Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (9 page)

Our car joined the traffic again, its passengers all a little shaken but greatly relieved to see that the danger had been averted. Iura had performed the meek stuff very well. In fact his meekness had been something of a triumph. It certainly would have won the admiration of Jesus, who had always rated the meek highly.

'Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth,' he once said, in all earnestness.

The only problem is that the meek would then reply:

'Ooh, I couldn't possibly. You have it.'

That evening I was able to eat lentils, bread and feta cheese without seeing any of them again in the night. Grigore urged me to wash it all down with a Moldovan brandy which he maintained would be good for the stomach. My kind of doctor.

'My farver wants to know if you will come with us to church in the morning?' said Elena.

'Yes, that would be nice. Thank you,' I replied.

I needed some help, and I was prepared to try anything. Turning to the Moldovan Orthodox Church for succour seemed as logical a next step as any alternative on offer.

I wasn't sure what the delay was but in the meantime I changed myself into clothes that seemed suitable for worship and waited patiently in my room for the church party to leave.

'I thought we said eleven o'clock,' I mentioned to Adrian trying my best not to sound like I was complaining.

'It is eleven o'clock. The clocks went back one hour last night.'

'Oh right. Sorry.'

So, winter was upon us. Darker nights from here on in. How I hate this artificial shortening of the afternoon hours of daylight. I've never understood why it is necessary but I'm told that it's something to do with the wishes of Scottish farmers. It did seem a shame that they had surrendered to their demands here in Moldova too.

Grigore wore a suit and Elena a splendid blue dress with matching cape and bonnet. She looked exactly like any father would want his 11-year-old daughter to look on a visit to church. Grigore must have felt proud, I thought. It was just the three of us making the trip since Dina was going to visit a sick relative and Adrian was going to practise sitting in his bedroom with the door closed. He was already good at this but I suppose there's always room for improvement.

'After church,' said Elena, as we found ourselves seats on the maxi taxi. 'My farver says that he wants to show you his hospital.'

Grigore's choice of worship turned out to be the basilica which I had observed from my hotel bedroom on my first morning in this alien country. It had struck me then as being something of an anachronism, a throwback to the days when religion had a powerful stronghold in society before the dogma of Communism had stripped it from people's souls. The people, it seemed, had long memories. The paved area in front of the entrance to the basilica was so crowded that it resembled a busy station concourse at rush hour. We forced our way through the throng and into the basilica itself. Inside, it appeared even busier, with worshippers pacing around, crossing themselves and occasionally dropping to their hands and knees to kiss the floor. Such devotion. Such fervour. No similarity here to the conservative sedentary churchgoers of middle England. Here, I was witnessing an event. Something was
happening.
Evidently it takes more than a fifty-year totalitarian regime ruthlessly enforcing atheism to remove from the people the belief that there is a greater, higher force worthy of their worship.

I was surrounded by beauty. OK it was lavish and ostentatious; colourful frescos, ornate golden chandeliers and a magnificent altar surrounded by colourful bouquets of flowers; but it was beauty nonetheless. I think I prefer this to the dour modesty of Protestant churches which seem to be designed to remind you that life is tough and drudgery is pretty much all you can hope for. Could that be why the pews are increasingly unoccupied every Sunday? God knows.

A choir, positioned on a balcony above the door through which we had entered, began singing. An enchanting and mellifluous sound which echoed around the building and heralded the beginning of the formal service led by Father Theodor. This man, Grigore had been at pains to tell me on the way here, was his good friend. I had been promised that I could meet him after the ceremony but I had been warned that he spoke no English and that once again Elena would have to be my vessel to understanding.

Father Theodor enlightened me as to the role the Church had played during the years of Communism. Apparently religion had not been totally outlawed, but the State had made it its business to oversee the organised persecution of those who still frequented the churches. Churchgoers were ridiculed in school or at the workplace and were effectively barred from most areas of employment. Little wonder that during this period the only worshippers were old folk who had little or nothing to lose.

The Father then handed me a leaflet giving details about his basilica, which included a delightfully hopeless English translation of the text. It was riddled with mistakes, my favourite being the constant use of the word 'warship' instead of 'worship'. It seemed a fitting error, somehow acknowledging the role that religion had played in the fostering of warfare down the years.

We left that 'place of warship' and headed to one where a real battle was taking place. Grigore's hospital. Its dilapidated exterior was mirrored by what lay within. Dark, dank corridors flanked by flaky walls lead to wards displaying diverse antiquated medical equipment which looked like it had been plundered from the set of
Carry On Doctor.

'My farver asks you to tell the doctors back in England what the conditions are like here,' said Elena.

'Right, OK,' I replied, aware that I didn't have any pals who were doctors in England and wondering how I could broach this subject in the course of a routine visit to my GP. 'Elena, can you ask your father if the government here is going to provide any more money?'

The little girl relayed this information and quickly returned her father's answer.

'My farver says the government makes many promises, but he thinks they will spend the money on fast cars and big houses.'

This is sad,' I said.

Yes, this is sad,' said Grigore.

Poignantly, the only accurate English I ever heard him speak.

As we watched Grigore waiting by the kerbside to flag down the maxi taxi which would take us home, Elena turned and looked up at me.

'So do you like my farver's hospital?' she asked.

This was a difficult one. Elena was clearly so proud of her father, and why not? He was an able man who was Head of Paediatrics with his own office in this massive edifice. To Elena, who had never seen another hospital, this was a mightily impressive place. I looked down at her inspiring face eagerly awaiting my response. Did I like her father's hospital?

Yes, I like it,' I said, with some difficulty. 'But it needs more money.'

Just as I had enunciated these words, a large Mercedes sped past, splashing Grigore with the muddy water from a roadside puddle. $50,000 worth of car had just sprayed shit over the Head of Paediatrics outside his decrepit hospital as he waited patiently to avail himself of public transport. Grigore brushed himself down with all the dignity he could muster.

It looked like he'd done this a hundred times before.

Iulian had decided it would be a good idea if we took a packed lunch with us on the bus and so he took us to a state-run shop to purchase what was required. The shop resembled a large arcade with separate sections, all with predominantly bare shelves, manned by members of staff dressed in white overalls. They all shared a common lack of interest as to whether anyone bought anything, coupled with an expertise in presenting an exquisitely morose expression to the customer. It seems that when you remove the word 'profit' from the vocabulary of the shopkeeper, this is what you get.

The oversized woman in the cheese section handed over our portion. I smiled at her, but this only provoked a hardening of her already stony countenance.

'Do you have a Reward Card, sir?' she enquired.

Not really – this line was provided by my active imagination. This was a shop where they were more likely to offer you a Punishment Card. You hand it in at the bread section and they clobber you with a rolling pin.

In terms of distance it wasn't far to Transnistria, only a hundred miles or so, but for me it was a big journey. This was a place I had been told it would be unwise to visit. On leaving the Journalism Centre, Corina's last words had been 'Be careful.'

'OK. I'll try not to knock any drinks over,' I'd said, in an attempt to make light of things.

The truth was that this was an absurd risk I was taking. Iulian had told me about an American journalist, Patrick Cox, who had spent time in Transnistria and whose candid summary of the place had been that it was 'without doubt one of the world's hell-holes'. A dangerous hell-hole. In the 1992 war for independence, the whole Transnistrian nation had fought against Moldova and all the men had carried guns, most of which were still at large today. Furthermore Transnistria has a reputation among Russia's criminal class as a lawless place perfect for laundering money. Then you can add the fact that the Transnistrian authorities have to this day retained a powerful KGB who imprison political opponents, close down private media outlets and have set up road blocks at the so-called 'border' with the rest of Moldova, manned by guards decked out in Soviet uniforms. All in all it probably wouldn't be your number one choice for a spring weekend break.

Iulian, who had been to Transnistria once before and experienced only minor difficulties over paperwork at the border, displayed a surprising confidence.

'I believe that we will be OK,' he suggested, 'because we are the guests of an important figure. I just advise you not to do any filming on the streets there. Crime is rife. Someone will see that thing and then just grab it. I actually believe that you should not bring it with you.'

'But I have to. How else will I prove to Arthur that I have played Stroenco and Rogaciov?'

'OK, but in that case you must hide it in the bottom of your bag. The police or army on the border may just choose to confiscate it if they see it.'

'What – for no reason?'

They can do what they like. In some respects it is close to anarchy there.'

It was for this reason that we had chosen to take the bus and not hire a car and driver. Cars were searched at the border and lots of awkward questions asked. Foreigners, particularly ones from the West, were often refused entry with no reason given. However on the bus, the border guards usually only made cursory checks and Iulian felt it was unlikely I would even be asked to produce my passport.

Given the nature of my destination, I ought to have felt trepidation, but in fact I was in ebullient mood. For me, today wasn't just Monday and the beginning of a new week, but it marked a change in fortunes and the heralding in of a new era. At last things were going to start to happen. In Grigorii Corzun, the President of Tiligul Tiraspol FC, I had finally discovered a man who had displayed some enthusiasm for my task.

'Come to see us,' he had said. 'You can stay in our hotel which has a tennis court and you can play our players as you wish.'

It seemed bizarre that the only positive noises I'd heard so far had emanated from a place they called 'bandit country', which I'd been urged to omit from my travel itinerary. Maybe it wasn't such a bad place. Maybe the stories I was hearing were the product of prejudice. I was going to keep an open mind. And a closed bag. I wanted to have a camera when I came back.

Although it felt heartening to know that the tennis rackets I was carrying looked like they were going to be used in anger at long last, I also felt a pang of nerves. Was I ready for tennis? I hadn't played for a week and my recent stomach problems must have weakened me physically. It would be just too humiliating if I lost to the first footballer I took on. I banished the thought from my mind. Don't go there Tony, I thought, get stuck into your half of the cheese dominated packed lunch instead. As I did so, Mian looked up from the sheets of paper he'd been studying.

'Oh dear,' he said.

Sounded ominous.

What?'

'I made a mistake. I thought that both Stroenco and Rogaciov played for the same club – Tiligul Tiraspol – but according to this information which Andrei gave us from the Moldovan Football Federation, he plays for the other team in Transnistria – FC Sheriff.'

'Right. So that means opening another line of enquiry once we get there.'

'Yes'

'Never mind'

This was a blow and was certainly going to make things more complicated, but I convinced myself that Stroenco and Rogaciov were probably mates and a simple phone call from one to the other would be all that was required. I was determined to stay positive.

The bus approached the border.

'Good luck,' said Iulian. Try not to look conspicuous.'

'OK,' I replied, not entirely sure how to go about this task.

I looked around me and saw that only about ten of us had chosen Tiraspol as our destination, and most of the others were young mothers. If only I'd borrowed a baby for the day, I would have blended in perfectly. I resolved to try and look as Moldovan as I could and so adopted the sourest facial expression in my repertoire. The one I save for those blokes who try to clean your windscreen at traffic lights. We drew up alongside an army-border checkpoint and a soldier carrying a gun climbed on to the bus and began talking with the driver. Not for the first time on this trip I felt genuine fear. Soon he would be walking down the central aisle on the look out for anyone conspicuous. If I didn't look Moldovan enough I could be singled out for questions, removed from the bus and ultimately refused entry to the country. Should that happen then the bet would be pretty much lost, with two of the required footballers beyond reach. I thought of Arthur back home in England. He was probably still in bed. How had I got myself into a bet which involved my subjection to daily peril when all he had to do was go down the pub, sit on his arse and wait for me to fail? I would have to be more circumspect with regard to the bets I took on in the future.

The soldier's conversation with the driver looked to be reaching its conclusion. I felt like an escaped POW on the run from Colditz – if I was challenged I was lost, if I was left unchallenged then freedom would be mine. All it needed was a tired, lacklustre soldier with other things on his mind. All it needed was for things to go to plan for once. What it definitely didn't need was a tap on the shoulder from the lady seated behind me.

'You are American, no?' she asked boldly.

Oh no. What was going on? What was she doing? And why was she doing it now? I looked ahead and noted with relief that the soldier was still talking and had not heard. I turned around with the intention of immediately severing all communication with this woman.

'I am not American, I am sorry,' I replied coldly, and with a definite full stop.

I turned to face the front again, praying that would be an end to things. But no.

'But I have been hearing you speak English,' she said, Where you from?'

Shit. Just my luck. The first chatty Moldovan I had met, and this had to be the moment

'I am from England,' I turned and whispered, again trying to give the impression that this should mark an end to this exchange.

'Ah, this is better!' she announced, at a most alarming volume.

I looked across to Iulian who was shaking his head.

'You must quieten her,' he muttered.

Easier said than done because now she had got to her feet and was standing in the aisle waving a piece of paper at me.

Will you read this essay?' she requested. 'I am studying English in classes in the evening and this is my homework. Could you see that there are no too many mistake?'

'Please – I will help – but when the soldier has gone,' I said, looking at her imploringly. 'Please?'

Mercifully she nodded and sat down.

I'm not sure whether the soldier heard nothing or whether I'd lucked out and got the lazy guy who just didn't care, but amazingly he ignored me completely, checked a couple of bags in the overhead shelves and then buggered off. Hurrah. Three cheers for sloppy work. Without it how would we ever get things done?

As it happened the lady's essay was pretty good. Grammatically bang on. It was all about how she hoped one day to visit her friends in England who lived in Slough. She was sure it would be a beautiful place. This was her only mistake, but I didn't bother to correct it. I didn't have the heart.

We arrived at Tiraspol's deserted bus station, which was effectively just five bus stops in close proximity to each other, and I stepped on to Transnistrian soil for the first time. This place was almost a museum piece. While the rest of the Soviet Union had embraced Perestroika and introduced reforms, this relatively tiny land had hung on doggedly to pre-1991 Communism. Economically it wasn't strong. Spiralling inflation now meant that one lunch would cost you a million roubles. Today you'd get 360,000 roubles for one dollar. Tomorrow's exchange rate would be anybody's guess. This place was still the home of collective farms, state-owned businesses and crazy Five Year Plans.

Tony, if you think that life is tough in Moldova, you should spend more time here,' said Iulian, as we gathered our bags together, This place is backward. It is crazy.'

'Is there nothing at all to recommend it?'

'For me, no. The only thing that is better here is that they have street lights at night.'

'How come?'

'Because all of Moldova's power stations are here and the Chisinau government has to buy electricity from them. This is why our streets are dark – they control the price.'

'How inconvenient.'

Another inconvenience was that there appeared to be no Grigorii Corzun there to meet us as arranged, although we weren't too concerned since we had said four o'clock and it was only five past now. Grigorii, we decided, was probably a busy man and there was no need to commence any major anxiety until around four thirty.

At four thirty I promptly kicked off that process by dispatching Iulian to a call box to find out what was happening.

'Do you need some change?' I asked.

'No, it is free to make calls here.'

'Really?'

Yes, look at the phones,' he said, pointing to one that was mounted on a wall near us which looked like the next model up from a can with a piece of string attached. They were made so long ago and no-one has the money to convert them to ones which take coins.'

'Ah well that's another advantage of this place,' I said, gently teasing Iulian. 'Phone calls are free.'

Yes, but nobody has anything good to say to each other.'

While Iulian was making the call I sat on a cold step and did my best to maintain the confident spirit which I had nurtured on the bus. I tried not to think about the consequences of a Grigorii no show. Like my present surroundings they were just too bleak. Iulian returned to say that he had spoken to the club's secretary who believed that Mr Corzun had gone to watch his team training, and knew nothing of any collection of any Englishmen from any bus stations. Silence was my chosen response to this new information. There was nothing to say. All there was now was to wait Wait and hope.

The step on which I had been sitting had made my bottom colder than it had ever been before, and colder than any bottom ought to be, leaving it almost completely numb. I have a sensitive bottom. It tends to go numb in the face of defeat. Just at this moment I wanted my entire body to become numb in order to deaden the pain of the constant blows which this country was dealing me.

This looks hopeful,' said lulian, momentarily lifting me from an inexorable slide into gloom.

I looked up and saw a shiny Mercedes turn a nearby corner and then draw up before us. Could this be our man? A smartly dressed, middle-aged man signalled to us from the car window. lulian called out to him and the man shouted back.

This is him,' said lulian, turning towards me, as close to excited as I'd seen him. 'You are in luck – although he doesn't seem in a very good mood.'

It didn't matter. He had turned up and all was not lost, as my bottom had begun to think it might be. It was feeling positively vibrant as the car door opened and it was lowered on to the plush leather seats of this luxurious car. It was a happy bottom now.

Grigorii Corzun both drove and talked at speed. His conversation with lulian was so intense that it was a full ten minutes before there was a lull in proceedings which enabled me to catch up with what was happening.

What's he been saying?' I asked of a slightly fraught-looking lulian.

'It's not good,' came the now alarmingly familiar reply. 'He says that his player Stroenco was robbed last night and that he did not come to training today. He also says that the team are playing on Wednesday and you cannot play any tennis with the players before then – he does not want them distracted.'

My heart sank. Surely not. Not now. Not another disappointment.

'So I cannot play Stroenco until at least Thursday?'

This is correct.'

'Well, maybe I could try and get Rogaciov before then.'

'I don't think so, because their match on Wednesday is against FC Sheriff, and since this is Rogaciov's team, he will be in training for this game too.'