year, in Venice or Lisbon, it would be on to another theme, other worries, and the same soothing speeches without action. In front of an assembled media, Victor Marineci called out the Romanian authorities, who were dragging their feet in the Zăbrăuţi Street fire investigation. Where were Max O’Brien and Kevin Dandurand? Hadn’t the authorities promised to apprehend them quickly? Surely, if fine, upstanding, pure-blooded Romanians had been slaughtered, there was no doubt the criminals would be behind bars already!
Max crumpled the newspaper and threw it under the seat. Next to him, head against the window, Boerescu was sleeping, despite the truck bouncing up and down on the rough road. He was sleeping a bit too deeply for Max’s taste. Maybe he’d gotten his medication mixed up? But as soon as the vehicle neared Alexandria, the old lizard awoke from his torpor. He demanded the driver give him peanuts, almonds if they were straight out of luck, then complained about the weather, which had been so much warmer back when Ceauşescu was in power. To freshen his breath, he pulled out a flask of palinca and loudly cleared his throat. Good morning, Toma.
“So when are you going to introduce me to your driver?”
“He doesn’t know you, he’s never seen you, he’s already forgotten you.”
The man was called Juvan, in fact. Friendly, but not very loquacious — which Max appreciated — and rather impressively cross-eyed. And asthmatic to boot. A sight to see him drive with one hand, holding his inhaler in the other, looking in the wrong direction. And yet, according to Boerescu, Juvan knew the country like the back of his hand, especially the Danube region out west, where his family was from. All of his knowledge would be needed to cross the border.
Max watched the landscape go by, the first time he’d been out of city since he’d arrived in Romania. Carts pulled along froxen roads by horses or oxen, men wrapped up in heavy clothes. The country didn’t seem to have really left the dark years. Back under Ceauşescu, food was rationed, citizens — comrades — condemned to malnutrition. Even famine. In winter, to prevent blackouts, it was prohibited to heat homes over fourteen degrees. Bucharest’s downtown core was not the only place to have suffered from Ceauşescu’s madness. In the 1980s, the dictator had had dozens of villages, churches, and historical monuments destroyed, trying to emulate what he saw as the success of the Chinese Cultural Revolution.
Peoples are like individuals: some are lucky, others aren’t. Some slip off into the deep waters of history without causing waves, others crash into the reefs of dictatorship and totalitarianism.
This was the fate of Romanians.
Boerescu’s fingers yanked at his pill bottle, which he couldn’t seem to open. The vehicle’s bouncing didn’t help. Max wanted to give him a hand, but Boerescu refused. A moment of pride.
“You were a hard-liner?” Max asked after a time.
“I’m sorry?”
“As a party member, I mean. The picnics, the parades, the demonstrations. As a child, you wore the little red scarf?”
“Yes.”
“And you were never tempted to cross the fence? To say goodbye to Joy?”
“Abandon socialism?”
Max nodded.
Boerescu said nothing at first. He swallowed a handful of pills, then said, “The retirement plan I worked for all my life with the Bucharest police department was annihilated by the devaluation of the Romanian leu. I live in a tiny apartment bought directly from the city by a corrupt promoter living the good life in Turkey. The pills I take that used to be free now cost me a fortune.”
Boerescu hiccuped. He had spoken too quickly. After catching his breath, he added, “Socialism abandoned us, don’t you see? In ’89 it was socialism that jumped the fence.”
He gestured toward a family on the side of the road, children running about covered in ash. Their parents searching through roadside trash for something that might be recycled to make a meal. Roma, no doubt, shunted from one landfill to the next.
“And that’s what we got for it. Ceauşescu would never have let the situation get so bad.” A long silence, then, “The greatest statesman this poor country of ours has ever known. The greatest defender of the Romani people. On his death, they lost a true father.”
Max had his doubts. “A bogeyman, more like. Why would he ever have cared for the Roma?”
“Because he was a Gypsy himself.”
18
They reached Craiova toward the end of the day and made their way to a hotel Juvan knew and recommended — his stepbrother’s. The next day they would cross the Serbian border one hundred kilometres to the west. The hotel was freezing, of course. After a lukewarm shower, Max walked down to the practically deserted dining room. On the wall,
a Caribbean tapestry: sunset over a beach. Enough to make your teeth chatter even more. Toma Boerescu, who’d kept his coat on, was seated with the driver. The two of them were attacking their vodka with gusto. Max thought they looked like two party members back in the good old days. Travelling on Romanian roads, announcing the good news, terrorizing whomever crossed their paths, just because they were bored.
The menu was recited in a monotone voice by Dracula’s little brother. The Ceauşescu special: not much, and none of it tempting. Max had noticed, as he’d walked by the kitchen to the dining room, a crate of vegetables that might conceivably have been fresh at some point. No way he’d risk it with anything too fancy. Boiled vegetables, it was.
In Europe, history had gotten a bit too enthusiastic, not only to the detriment of Jews, but to the detriment of the Roma, as well, who paid their pound of flesh for Adolf Hitler’s madness. After the war, the situation didn’t get much better for the Roma. Some of them had stayed in the camps because they had nowhere else to go. In Germany, repression continued. The racist laws of 1938, adopted by the Nazis, remained in practice against the Roma until 1965. Things were even worse in Eastern Europe. There were countless initiatives to pull the Roma out of their misery, of course, but they were always promoted for the benefit of the totalitarian regimes that funded them. Be it forced sterilization to avoid the “proliferation” of families — which the Czech government called an act of socialist humanism — or the removal of children from their families to be educated by the state. In East Germany, for instance, Roma children were placed in classrooms for mentally handicapped children. Punishing measures taken without consulting the Roma, of course, who only sought to survive.
“Except in Romania,” Boerescu said. “Here their situation was better than anywhere else.”
“Thanks to the Genius of the Carpathians, as Ceauşescu called himself, right?” Max added.
