Playing the Moldovans At Tennis

by Tony Hawks

  2Moldavia is the Russian language name for this area, and Moldova the Romanian one.

  I knew from appearance alone that there were three other Brits on the flight They were identifiable primarily because they were the only passengers who didn't resemble baddies from a 1980s Cold War thriller. One of them was sat across the aisle from me. He seemed a benign fellow, slightly greying and with open features. I leant over and made an invasion of his personal air space.

  Why are you going to Moldova?' I asked, assuming that he wasn't on a two-week Thomson package holiday.

  'Both Esther and I,' he said gesturing to the young woman sat alongside him, 'are going to work in a home for handicapped children in Chisinau.'

  David turned out to be a vicar from an Anglican church in East London who knew as little about our destination as I did. When he asked for the reason for my trip I felt a little sheepish. My cause, after all, lacked the nobility of his, but when I explained it to him he laughed and promised to say a prayer for me.

  'I'm not sure if I can influence Him on that one, but I'll give it a go,' he joked.

  'Any help gratefully received,' I replied. Who knows, I may need a little looking after.'

  I wondered whether God, whoever or whatever He was, would approve of what I was undertaking. I decided that He probably would. After all wasn't He suppose to move in mysterious ways? My way, once explained to people, mystified them immediately – so maybe God and I had an affinity on the mystery front.

  The other British passenger was sitting two rows in front of me, and my not knowing why he was Moldova-bound was making me peevish. I tried to guess but it wasn't easy, only having the back of his head to go on. After studying it for some twenty minutes I felt pretty sure that this was the back of the head of a diplomat. It bore all the hallmarks – ears sticking out each side, and hair on the top going right the way down to the nape of the neck. Eventually I plucked up the courage to go and check on the validity of my prognosis.

  'Sorry to bother you,' I said, climbing into the vacant seat beside him, 'but I've been trying to guess why you're making this trip. Are you on official business?'

  'Kind of. I'm going to get married,' came the reply.

  'Blimey.'

  Kevin explained that he had met a Moldovan girl on the Internet, as you do, and after an eighteen-month courtship in which they had exchanged hundreds of messages he had finally proposed marriage. This was to be the journey in which he married her and brought her back to live with him in England. I was a little concerned that their relationship might not work so well when it had to move into the physical world where primitive methods of communication such as using words and touching are still favoured. Perhaps they would be OK if they just passed notes to each other for the first two months, or set up computers in each room so they could send each other e-mails.

  To: Cutiekins@upstairsbathroom.co.uk

  From: Kevin@kitchen.co.uk

  Message: How long are you going to be in there?

  What do you do Kevin?' I asked, still secretly hoping he might be in the diplomatic corps.

  'I work in computers.'

  Well of course. How could I have misread the back of his head so badly?

  As we touched down I felt an adrenaline rush. I was excited to be in Eastern Europe for the first time. I simply did not know what to expect Would it be stark, unwelcoming and primitive as most of my friends had predicted, or would I find a justification for Andrei's words. 'I wish I was coming with you'? The thrill was in not knowing.

  I had my first contact with a Moldovan on home soil when a stern-looking man in oil-stained blue overalls stopped me from filming the plane as I left it. He was scary. With one fiery look and a demonstrative gesture with his hands he ordered me to put my video camera away, making me feel like an enemy of the state who was about to pass on secrets to Whitehall. This plane had been clearly visible to hundreds of people at Gatwick airport so I couldn't fathom why filming it posed a security risk, but this guy didn't seem to be the type to start niggling with. Neither did the bloke in customs who searched my bag with an unswerving vigour that suggested he had been tipped off about me by the bloke in the overalls. He viewed my pristine white plastic round table with suspicion but said nothing. He must have had a long day.

  I followed the instructions that Corina had given me over the phone and took a taxi straight to the Hotel National where she had booked me in for one night only. She had asked me whether I had wanted luxury, cheap or middle of the range and I had plumped for the latter. Largely ignored by the driver, I slid the round table into the back seat, got in the front, and started to put my seat belt on. The taxi driver immediately turned and physically restrained me from so doing. I sat back suitably chastised. Clearly wearing a seat belt over here was not a safety precaution but an insult meaning; 'Look mate, I'm putting this on because you're a crap driver and I don't want to die just yet.'

  Darkness had fallen so I couldn't see much as we bounced our way along uneven roads to my hotel, but to my right I could make out some shabby-looking high-rise blocks of flats. I looked across to the left over the shoulder of the taciturn driver and saw shabby-looking high-rise blocks of flats. Finally, we arrived at the Hotel National which was situated alongside some shabby-looking high-rise blocks of flats. I paid the driver, got out and surveyed my hotel. How should I describe it? Well, it was shabby-looking, and it bore an uncanny resemblance to a high-rise block of flats. Yes, that does it nicely.

  The hotel reception was huge, empty, dimly lit and spartan. For the owners of this place, whether state or private, 'redecorate' was not a word in their working vocabulary. Flaking paint covered the walls on which an occasional faded drab painting hung apologetically. A grey linoleum scarred by decades of discarded cigarette butts spread itself over the wantonly ample floor space. The words 'Mmmm, this is nice' were an awfully long way from the tip of my tongue.

  Behind the reception desk a middle-aged woman sat in an overcoat staring at the floor. Far from giving me a warm welcome she appeared to be profoundly irritated that I had interrupted a session of splendidly gloomy soul-searching. Begrudgingly, she looked up at me. She didn't make a sound but made a gesture with her head which seemed to mean Yes, and what do you want?' I offered the necessary information and she dispensed me to the lifts as quickly as the confiscation of my passport and issuing of a key allowed.

  Would you like someone to help you with your bags, sir?'

  Yeah, right. In your dreams Tony.

  I struggled up to my room and let myself in. I had never visited a prison before but now I had some feeling for what the cells were like. My disappointment was tempered by a relief that I hadn't plumped for the cheap hotel option. I set the round table down in the corner of the room where it looked uncannily at home and slumped on to the bed.

  My God. What had I taken on?

  3

  Almost Impossible

  I woke up feeling surprisingly sanguine.

  I walked to the hotel window and surveyed the city for the first time in daylight. From here on the eleventh floor I had a fine view of the city of Chisinau. Immediately below me was a square, at the centre of which stood the statue of a heroic soldier in triumphant pose; square jawed and fighting fit, an anachronistic symbol of disciplined strength. Over-crowded trolley buses and underpowered Ladas struggled past noisily. At the far side of the square there was some kind of government building or seat of learning behind which rose the azure dome of an Orthodox basilica, the golden cross at its apex drawing the eye away from the grey panorama of drab and soulless apartment blocks which sprawled beyond it. The early morning sun lit the autumnal trees of the city parks with an incisive crispness and looked set to burn away the distant haze on the horizon. It was going to be a lovely day and I had a good feeling about things. Clearly it had been the tiredness of a long journey which had caused me to exaggerate the bleakness of the previous night's arrival. I felt sure that any lack of warmth in those I had encountered up to now was
either imagined or a passing aberration.

  After a satisfactory breakfast involving a yoghurt drink called 'ckefir', a coffee, one sausage and some unusual bread, I was in a state of readiness for the task ahead. This morning I was to be met by Iulian, an interpreter arranged for me by Corina. I was to pay him thirty dollars a day, apparently excellent money by Moldovan standards, but a wage which would barely cover your rent in London. As I waited for him in reception I realised that he was to be crucial to my chances of success. I wondered if he had been briefed by Corina and was fully aware of the unusual nature of my business here which left me in need of his services. I was also wondering how we were going to recognise each other, when a voice came from over my left shoulder:

  'Are you Tony Hawks?'

  'Yes.'

  'I am Iulian. I recognised you by the table.'

  Of course, it was leaning up against my bags. I had mentioned to Corina on the telephone that I was bringing it. She had laughed, possibly nervously. I wondered what kind of mental picture she had created for me – the man who was arriving here to challenge the Moldovan national football team one by one to a game of tennis, bringing a plastic round table with him as a gift for the King of the Gypsies. She was unlikely to be thinking, 'He'll be the fifth one this month, and I expect he'll just look like all the others.'

  I shook Iulian's hand, the man who would be working with me on a daily basis. The one charged with making things happen. He was thin, bordering on gaunt, but with a self-assured manner and a pleasant face when he was smiling, as he was now.

  'So Iulian,' I asked. 'You know about my bet, I trust?'

  'Yes I do.'

  'So this is hardly the normal job for you, how do you feel about it?'

  'Okay,' he returned, with a reticence I would soon begin to recognise as a national characteristic.

  In the taxi on the way to the Independent Journalism Centre we made small talk about my flight and the weather, both of us wishing to defer for as long as possible the discussion about how on earth we were going to tackle the problem that lay ahead of us. Iulian seemed a nice chap and I felt sure I was going to like him. Then it dawned on me that he was my employee. I'd never had an employee before. All right, I'd hired the likes of builders, window cleaners and mechanics to do things which I didn't know how or couldn't be arsed to do, but this was different. I was employing someone to work closely with me on a project of my own. Like a secretary or a personal assistant. I hoped that Iulian didn't expect me to take him to Paris at the weekends.

  Corina greeted us outside the fine old building which housed the Independent Journalism Centre. She was elegant and beautiful and someone with whom I would have gladly made the Chisinau-Paris trip if it hadn't been for the fact that I knew she was happily married with a little baby boy.

  Tony, I think that you are mad,' she announced, 'but even so, you are free to use this centre as a base for your impossible task.'

  Thank you, you are very kind.'

  And I was very lucky. Less than a month previously I hadn't even known one Moldovan, let alone had the use of an office to use as my base.

  'Do you really think that it will be impossible?' I asked.

  Well, I suppose that nothing is impossible,' said Corina, 'but you will see that it is difficult to make things happen in this country. Let us say – your task is almost impossible.'

  Almost impossible. Two words which didn't do a great deal to lift the spirits. I elected for a change of subject.

  'So tell me a little more about the Independent Journalism Centre.'

  Corina told me the full story. The centre was a non-governmental organisation which had been set up to promote young journalists and to encourage the development of an open society through creating a quality and objective media. It was largely funded by the American billionaire George Soros, a man who has made unthinkably large sums of money trading in the world's financial markets. Born a Hungarian Jew, his childhood experiences fleeing Nazi SS death squads and then an oppressive communist regime led him to formulate a passionate belief in the importance of an open society.

  At the age of 49, and having acquired a personal fortune of roughly 25 million dollars, he decided that it was time to embark on some healthy philanthropy. Now, each year he gives millions of dollars to Eastern Europe, and Corina was just one of many grateful recipients. In September 1992 a good deal of this money came from the British taxpayer when George Soros bet heavily against the value of the pound. He had been a brave man indeed to have taken on such a formidable figure as the British Chancellor, Norman Lamont, but after a week of hectic trading the British taxpayer emerged £15 billion worse off, and Soros emerged beaming rather broadly.

  I've always been impressed by the way Lamont, who had effectively overseen the removal of five pounds from the pocket of every taxpayer in the United Kingdom, appeared to be genuinely aggrieved when John Major eventually sacked him. I'd always imagined that the exchange between them went roughly along these lines:

  JOHN MAJOR: I'm afraid Norman, that as a result of small businesses closing at the rate of three a day and vast numbers of the population suffering negative equity on their properties, added to which you managed to lose this country billions of pounds in a single day, I have decided to replace you as Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  NORMAN LAMONT: But why? What have I done wrong?

  To this day, it is still Norman Lamont's opinion on the major political issues of the day which helps me decide which stance I should adopt. Indeed, my main reason for being in favour of further British integration in Europe is because Norman Lamont is vehemently against it My thinking is that if I can live my life taking an opposing view to Norman Lamont on everything, then I can't go too far wrong.

  Corina led me up the stairs and into the room which was the hub of the centre where five or six people sat tapping away at computer keyboards. I was introduced to her staff:

  This is Tony from London, who I told you about.'

  The workforce spun round on their chairs, nodded politely and then went straight back to work. Oh. That was it then, was it? For some reason I had imagined that much more of a fuss would have been made of me. I had envisaged that I might have been the focus of attention for longer than 0.1 of a second. Corina had told them about me, so where were the exclamations of wonder? 'Oh, so you're the madman . . . Ah, this is what he looks like . . . Well, well, here he is, the great adventurer is upon us . . .'

  The received greeting fell well short of expectations. I decided that either these people were astonishingly good at suppressing their emotions, or none of them gave a toss. My robust ego had taken its first knock.

  The silence created by this wholesale lack of interest in me was filled by the noisy arrival of a tall, thin man who appeared to be in need of a healthy meal. He then began addressing Corina at a totally unwarranted volume, seemingly failing to realise that she was in the same room as him. Everyone winced slightly, especially poor Corina who was directly in the line of fire.

  This is Marcel,' said Corina, taking advantage of a temporary respite in his exclamatory delivery, 'the brother of Andrei from the Flying Postmen.'

  'Ah yes, Marcel – hello,' I said, shaking him by the hand. You're going to sing the Moldovan national anthem for me at some time, I believe.'

  This was what I had arranged with Andrei back in England. The slightly odd figure now standing before me was his opera-singer brother, and it had been decided that his should be the rendition of the anthem which either Arthur or I should attempt to emulate, when the result of the bet was known.

  'He doesn't speak English,' said Corina, 'but he says that he wants to take you to the opera while you are here and that he will be in touch through this office in the next few days to arrange it.'

  Tell him I shall look forward to this and thank him for his kindness.'

  Corina passed on the message and Marcel made a few more preposterously loud remarks before leaving the office, much to everyone's aural relief.

&nbs
p; Corina returned to her desk leaving Iulian and me on a long sofa at the end of the room to discuss the inevitable – how we were going to go about doing this. Yes. How were we going to go about doing this? I hadn't really given it much thought. I had figured that it was best to wait until I got on the ground and started to discover how things worked. I began by making a short speech to Iulian stressing how the most important thing about what I was trying to achieve was that we had fun doing it.

  'We may need to be like private detectives too sometimes,' I added.

  'No problem,' said Iulian confidently.

  I then read him the names of the eleven players that I would have to play.

  'Have you heard of any of those?' I enquired, expecting the answer 'yes'.

  'No.'

  'But they're the national team, you must have heard of some of them.'

  'I haven't. I'm not interested in football.'

  'Oh right How about tennis?'

  'I don't know anything about tennis. I don't like sport really.'

  Monday morning, ten minutes in, first setback.

  'Never mind, I don't think it makes much difference for this,' I said, with feigned insouciance.

  Who was I kidding? If he knew all the footballers and had all their home numbers, then things would obviously be much easier. His comprehensive ignorance of all things related to the project was not a boon.

  'Do you have to play all eleven of them?' asked Iulian, lovechild of Alan Hansen and Sue Barker.

  Yes.'