Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (25 page)

There's one for the century's book of best quotations.

I pressed play on the ghettoblaster, handed Arthur the Romanian words, and the dirty deed was done as, fag still in hand, he slid his pants over his ankles and held them aloft. The group who had previously been shouting 'Off! Off! Off!' immediately amended their chant to 'On! On! On!' but to no avail. Arthur stood before us all in his birthday suit. The great Tailor in the sky' had made better ones – but no matter, nudity was what this crowd had come for and nudity was what they had unequivocally got. The moment of revelation was greeted by a disordered mixture of cheers, gasps of disbelief, shrieks of horror and hysterical laughter. One only hopes this is not the reaction Arthur gets every time he undresses.

My reaction was different from everyone else's. For me, this larger than life comedy moment represented the end of a long journey which hadn't always been easy. The ludicrous sight before me filled me with a great sense of achievement causing my breast almost to puff up with pride. In fact it was a little worrying that the sight of another man's penis could mean so much to me.

Arthur, it has to be said, was a triumph. He battled gamely with the Romanian words which he sang with gusto through the megaphone, in spite of being handed them only seconds earlier. For a full one minute thirty-five seconds, those gathered by this roadside in London SW12 were privy to a highly individual rendition of the Moldovan national anthem. Passers by looked on in amazement. A crowd quickly developed outside the pub opposite as the word went round that something most unusual was taking place over the road. Traffic slowed but a mass of bodies prevented drivers from seeing what we could all see only too clearly; a man stood stark naked in front of Woolworths singing the Moldovan national anthem through a megaphone.

One minute into the performance I noticed that people began pointing behind Arthur and into Woolworths itself, whereupon they burst into fresh fits of giggles. The reason became clear as I looked myself and saw that the Woolworths security cameras were recording the whole thing on a large TV screen inside the store. It presented the rear view of a bare arse, and beyond it a large crowd of people staring at a penis and laughing. It would make for some interesting conjecture from the security guards when they viewed the tapes in the morning.

'. . . I see what you're saying Bob, and that's a possible theory, but it still doesn't really explain the megaphone.'

As we walked back to the pub I sought out Corina. She was the only person who had been there at the very beginning and the very end of my story.

Was that a moving experience for you?' I asked.

'It was funny,' she replied with a smile. Tony, I want to tell you that I am very happy for you. It is good that you won this bet and I think I know you better now.'

'Surely it's Arthur that you know better.'

'Yes, him also!' she laughed.

'Corina, can I ask you something in all seriousness?'

'OK'

'Do you think this has all been a frivolous waste of time and money?'

She scratched her head, almost as if answering this was going to require all the brainpower at her disposal.

'Generally, all of us in Moldova were thinking that you were a little bit crazy when you arrived, but now I understand why you did it. In time I look at things differently, and maybe it is making sense to me now because I am seeing you in your own country.'

'Really? It still doesn't make any sense to me. I thought it would after tonight, but I'm still confused by it all.'

That is because it is confusing. You have seen our country and all its problems – the transition to a system we don't know yet, poverty, and being ignored by the outer world. You have seen that we don't laugh as much as we should, I think. Maybe when people in Moldova will have everything they need, they will start doing these things like your bet, just to have fun.'

Of course, Corina hadn't really answered my original question.

But maybe all that mattered was that a certain family of four in Moldova might gain strength from the fact that Tony cel Mare had finally lived up to his name.

Two weeks later, a letter bearing Moldovan stamps dropped on to my doormat. It was from Adrian.

Congratulations Tony!

We are all so happy that you won the bet. Well done! Long live Tony cel Mare!

We all miss you and think of you often
–
you brought some real English spirit to our house. Things are the same in Moldova. We are having a really good, soft weather after a cold winter. (We had plenty of snow this year.) I finally finished my half year studies with really good grades. My sister has better marks since you visited her English class and she is really happy about that. My Dad is on a diet now and my mother is doing her best cooking dietetic meals. Elena and I made a bet not to watch T. V. for a week. This will be a hard one – nearly as hard as yours!

I am anxious to read your book about our country, so don't be lazy, and finish it as fast as possible. I also hope James Cameron or Steven Spielberg are ready to shoot the movie about your adventures in Moldova. (In that case I'll be able to see you at the next Oscar awards.)

You did the MOST IMPOSSIBLE THING, although it seemed as something that nobody could accomplish. That is a good lesson for me and from now on I'll try and follow your example in everything I do.

With Sincerity
Adrian

Now it all made a little more sense.

Christmas Day 2006

There's an old cliche that 'life is stranger than fiction'. It's not really true, of course. Someone who leads a mundane life working as an accountant in Slough is almost certainly not leading a stranger life than, say, Marty McFly in
Back To The Future.
Marty travels back in time and accidentally prevents his parents from meeting, thus putting his own existence at stake. It would be difficult to imagine even one of the more exciting days at our Slough accountancy firm coming close to rivalling that.

However, odd things
do
happen. Most of us would acknowledge that much. Look at me, right now, for instance. As I type these words, Adrian, the young man who wrote that amazing letter at the end of the book you've just read, is sitting in my living room in London sending emails back to his family in Moldova (he's in London for a year studying for an MBA). His lovely young wife, Irina, is upstairs in the bathroom. Other guests will be arriving shortly, and an English Christmas lunch (with a heavy Moldovan influence courtesy of our honorary chef, Irina) will be enjoyed by all. We have become 'family'.

*

Perhaps this will make more sense if I fill you in on a few things that have happened with regard to my relationship with Moldova over the past decade or so. On my return to London after my initial trip, I began to feel that it would be wrong for me to write about this developing country without intending to give anything back. I was, after all, using the experiences I'd gained there as the raw material for a book from which I was hoping to profit. So I called my publishers and asked if they could arrange to pay half my royalties directly into a trust fund that I would set up for charitable use in Moldova.

Happily, the book sold well enough to create a need for discussions on what to do with the money. I did what any self-respecting, serial-bet-making eccentric would do and jumped on the next plane to Moldova. I had an idea where I might stay.

Tony! Tony! Tony!' came the cries from Grigore, Dina, Adrian and Elena as they met me at the airport.

Soon I was engulfed in a Moldovan wave of hugs. I was now a part of one of the heart-rending scenes that, as a solitary traveller, I had so often witnessed at airport arrivals as families and lovers were reunited after long periods apart. I felt like the filling in a love sandwich and, unsurprisingly, it felt rather good. I'm not sure if this has been written anywhere before, but love is rather a nice thing. (And feel free to quote me on that.)

Once we'd all successfully dealt with our mutual affection, I was at last able to take in my immediate surroundings.

'Blimey, this is all new,' I said.

The corrugated-iron shed that had formerly passed as an airport had been demolished (two hours' work) and an impressive edifice had replaced it Moldova, it seemed, was on the up.

You will notice that there are no holes in the streets any more,' said Elena proudly, as the five of us huddled into a taxi of questionable roadworthiness.

Yes, a lot has changed,' added Adrian. 'Did you know that the Green One was murdered?'

What?' I asked, staggered by what I was hearing. You're winding me up!'

'No, it's true,' said Dina, who had evidently been learning English in my absence.

The rest of the journey to the house was filled with the story of how the eponymous hero of the tenth chapter of my book had been gunned down in his car outside his house a few months back. Apparently a series of feuds in the Moldovan underworld had exploded into violence, and tit-for-tat killings had taken place. Mr Rotaru, it seemed, had been undone by his bold arrogance. Only a year before, he had proudly boasted to me in his office that he paid his footballers using laundered money. Well, his money-laundering days were over, of that much he could be sure. That's the thing about being gunned down: no ambiguity – you know where you no longer stand.

There was better news, though. As if to reassure me of the endless cycle of life, Dina announced that she was pregnant.

Wow! That's fantastic news!' I exclaimed.

It was also a big surprise. Dina was forty-three years old. Not necessarily an age where you'd care to place the responsibilities of childbirth in the hands of a state health service that boasted the best of 1960s technology.

That night, as we toasted the impending new arrival (one of many toasts, it should be said), I wondered, rather arrogantly, if my previous sojourn with the family and the successful outcome of the bet had somehow instilled a renewed zest for life into the household, of which the pregnancy was now one of the visible consequences. I would never know. It just wasn't the kind of question you could politely ask.

It was close to midnight before we began to discuss the trust fund and what might be done with the money. However, ideas flowed quick and fast, no doubt assisted by the copious consumption of Moldovan wine and brandy. Grigore explained that he had in his care at the children's hospital many with cerebral palsy and other chronic conditions that they simply did not have the resources to treat. Why didn't we set up a centre to care for these children?

'And I will run it,' said Dina, with an unexpected confidence.

'Makes perfect sense to me,' I remarked, accepting yet another top-up of brandy from Grigore, the ever-eager provider.

So, not only do odd things happen – but good things happen too. As a result of a drunken bet, in which one man agreed to try and beat the entire Moldovan national football team at tennis, a children's health centre was created in Chisinau. It is called the Hippocrates Centre
^*
and it has now been running for eight years. Dina does a splendid job as the centre's director. I visit twice a year to see how things are progressing and I am always delighted by what I see.

^*
At the time of writing, the NGO (non-governmental organisation – essentially a board of trustees) that administers the care centre is considering changing the name from 'Hippocrates' to The Tony Hawks Centre' in order to capitalise on possible PR opportunities. The centre wishes to expand its work countrywide, and it is felt that using the name of an author who is well known in the country (particularly amongst the ex-patriot community) will help with awareness and fundraising activities.

It is something of an understatement to say that Moldova's hospitals are poorly equipped. A couple of years back I made a trip to the children's hospital in Chisinau with Dr Andrew Curran, consultant paediatrician at Alder Hey hospital, Liverpool. His comments on the four incubators in the neo-natal unit (the only four in the country) made for chilling listening:

'If you used these incubators in the NHS in England you'd be sued,' Andrew commented, barely able to conceal his frustration and anger. These simply do not work properly. They keep the babies alive, yes – but they give them brain damage. It is so, so upsetting.'

The traditional action for parents once they have learned that their child has brain damage, cerebral palsy, or any kind of chronic disability (and this is true in most of Eastern Europe, by and large), is to hand the baby over to a state orphanage, and to carry on as if the birth had never happened. However, increasingly, parents are rejecting this course of action, and saving their child from a life of institutional abuse, and appalling living conditions. The struggle for any parent in Moldova who decides to keep a disabled child at home is immense: the state offers minimal support in the way of healthcare; and, shockingly, very often the parents are openly berated for not having placed their 'damaged goods' in a state orphanage. Sadly, years of conditioning have provided a culture whose philosophy is 'out of sight, out of mind'.

Our small centre tries to help as many of these people as possible. Most of the time they will be referred to it by Grigore, who continues to run the children's hospital in Chisinau – a stressful job given its limited resources. The children come with one of their parents (many are single parents anyway) and they have an intensive course of physiotherapy, occupational therapy and massage, every day for two weeks. The parents are shown the methods used so that they can continue giving these treatments to their children at home. They bring the children back later in the year for repeat sessions as necessary.

Over and above this, the centre tries to promote values that have become the norm in a civilised world – that people with all kinds of disability should be respected by the society in which they live and afforded the rights of all to lead as normal and satisfying a life as possible.

*

The other guests have now arrived and we'll all be called in to Christmas lunch in a minute. Adrian and Irina are about to experience their first British Christmas. No doubt the conversation will turn to Moldova and what kind of country Adrian's seven-year-old brother Sandu can expect to grow up in. We'll very likely discuss the changes that have taken place there in the time we've known each other. I'll point out that, with each visit I make, Chisinau comes ever closer to resembling a bustling centre of commerce where advertising hoardings dominate and where an emerging, and affluent, middle class is becoming increasingly visible. And I'm sure Adrian will remind me that the prosperity is not widespread; that the country remains poor and the problems immense.

Things are tough for the tiny country Moldova, surrounded as it is by the giants of Russia and the European Union,' he says as we sit down to lunch. The politicians seem to be more forward thinking and yet corruption is still endemic throughout the public sector.'

I counter with a Christmas cracker and he looks confused. He doesn't know it yet but he'll soon be the proud owner of a useless plastic toy and a piece of paper with an appalling joke inscribed thereon. I shall wait until the look of disappointment is fully formed on his face before I offer the appropriate line, delivered with statesman-like gravitas.

'One day Moldova will have all this.'

It probably will too.