by Bel Mooney
So I forgot about Alys. I knew that if I’d been standing with her I wouldn’t have had the treat. Three days later, on Saturday, it was my birthday. Mama let me sleep late, and it was ten before I woke. She was sitting on my bed, tickling my cheek. I blinked.
“Happy Birthday, darling!” she whispered.
“I’m thirteen!” I said sleepily, just beginning to realize.
“Really grown up!” Mama said tenderly.
“Do I look different?” I asked, sitting up quickly.
She laughed. “Oh yes, your hair is sticking up more than ever, and you’ve lost some weight in the night because you’re hungry! So get dressed and come through. There’s a special present for breakfast!”
I pulled on my shirt, trousers and sweater, and rushed through to the main room. Tata was sitting in a chair, smiling at me. Mama had set the table for one, with some orange gladioli in a vase – just three splendid spikes.
“It looks lovely,” I said.
She told me to sit down. There was one card and one little brown parcel at my place.
“Not yet!” said Tata, as I reached out.
I quickly changed the direction of my hand, and squeezed the bread.
“It’s fresh!” I cried.
“A special day,” said Tata, “The man in the bakery knew.”
“Did he?” I asked, and he laughed.
Then Mama walked in from the kitchen and put down a plate in front of me. I stared. There were two pieces of salami and a little strip of cheese.
“Oh!” I cried, and went to pick up my knife and fork.
“Not yet!” said Tata again.
Mama had disappeared back into the kitchen, and came back with the frying pan. With a huge smile, and a theatrical flourish, she ladled a fried egg on to my plate. A FRIED EGG!
“Happy Birthday, little Flora!” she said.
“Not so little now!” said my father.
I took a slice of bread and dipped it into the egg, and imagined that heaven must be like this. You’d have an egg for breakfast every day, and all would be right with the world. After the first taste I cut everything up into little strips so it would last a long time, and it didn’t matter that the egg went cold, and some of the bits round the edge were tough and burnt. It was my birthday treat and I didn’t want it to disappear quickly into the black cavern of my stomach, so that I’d never see it again. I wanted it to stay with me. Like everything really.
“Now you can open,” said Mama, when I’d finished.
I opened the envelope first. It was a card showing a bunch of lovely flowers in pale pinks and blues, with a gold line all round the edge. And it said Bon Anniversaire in French – which I thought terribly smart. She had written, “A Happy Birthday to our big girl, and deepest love from your loving parents.” When I looked up to say thank you, the room seemed to swim a little bit before my eyes.
Then I took the parcel. It was soft. Although it was only wrapped in the same brown paper we used for sandwiches and everything, Mama had taken my old paints and drawn little moons and stars all over, so it looked really pretty. I unfolded the tucks at the end very carefully, so that I wouldn’t spoil it. My heart was thudding. I could still smell the egg. My hands shook as I finally spread the paper out to reveal what was inside.
It was a scarf. Not a woolly muffler, like we all wear to school to keep the cold out. No, this was a really smart scarf, a ladies’ scarf – the sort of thing you wear to look nice. It was silky, and quite big, and patterned with vague patterns of flowers, abstract really, in scarlet, green and black. It was the first grown-up present I had ever had: something unnecessary and … glamorous.
I rushed into the bathroom, folded it into a triangle, and put it around my neck, knotting it in front. Then I looked in the old foggy mirror. My hair was dark, my face was pale, my sweater was black, and the new scarf made everything glow. I pulled it to one side, so that the knot was almost on my shoulder and I thought that I looked like an actress.
Grown up at last.
Almost … beautiful.
I didn’t run back into the room, I walked like a lady. But when I saw Mama’s face, anxious that I should like the present, I couldn’t keep up the pose, and rushed to hug her.
“It’s lovely. Thank you,” I whispered.
“Thank Tata too.”
It was always Mama who made things happen, and got presents – and anyway I was still a bit cross with my father because of the morning the man Mircea came round – but he was smiling happily, and so I kissed him too.
“He chose it, Flora,” said Mama, “What good taste!”
“Thank you, Tata. It’s the nicest present I’ve ever had,” I said.
“Such a grown-up girl …” he started to say, then suddenly pulled me to him and clutched me as if he would never let me go. I couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved, as if he was trying to control his emotions. When at last I pulled back, I saw his eyes were wet. “What’s the matter, Tata?” I asked.
“Nothing, darling, he’s just proud of you,” said Mama quietly, fiddling with the scarf to rearrange it.
“People change so quickly. Grow so quickly,” said Tata, in a strange intense voice that seemed to come from far away.
But I wasn’t listening. I went back to the bathroom, took the scarf off, and came back with it knotted round my head, like a gypsy. It made them laugh. Then Mama tried it on and I said she could borrow it, and we all took the tram to the city centre to walk up and look at the President’s dreadful, lavish, new, giant palace, with all the cranes still around it, and the long avenues with empty fountains. My father whispered that the whole Romanian people could fit inside it, and be safe from the fascists. Mama said “Shhh”, of course, but she smiled. We bought hot chestnuts from a man in the street, and went wandering up the Calei Victoria, looking at the ruby glass in the more expensive shops. They told me stories about when they were young, and when I was a baby, and we laughed a lot. All together. All talking.
It was a happy day, that last day of my childhood. It was after that, as winter came, that the bad things began to happen.
THREE
It was a normal, quiet Sunday, the day after my birthday.
I was doing my homework, Mama was mending her tights, my father was on his hands and knees replacing the wick of the paraffin stove. As a result, we were rather cold. I even had my black muffler on. The silky red scarf was laid carefully in the top drawer in my bedroom, for special occasions. Mama had made a potato and onion soup for lunch, and already the savoury smell filled the room, making me hungry.
Suddenly there was a knock. My father looked up sharply, my mother stared anxiously at him, and I glanced at the clock on the wall, wondering who would come at this time on a Sunday morning. Then I felt a huge leap of excitement. It would be Alys – I was sure of that. Alys knew it was my birthday. She must be feeling sorry that we had quarrelled and had decided to come over to make friends.
I jumped up. “I expect it’s Alys,” I said, and then my parents relaxed once more, like puppets when the puppet-master slackens the strings.
As I explained, our apartment consists of just one room, for living, eating and my parents’ sleeping (the sofa bed is really very comfortable), with a small galley kitchen off it. You go out into the small hall, and there’s the door to my bedroom, the door to the bathroom, and the front door. When I went out to the front door, I closed the living room door behind me, thinking that Alys and I might feel shy and awkward, so it would be better for us to be private.
There was another knock, slight and hesitant, as if the person was worried that this might be the wrong place. It was odd. It wasn’t how Alys usually knocked. Suddenly I felt nervous, and I was just about to go back into the living room to fetch my father when I remembered I was thirteen now, and ought not to behave like a baby.
So I opened the door. It was gloomy on the landing, as usual, so for a moment I couldn’t see who was there – just a shadowy outline. Then the person stepped forw
ard – and I wanted to die with confusion and delight.
It was Daniel Ghiban.
He shifted from one foot to the other, and then held out his hand, balled into a fist. He muttered, “Look Flora, I heard … I heard it was your birthday yesterday. And so I want you to have these. As a present.”
Turning over his hand, he uncurled his fingers – and there, on his palm, was a packet of sweets. Chocolate sweets from the West that I had heard about, but never seen. They were quite famous, actually, like Levi’s and Coca-Cola and Kent cigarettes, but to me much more desirable than all those put together. A real packet of M&Ms. All bright and real and miraculous; lying there on his outstretched palm, and being offered to ME.
“Go on,” he said.
I couldn’t speak. I looked at him, then the sweets, then back at him, and I knew I looked like a fish, with my mouth gaping stupidly. At last I stuttered, “I didn’t … It’s … I mean, I … oh, thank you.” Then reached out reverently and took the little packet.
Just then the living room door opened, and my father was there. “Who …?” he began, then stopped. He looked at Daniel and a shutter came down over his face. It was the usual response to a stranger – or at least, an adult stranger.
“Tata – this is a boy from my class, Daniel Ghiban, the new boy. He brought me a present. Look! For my birthday – chocolate sweets!” I held them out on my palm, and couldn’t stop the grin from spreading all over my face.
“Oh,” he said, looking suspiciously from the M&Ms to Daniel, then back to the sweets.
“I’ll go now,” said Daniel.
“You don’t have to,” I said, embarrassed because my father was being so unfriendly.
“I’ve got homework to do,” said Daniel.
“I’ll walk down to the bottom of the stairs with you – just to say thank you,” I said, trying to sound sophisticated and carefree.
“You’ve got school work as well, Flora. Be sensible,” said my father shortly.
“But look, Tata!” I said, pleading with my eyes, holding out the packet of chocolates.
“Very nice. A very kind thought,” he said, in a gruff formal voice.
“OK – I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Daniel, in his usual easygoing voice, as if he’d known us for ever, and my father had just treated him like a favourite nephew, instead of an enemy of the people.
“Goodbye – and thank you!” I called, as he disappeared back down the murky stairwell.
My father was standing looking out of the window, with his back to the room. There was nothing to see out there, just the towering blocks with their rows and rows of dark windows, like little eyes, all watching. Cigarette smoke drifted about his head, like a cloud – warning me there’d be trouble.
But I ignored him.
“Look, Mama,” I said, holding out my hand.
She gasped when she saw the sweets. “But you can only get those from the dollar shops, or on the black market!” she said.
“No – Daniel’s mother works for an important man in the British Embassy,” I said, feeling I had to defend this amazing gift, and resenting the fact at the same time. “They give her things. She’s really lucky.”
“She certainly is,” said Mama, wistfully.
Then my father turned round abruptly. “It’s not right,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I don’t want boys coming to this place to see you. You’re too young,” he said.
“Tata, I’m thirteen years old, for one thing. And for another thing, Daniel Ghiban is just a nice, kind boy who wants to be my friend, which makes a change in this world!”
“He’s a stranger,” said my father.
“No, he’s not. He’s in my class.”
“You don’t know him. You don’t know where he came from. You have to be careful.”
I lost my temper then, and flung Daniel’s present down on the table. “Careful, careful! I suppose you think he’s put poison in these or something. Is that what you think?”
“Huh – presents … It’s not normal,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I cried out in frustration.
“People don’t do things like that. People look after themselves. He must want something.”
“Constantin – the child’s delighted. Don’t spoil it for her … and such a wonderful surprise,” murmured Mama gently.
“You’re the one who’s always warning me to be careful,” he said, giving her a look I couldn’t understand.
“Children, Constantin! They’re children,” she said.
“Oh God,” he said, crossing the room in a couple of strides, and slumping into his chair.
I looked from one to the other and felt, as always, that there was a different story written in invisible ink between the lines of their speech.
“Come here, Flora,” he said at last, in a quiet, almost apologetic voice.
Reluctantly I went and stood by him, and when he reached and took my hand I left it limp, because I didn’t want to respond.
“People have to look after themselves,” he said. I was silent. “You see,” he went on wearily, “there are so many things I can’t explain to you, but you have to understand that I’m right when I say it isn’t wise to be friendly to strangers. You just have to believe me.”
“But then you’d make no new friends,” I protested.
“People like us can’t afford the luxury of new friends, Flora.”
“I don’t believe that. It’s like locking yourself in a prison,” I said angrily, pulling my hand away.
He laughed then. “A prison! My dear child, we live in a prison. Only it’s a really big one, with guards all round its border, and it’s our whole beloved country. The trouble is, most people get used to it. They like their prison, because they’re terrified of trying to leave it. So they all shuffle round in the huge prison yard, heads down, doing what the guards tell them. For ever.” His laugh was harsh.
“Oh, Constantin,” said Mama wearily, and went into the kitchen. For a second the only sound was the stirring of her soup.
“You make it sound like my fault!” I said.
He looked up quickly, as if I had hit on a truth. But I picked up my M&Ms, and went into my bedroom without saying another word, closing the door behind me. For a long time I sat looking at the packet, not wanting to open it, just enjoying the possession.
Finally I tore a hole across one corner, tipped out five or six into my palm, inspected them carefully, then chose a red one. I put it on my pillow, and posted the others back through the little hole. My heart was beating fast now. I put out my tongue, and placed the red sweet in the middle, relishing the sensation – all round and smooth – as I closed my mouth around it. But I didn’t bite, not yet. The few moments of not-biting were wonderfully tantalizing: the delicious moment postponed, until I could resist it no more, and my teeth cracked the sugar shell, releasing the first burst of chocolate on my tongue.
As I lay back, letting it melt and flood my mouth, I remembered the fantasy island of my childhood dreams, and thought with amusement that if I had known then about M&Ms, it would have been far more colourful – a tropical beach strewn with reds, greens and yellows. But I wouldn’t want to be on it alone any more. That was the kind of solitary selfishness my father was preaching, and I rebelled against it. In my daydream, as my tongue chased the last traces of chocolate around my mouth, I thought what fun it would be to have a friend on the island, someone like Daniel. And we would have two small huts to live in (at opposite ends, I thought, because you’d want some privacy and peace), and not have any grown-ups telling us what to do. Not my father, nor the old Monster at school, nor horrible Ceauşescu who made everybody miserable, and yet lived a life of luxury in the palace he built in the ruins of Bucharest. Awful, appalling adults …
There, I thought, even the nicest daydreams are spoilt. You can’t keep them out. They invade your mind. I hate them all.
The pleasure had gone. I sat up, looked at the sweets an
d resisted the temptation to cram them all in my mouth at once. Instead, I opened the top drawer and laid them very carefully on top of my silky red, black and green scarf. Then I didn’t close the drawer, but stood looking at the display with some pride, but some sadness too.
First, of course, I felt that I was the luckiest person in the city. We didn’t have many things, I knew that, and so these two presents in the drawer represented so much to me. Somewhere in the world, I realized, (because I had read, and we talked endlessly of such things) ladies wore scarves made of real silk, not rayon, and people ate chocolates all day if they wanted too. And chewing gum. And fruity sweets in wrappers with twists at the end. But that was there. I was here.
And so I felt thrilled to own the scarf, and decided that I’d allow myself to eat two or three sweets only, each night, to make them last, I wouldn’t share them with anyone, not even Mama and Tata! Then I would keep the empty packet for ever. Each time I took a peep my lovely things would shine out at me, like hidden gold.
I thought, I want, I want, I want, I want …
But secondly, there was a part of me that felt ashamed that I should attach so much importance to such things – only objects after all. I remembered a day when Mama had come home looking even more triumphant than usual, and when she unpacked her shopping bag we saw why.
“Toilet paper – look!” she said, her eyes bright with excitement. We all shared it with her, and Tata carried the roll off to the bathroom, held high in his hands as if it were a ceremonial flag or something. But a few minutes later, Mama sat down at the table heavily, and buried her face in her hands.
“What is it, Mama?” I asked, frightened that she felt ill.
“Oh, nothing,” she said, raising her head. “It’s just that … oh, Constantin, I suddenly thought that my day has been made because I managed to find some toilet paper. Toilet paper! You know – you could be excited because you’ve got a book you’ve always wanted, or something pretty for the apartment, or a really good present for Flora, or some tickets for a play … But no. You feel joy at toilet paper. So base. That’s what they have done to our souls.”
