Playing the Moldovans At Tennis

by Tony Hawks

  The senator is saying that the US Government has decided to halt further food aid to Russia because Mr Primakov smells.'

  'Well, that's interesting because Mr Primakov says he will not support sanctions against Iraq because your President has girly hair and his eyes are too close together.'

  Adrian joined us at the table and ate with zeal, no doubt with a view to being back in his room as soon as possible. He looked more stern than the rest of his family and clearly had the potential to be a sulky incommunicative adolescent. His English was very good but he was a less effective translator than Elena simply because he really couldn't be bothered. On one occasion, in order to rest his increasingly tired young sister, I looked to Adrian for elucidation on something his father had said, but he just shook his head as if to say 'Honestly, that really wasn't worthy of translation.' Grigore shrugged and pulled a face which crossed language barriers. 'He's at that age.'

  A few minutes later the inevitable question was asked.

  'My farver wants to know,' said the bubbly and enchanting Elena, 'what you are doing here in Moldova.'

  Ah yes, that little question. I suppose it had been bound to come up sooner or later. How I longed for a simple answer – 'I'm working at the UN' or 'I'm teaching English in a school.' Instead I had to explain, via an 11-year-old girl with an English vocabulary gleaned from animated cats and dogs, something which even fellow English speakers had struggled to comprehend. Elena did her best but was severely hampered by not knowing what the word 'bet' meant. This proved to be an insurmountable problem, and after blank looks and many a furrowed eyebrow, Adrian had the decency to step in and offer his services. In manageable chunks, I told him the nature of my task which he relayed to his expectant parents. With each piece of information their faces filled with bewilderment and by the end of the explanation Grigore's jaw was hanging open in disbelief.

  'Tu es optimist, said Dina in her best French.

  'Yes. What I am doing is kind of like a scientific experiment to prove that optimism produces results.'

  On receipt of this last sentiment the entire family regarded me as if I was some kind of circus freak. Grigore filled my wine glass, said something which got a big laugh, and proposed a toast. I was oblivious to its nature, it was probably something like:

  To the nutcase we've let into our house. May we not live to regret it.'

  I raised my glass.

  'Prost!' I said, not actually knowing if this was the Romanian for 'cheers' but guessing that 'prost' was widely used everywhere east of Strasbourg.

  A sudden silence descended over the table.

  'We say "Naroc",' said Adrian coldly, 'Prost means stupid.'

  'Oh, right, sorry.'

  I immediately logged this away as 'Useful Information', reckoning that not calling the host 'stupid' had to be a distinct social advantage in any country. Fortunately, the initial astonishment around the table softened into smiles and laughter.

  The wine was good. Moldova's climate and soil provides excellent conditions for vine growing, and it used to be the biggest wine producer in the former Soviet Union. In fact, in its Cricova cellars which remain state-owned, it can still boast the largest wine cellar in the world, with 64 kilometres of underground tunnels storing about 3.5 million decalitres of wine at a depth of 60 metres. It seems that when the Soviets did things, they did things big. Moldova was the winery of the former communist state and Cricova was the wine cellar. Apparently, Yuri Gagarin, the legendary first man in space, wrote in the visitors book when he visited Cricova in 1966:

  'It is easier to overcome the power of gravitation than the attraction of these wine cellars.'

  Gagarin clearly meant what he said since he spent a full two days in the place before venturing back out into daylight. Well, if you liked a drink, as Yuri clearly did, then you could see his point of view.

  It became apparent that Grigore liked drink, if not as much as Yuri Gagarin, then certainly as much as I did, since most of the bottle served to replenish our two glasses only. The rest of the family, the abstemious ones, retired to bed early and Grigore and I were left alone. He offered me a Moldovan cognac and I judged that it would have been rude to refuse. Besides, here was an opportunity to bond man to man with a nice easy chat. Grigore poured the brandy proudly and raised his glass.

  'Naroc!' I said, keeping my fingers crossed that my poor pronunciation hadn't meant that I'd just called him an arsehole.

  'Naroc!' he replied, beaming playfully.

  Things had got off to a good start.

  It was to be downhill from here. I was bombarded with another torrent of strange guttural sounds which meant that Grigore was asking me another question. His eyes twinkled expectantly awaiting my reply. You had to admire his complete refusal to accept that I had a vocabulary of only four words in his language. One of them, 'Prost', was going to become relevant soon if he carried on like this. I smiled vacuously in recognition of not having recognised a word. Grigore took a sip from his brandy and it somehow gave him the inspiration to attempt some English.

  'What iz you? Ears?'

  What?'

  'What iz you ears?'

  'Ears?'

  'Da – ears. Uno, doi, tre – ears! What iz your ears?'

  'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

  Yes I was. I was damn sure I didn't have a clue what he meant.

  'Me,' continued Grigore bravely. 'Me – patruzeci trei ears.'

  Ah, I recognised some numbers in there. I'd learned a bit of counting.

  'Patruzeci – that's forty.'

  'Da.'

  'And trei is three.'

  'Da.'

  'Right. So you're saying you have forty-three ears?'

  'Da! Da!' he cried with immense relief.

  I looked at him in disbelief. He appeared to be exaggerating by forty-one.

  'Oh!' I said, the penny finally dropping. You're saying you have forty-three years.'

  'Da. Da. What iz your ears?'

  'I'm thirty-eight.'

  He looked blank. No surprise that he had failed to understand. Five minutes later after much laborious holding up of fingers he had a rough idea of how old I was, which would have been something he could have divined simply by looking at me. I took a sip of brandy. This male bonding thing was rather hard work. I wasn't looking forward to the part where we moved on to politics. However, by manufacturing three consecutive yawns I was able to signal that bedtime was upon us and thankfully our struggle was over. We exchanged goodnights and shook hands cordially. The little chat, though hardly a flowing one, had confirmed one thing at least. We liked each other.

  As I lay on the single bed in my colourless, uncomplicated bedroom I felt strangely at home. The family had set me at ease. They'd brought to me a warmth. This was something I would come to rely on in the coming weeks. In Moldova you looked to relationships for warmth. The radiators were useless.

  We were lost again, just as we had been the previous day.

  'Is it a national characteristic of Moldovans not to number things correctly?' I asked Iulian cheekily.

  'People do number their addresses correctly,' he replied, 'but I'm trying to convince the driver that he's not where he thinks he is.'

  I would need less convincing. I already felt as if I was in some kind of suspended reality. I had spent the morning in the back of a Lada which was driving us around the drab suburbs of the city in a search for Zimbru Chisinau's training ground. At ten-minute intervals we had pulled over to the side of the road so that Iulian and the taxi driver Alexandra could argue over the map before setting off to a number of locations which had only one thing in common – that of not being Zimbru Chisinau's training ground.

  At one point I had been hopeful. We were outside some gates with 'Zimbru Chisinau' written on them. For me, this was promising. Surely worth getting out and asking. But no, Iulian insisted that this was the wrong address and he instructed the driver to take us off in search of the right one.

  An hour later we
pulled up outside the same gates.

  This is not it, but I will go and ask,' said Iulian without enthusiasm.

  I watched from the back seat as he ambled up to two men who were sharing an animated conversation. He did not interrupt but stood patiently by for them to finish. Iulian was confident and self-assured but he certainly wasn't pushy. Ten minutes later, when the men had finished their conversation and exchanged protracted goodbyes Iulian seized his moment. The discussion which followed did not seem to be taking the form of Iulian receiving directions to another location. When he returned to the car I sought enlightenment.

  Well?' I asked.

  This is the place, the players are training in there,' he said without a hint of an apology.

  'Good.'

  Wait. It's not all good. That man was the club's president Nicolae Ciornii. I told him what you wanted to do and he said that they are operating a closed regime at the moment. No-one is allowed into the grounds. They are practising every day because they have a full programme with matches every other day. He says that right now they will not have any time to help you but they do have a short break between the 1st and 7th November when it might be possible.'

  I sat numb in the back seat of the car. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Closed regime? Players practising every day? I had expected the Moldovan footballers to be amateurs who I could meet at the factory gates after work and lead jovially off to the tennis courts. I wasn't at all happy with this revelation. The facts that Iulian had just related to me swirled in my head. Today was 20th October. The players might be able to help between the 1st and the 7th. But that was two weeks away. I looked up at Iulian with a wry smile.

  This is disastrous news,' I said.

  'yes,' he smiled back, 'but we can try the others.'

  And try the others we did. At the offices of FC Constructorul a man told us that the players were training but that he didn't know where, and anyway he doubted if they would have time to play any tennis because they too were playing matches every other day. At the club called Moldova Gaz the man pretty much told Iulian to get lost. I'd had better mornings. Lunch would need to be damn good.

  We ate at a cantina which was a favourite among the staff of the Journalism Centre. It was called La Fertilitata, meaning 'fertility', somewhat ironic given the barren nature of our morning. The food was good here, although you would not have guessed it from its shabby decor. It was dimly lit with its too few windows swathed in thick net curtains deadening any natural light. This place was still state run and a fairly good yardstick for what all restaurants would have been like seven years ago before independence and the move towards capitalism. I was beginning to discover that 'taking the trouble to make it look nice' had not been high up on the communist regime's list of priorities. Give them what they need, not what they want.

  Most of the tables were full, with people eating in virtual silence. This environment wasn't proving to be the great spirit lifter which I badly needed; however, I was enjoying my prajita, a kind of pastry stuffed with cheese, and Glen was proving to be good company.

  Glen was another American volunteer from the peace corps who knew Iulian and had come over to join us at our table. He was affable and seemed to have a good sense of humour. It wasn't long before he asked the inevitable.

  'So Tony, what are you doing here in Moldova?'

  Take a guess.'

  He took lots of guesses, most of which involved my being from some business, government-backed organisation or Aid programme. Twenty minutes later and after several determined utterances of 'Now wait up, I'm gonna get this', he still wasn't even close. Finally the staggering truth was revealed to him.

  That is the weirdest bet I have ever heard,' he stated emphatically. Tony, you're cool.'

  Thanks.'

  I wished I felt it.

  What did you put on your visa form for "Purpose of visit"?'

  'Pleasure.'

  Wow. You know you must be the only Western guy in this country who has come here for pleasure. If I had a hat on I'd take it off to you.'

  Momentarily I pictured a Moldovan civil servant in the Interior Ministry logging details of his country's visitors:

  Businessmen Aid workers Nutters

  34 76 1

  'How's it going so far?' asked Glen.

  'Not too well at the moment.'

  'And how long have you been going?'

  This is my second day.'

  'Oh well you've only just begun. Things take a little while longer here.'

  I explained about the unsuccessful morning and how my next idea was to send personal faxes via the clubs to all the players, explaining about the bet.

  'I've brought some Wimbledon Tennis T-shirts as well,' I added. 'I'm going to send one of them to each player in a grovelling attempt to make them think more favourably of me.'

  Tou're quite something Tony,' said Glen before turning and addressing Iulian. That's the thing I love about travelling – you always get to meet some of the weirdest characters.'

  When I had travelled extensively as a younger man I had always thought the same, but I'd never imagined that I would become someone else's 'weirdest character'. I felt uneasy about whether this was a sign of progress in my life.

  'Oh I don't think I'm so weird,' I began in my defence. 'I'm just trying to prove that I'm right and someone else is wrong. People do that all the time.'

  'Not in Moldova they don't.'

  'I promise you, I'm not weird.'

  'Oh, I think you are. It's a positive weird, but you're weird.'

  'I honestly don't think I am.'

  Iulian stepped in just before the discussion rose to the intellectual heights of 'Are!' 'Am not!' 'Are!' 'Am not!' by announcing that we should get back to the Journalism Centre and begin work on the faxes.

  There you are,' I said to Glen. 'I can't be weird. I've finished lunch and I've got to go back to the office. You can't get more normal than that.'

  For a moment Glen looked beaten, but I let myself down badly when Iulian asked what we would do in the next couple of days while we waited for a response to the faxes.

  'Deliver the Round Table to King Arthur,' I said.

  Game, set and match to Glen.

  Thank goodness he wasn't a Moldovan footballer.

  5

  'Don't Play Spynu'

  The round table fitted quite neatly under the back seat of the dilapidated bus. My carrying it on board had not caused much interest among the rest of the passengers, my guess being that in this country it wasn't unusual to be travelling with something unusual. However, when I began speaking English with Iulian, heads turned to stare. A foreigner. Moldovans didn't see many of them, especially travelling on their buses. Most Westerners avoided the discomfort and spent twenty dollars on the hire of a car and a driver. Since I was planning on staying over in Soroca it hadn't really been an option. No, the passengers would have to endure our English for the three and half hours it would take us to reach our destination.

  Well, they would have done if the driver hadn't turned the radio on. Loud. God no! Truly excruciating Russian pop. Now there are some things the Russians do very well, (nurture young gymnasts, produce hirsute and scarcely female shot-putters, and encourage visits to Siberia with compulsory labour and comfortless accommodation thrown in) but in the sphere of pop music they do not excel. Their pop songs are catchy, but much in the same way as infectious diseases. Their songwriters understand the need to provide a melodious hook, but its endless repetition means that by the end of the song it is a hook you feel like hanging yourself from. Russian pop music does for the soul what . . . no, let's just leave it there – Russian pop music does for the soul. No wonder the bloke in front of me looked like he wanted to kill himself. Three and a half hours of this and he'd want to kill everyone around him too. (I figured I'd be in no danger provided he did the suicide part of things first.)

  Soroca, the mountain village where King Arthur resided, sounded good to me. Apparently it possessed an an
cient fortress built by Stefan cel Mare. Stefan cel Mare (Stephen the Great) was the big Moldovan hero. He'd been King of the Moldovans in the fifteenth century and scored significant victories (though short-lived) over his assailants the Slavs and the Ottomans. After independence from the Soviet Union in 1991 all the statues of Lenin had been removed and replaced by this chap, and now the main streets in all the towns were named after him instead of Communism's great architect. It was just as well that Leningrad wasn't in Moldova. Stefancelmaregrad would be as easy on the ear as a Russian pop song.

  The journey was hardly through breathtaking scenery. There were occasional gentle rolling hills which were pleasant enough but mostly it was flat expanses of dull brown farmland. Villages were set back from the road, their names emblazoned in garish blue and yellow on large columns by the roadside. From time to time the bus would pull out to overtake a farmer riding in a horse and cart, untouched by any of this century's technology. Then we would splutter to a halt at a bus-stop to exchange one set of life-weary passengers for another. No-one needed to tell you that village life was hard. The faces said it all. No plumbing, no hot water and in many cases no electricity. Bearable in the summer maybe, but during the Moldovan winter? No thanks.

  They are worse off now than they were under communism,' said Iulian.

  'In what way?'

  Well, under the old system everyone could afford a family holiday by the Black Sea, and if you saved hard you could buy a car after ten years. There was not much choice of goods though. Under the new system, everything is available but no-one can afford it.'

  'So they regret the change then?'

  'Some do. The old ones. But at least they can move about freely now.'

  What do you mean?'

  Well, under the Soviets they had to carry internal passports and they could not leave the village without a reason which had to be approved by a party official.'