Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (5 page)

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:

'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.

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 ancient 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.'

My God. They couldn't even move about their own country without creeping to some sycophantic bureaucrat. I realised how I had taken freedom for granted. I looked out of the window, and as the trees and houses sped past me as if on rewind, I let my mind spool back to my childhood in England, and the number of times I'd said, 'I can do that, this is a free country.' I'd used those words without any comprehension of what not being in a free country meant.

The conversation with Iulian brought other explanations as to why the average Moldovan face when in relaxed mode looked sullen. His grandparents had saved hard all their lives and finally had enough money to buy a small house of their own when independence came and private ownership was permitted. Then the Moldovan currency collapsed overnight and in the morning their savings were enough to buy them a joint of meat.

'My God. They must have felt terrible,' I said, rather regretting the crass obviousness of the comment.

'It killed them. Within two years they were both dead.'

It was another ten miles before I could resume any conversation.

I was the last one off the bus when we reached Soroca, struggling with my royal gift.

'I suppose we should head for the centre now,' I said, looking at the deserted streets around me.

This is the centre,' said Iulian.

'Are you sure? You said you hadn't been here before.'

'I'm ninety-five per cent sure. This is the main street.'

'But there's nothing here.'

'I know. Chisinau is dull but it is nothing compared to the rest of Moldova.'

Iulian, I took it, had never applied for a job at The Moldovan Tourist Office. I looked around me and all I could see were decaying concrete buildings. No shops, no cafes, no people.

'I can't believe,' I said, 'that we've spent three and half hours on a bus to come here.
And
we're going to spend the night.'

'We could get last bus back,' quipped a chuckling Iulian, 'Anita will know when it leaves.'

Anita was Glen's friend. Like all the Americans I had met so far she was another volunteer from the Peace Corps. This was an entirely philanthropic organisation set up by President Kennedy in 1961 for the purpose of fighting tyranny, disease, poverty and war. That's what JFK said anyway – others might feel that one significant bi-product of its work was to make Third World countries think more kindly of the Americans and therefore facilitate the insidious invasion of their economies by incoming US companies. So, was the Peace Corps benevolent or cynical? As far as I was concerned the jury was out But not in Soroca. No-one was out in Soroca, the place was dead.

Over lunch I asked Anita why she had signed up to this organisation.

Well,' came her reply, 'that depends who you ask. If you ask me, I'll tell you that my life back home had gotten into a rut and that I wanted to do something new and I reckoned I could live with the hardship, especially if I was helping others. If you ask my brother he'll tell you it's because I'm a fucking idiot.'

Two perfectly sound arguments. From Iulian's face I could tell which one he favoured. The irony was that he would have loved the chance to make a go of it in America, the land of opportunity, and yet here was someone who had voluntarily turned her back on that playground of plenty to come and struggle along with the Moldovans. I could see both his point of view and also Anita's, but I wasn't sure whether either of them could see mine.

'And you're doing all this just to win a lousy bet?' crowed Anita between sips of soup.

'Is it so lousy? I think it's rather a good bet.'

Her face told me that she shared the same feelings towards my reason for being here as her brother did about hers.

What do you know of the gypsy community here?' I asked her.

Well, they were forced to settle under the Soviet regime and they've prospered living that way. They're a wealthy community and they live in these great big houses on the hill but I've never been up there. The Moldovans in the town say that it isn't safe.'

We'll be alright, we come bearing gifts. Well, one gift anyway.'

I pointed to the round table which was leaning against the wall still neatly wrapped and dotted with Air Moldova stickers and an entirely inappropriate 'Fragile' sign.

'Glen said you were bringing that,' said Anita with a chuckle. 'You do know that Moldova is absolutely full of plastic round tables.'

Yes, but this is a special one though, it's from Do it All,' I replied to an increasingly bemused Anita.

'Why do you want to meet this King so much?'

Well, when I last took on a bet of this nature I went to Ireland and I met a king there – the King of Tory island – so meeting royalty is a tradition.'

'Makes sense. Can I come with you guys? I could do with an adventure.'

There probably weren't that many adventures to be had here in Soroca so it was probably a good idea to grab them when they came along.

'Of course you can come with us Anita. The more the merrier, and it'll be one more person to take turns in carrying the table,' I said, gallantly.

The fortress, like almost everything else I had experienced in Moldova so far, was a disappointment. It was just an old round fortification and what's more it was closed. Anita, who had brought us there as part of a short sightseeing tour, said that it was quite interesting inside but to obtain admission you had to go round to some bloke's house who had the key and hope that he was in and not too soaked in vodka to conduct a guided tour. Moldovan tourism.

Anita, who had previously been lucky enough to have done the tour, explained that the original builder of the fortress, Stefan cel Mare, had been the cousin of Vlad the Devil who himself was the father of Vlad the Impaler. Interesting family. I wondered whether they'd all been vicious sadistic killers or if there had been a rather more gentle brother called Vlad the librarian. I liked to think so. I could picture the scene at dinner.

VLAD THE DEVIL
: (Munching on the dismembered arm of a victim)

Well Vlad, what kind of day have you had?

VLAD THE IMPALER
: It was a good one today Dad – six eviscerations.

VLAD THE DEVIL
: No impalings?

VLAD THE IMPALER
: No, but I've got two booked in for tomorrow.

VLAD THE DEVIL
: Excellent. And how about you Vlad?

VLAD THE LIBRARIAN
: Well, I've had quite a day too, Father. We fined Vlad the Tardy for returning two books which were three weeks overdue and I had to say 'Ssssh' eight times to Vlad the Bellower in the reference section.

VLAD THE DEVIL
: (Under his breath)

Where did Vlad the Mother and I go wrong with that boy?

We continued walking along the banks of the Nistru river looking over to the Ukraine on the opposite bank. Not far up from the fortress there were deserted looking international checkpoints on each side of the river. There was no bridge linking them. Movement between the two countries was such that a ferry sufficed.

'We could nip over to the Ukraine for a cup of tea,' I suggested.

'No you couldn't,' replied Iulian, 'not unless you have a visa.'

'Couldn't they issue me one there?'

Iulian laughed.

'You don't understand how things work here,' he said. 'You would have to apply for one in Chisinau and it could take up to two weeks before it was issued – and it would cost you one hundred dollars.'

'It's crazy,' I moaned. These countries desperately need foreign money injected into their economies and yet they make it so hard for people to go there.'

'I know, but most of the former Soviet bloc countries are being run by guys who came up through the Party system and they are still suspicious of the West'

And so the Ukraine was to remain unvisited. It was a case of so near and yet so far.

What would be the first big town we hit if we kept walking in that direction?' I asked, pointing into the far distance.

'Chernobyl, I think.'

Okay. Maybe not going to the Ukraine wasn't such a great loss. Chernobyl; a place where Grigore's first sentence to me in English would have made complete sense.

'Me, I have forty-three ears.'

Yes I can see that. Nice to meet you.'

We left the river bank and wandered up to Soroca's hotel where Iulian and I were intending to stay. It was unusual for a small Moldovan town to have such a hostelry but this one had been built to cater for Communist Party officials who visited Soroca and its fortress as part of a tour which they took as one of their many perks. The drab grey crumbling structure before us resembled a closed-down factory. I reached the large glass double doors and pushed. To my surprise they opened. Inside there was no sign of life. Iulian called out and presently a grumpy unhelpful looking woman appeared. (She must have pipped hundreds of other grumpy unhelpfuls to the post) She explained that a double room with two single beds would cost the equivalent of $20.

'That's expensive,' said Iulian.

Well, we're not exactly spoiled for choice here,' I replied. Tell her we'll take it.'

The woman then asked me for something and held out her hand.

'She wants your passport,' explained Iulian.

'But I haven't brought it,' I said, recognising yet another reason why the Ukraine was off limits, 'I thought since we weren't leaving the country . . . look, tell her we'll pay her in advance and she can have a credit card as further security if she wants it.'

The grumpy unhelpful one was having none of it. Forms needed to be filled out which required my passport number. She was adamant – no passport, no bed for the night. The thought of a cold night sleeping rough did not appeal, but pleading fell on deaf ears.

'Ask her,' I said to Iulian, 'if she is going to turn away two paying customers from an hotel which is clearly empty, simply because of some minor administrative detail.'

Iulian did so, and got shouted at for his trouble. This was a state-run hotel and the notion of profit meant nothing. This lady moved in a world where rules, regulations and looking grumpy were what mattered, and she was good at her job. She would have earned promotion had such a concept existed.

'You're both welcome to my floor,' said Anita generously.

Thanks. It'll be nicer than this place anyway.' I said.