Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (3 page)

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.

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.'

'And you have to win?'

Yes.'

'Wow, that's a tough one.'

It was getting tougher by the minute.

'Right Iulian,' I continued. 'Any ideas where to start?'

'No, I don't know.'

Christ, he'd done as much homework on this as me. Then his eyes lit up.

'Ah, Corina mentioned that there is a sports journalist who may be able to help. I need to get his mobile phone number from his wife who works at the American Embassy.'

That would be a great start – to talk with him.'

This shouldn't be a problem, I will arrange for us to meet with him later.'

There was nothing in Iulian's confident tone of voice to suggest that I wouldn't actually speak to this journalist until Friday afternoon. In fact, the whole of this first morning served to show me how getting things done here was not straightforward. We wanted to call this sports journalist as well as the country's Tennis Centre and Football Federation, but with each phone call we either got no reply or the engaged signal. Either people here made phone calls and then just went out immediately or the phone system was powered by the batteries from a Sony Walkman.

Just before we were about to adjourn for lunch, Karen, an American volunteer who was working at the centre, broke with the general office trend and asked how I was getting on.

I explained how things were proceeding and she offered a bleak prognosis, predicting that I would only have three matches. Corina, overhearing in passing, was more optimistic and forecast that I would manage six. Neither prediction did much to lift the spirits.

'I must admit,' I added rather plaintively, 'I thought I might have achieved more from a full mornings work.'

Welcome to Moldova,' came Karen's ominious response.

After lunch we set off for the Moldovan Football Federation and spent two and a half hours getting lost. It seemed that Iulian had a propensity for confidently heading off in the wrong direction, a confidence which didn't seem to wane in the face of repeated failure. It was impressive and somehow noble, but quite tiring on the legs. I didn't really mind though. Wandering around any city is always the best way to get to know it.

Much of Chisinau was destroyed in the Second World War and as a consequence it is a city with a muddled and eclectic architecture. Charming nineteenth-century two-storey buildings adorned with ornate porticos were flanked by Sixties boxlike structures, and many new buildings were under construction, a sure sign that Western companies were moving in to exploit a new market. The area of 'old Chisinau' around which we were walking had a pleasant feel. The roads were wide and tree-lined, and the traffic, though constant, circulated freely. How long before these streets would be grid-locked I wondered? In the new capitalist system which this fledgling country was now openly embracing, owning a car was surely going to be the way individuals signalled to the rest of society that they were doing all right thanks.

The hub of life in the capital centred around a main street called Boulevard Stefan cel Mare. One end of it was home to all the government buildings and the other formed the main shopping area. The people went about their business looking uncompromisingly stern, and the atmosphere, though not hostile, was hardly one of geniality. A privileged few sat outside cafes sipping coffee and basking in the winter sun, but laughter and frivolity was not the order of the day. I guessed that the years spent living under an oppressive regime with its institutionalised system of secret police and informers had left the population favouring a cautious approach to any public display of emotion. Not here the heated street-corner debates of southern Europe with raised voices and animated gesticulations, but instead a measured, deadpan exchange of the required information. No frills.