Playing the Moldovans At Tennis Read online

  The referee blew the whistle for full time. A nil-nil draw. Iulian and I wandered down to the touchline and were told by Nicolae Ciornii that the players, having been expected to win easily, were depressed and in no mood for socialising. It seemed that tonight, Testimitanu, Miterev, Rebeja, Romanenko or Fistican would not be my drinking partners in one of the hostelries in fun-packed Chisinau.

  On my insistence, we hung around by the Zimbru coach in the hope of falling into a conversation with one of the players after they had showered, changed and been given a thorough dressing down by their manager. I hovered over Iulian urging him to stop players and introduce me to them. His face told the story of a man who was in the employ of someone who had lost his mind, but who was paying him and therefore needed to be gratified. We managed to intercept one footballer with a shaven head who turned out to be one of the players I needed – Ion Testimitanu. Iulian addressed him in Romanian and pointed to me in a way which I took to be an introduction. Of course he may have been saying 'Look I'm sorry about this, but this bloke pays me thirty dollars a day to bother footballers. Just shake his hand and I promise I'll get him out of your hair straight away.'

  I moved forward and shook Testimitanu's hand. He looked like he was going to cry. The after-match team talk must have been severe. Football managers are evidently the same the world over. After their players have failed, they motivate them for the next game by telling them that they are lazy, talentless shits. It says something about footballers that they respond to this.

  'Did you receive my Wimbledon T-shirt?' I said to an exhausted looking Testimitanu.

  The fatigued footballer launched into a long speech which appeared not to be entirely positive in nature. What could the problem be? Was he not happy with an Extra Large? When he finally ran out of words, he turned and got on to the coach without even so much as a goodbye.

  'What did he say?' I asked Iulian.

  'He said he was tired.'

  How could that have been? I knew that I was no expert in Romanian but how could Testimitanu have spoken for such an extensive period only to have articulated a feeling of tiredness? Either Testimitanu was a master in circumlocution, or Iulian was knackered. He just couldn't be bothered. Or, was he saving me from the savage truth of Testimitanu's words so that my increasingly fragile optimism wouldn't have to take a further knock?

  'Let's go home,' I said, skilfully gauging the general humour.

  Testimitanu was in a bad mood. Iulian was in a bad mood. I was in a bad mood. There was nothing else for it. As the Zimbru coach roared off, we piled back into Iura's car for the hour's drive back to Chisinau. What fun.

  The entrance to Moldova's capital is marked by what locals call The Gates of Chisinau'. Disappointingly these aren't ancient gates but rather two vast triangular apartment blocks on either side of the main highway into the city. Pretty they may not be, but they are striking. I asked Iura to slow the car down so I could film them for posterity and he happily obliged, although I noticed that he did so while remaining in the fast lane. Moments later there was a blaring of a horn behind us. Seeing that I was still filming Iura maintained his slow speed despite the noisy protest from the car behind.

  'It's OK Iura I've finished filming,' I said, eager not to witness an incidence of Moldovan road rage.

  I was too late. A spanking brand new navy-blue Mercedes drew up alongside us and the man in the passenger seat began shouting obscenities at Iura. At least I assumed they were obscenities – it did not look like he was enquiring as to the nature of the time.

  'Oh no, this is not good,' said a nervous-looking Iulian.

  'Why?'

  That guy is well known – a very powerful man. He is known as "The Television".'

  Why do they call him that?'

  'Because he is famous for having crashed his car while watching television in it.'

  Evidently Moldovan soap operas make compulsive viewing. I suppose his one consolation would have been that after the accident he could have watched himself on the traffic news – 'Look, there's me! Being cut free from that car!'

  Whatever he was watching at the moment wasn't calming his nerves. I wondered whether his behaviour was governed by his viewing subject matter. I just prayed that he wasn't presently engrossed in a movie involving a high-speed car chase which ended with a roadside shooting.

  'He is mad,' whimpered Iulian. 'He is trying to force us off the road.'

  He was too. The blue Mercedes kept cutting in front of us while The Television waved his arms frantically, gesturing towards the side of the road.

  'I think, Iulian, that he wants us to stop,' I said, as calmly as I could.

  'I agree that this is what he wants,' replied an ashen-faced Iulian. 'And I think we should stop.'

  Iulian instructed Iura to pull over, and the blue Mercedes drew to a halt in front of us, enabling The Television and another man in a suit to get out and walk back to our car like traffic cops. My mind raced with the possibilities of what the next few minutes might hold for us. None of them involved all of us being invited back to their place for tea and scones.

  An anxious Iura was ordered out of the car, and he wisely obeyed. He was then given a five-minute lecture by The Television, the subject matter of which I could only assume involved a list of negative consequences should he not produce an apology for his foolish driving. Iura nodded meekly to each point which was being made to him. Precisely the right course of action, I thought. No point in getting involved in a protracted argument over the finer points of the Highway Code with this man – broad-shouldered, mean-looking, as he was. The problem with this Television was that if you didn't like what you saw you couldn't just switch channels – 'I've had enough of all this violent gangster stuff, what I'd like now is a nice gentle wildlife documentary.'

  Iura's apologies must have been accepted because the two men who'd been so concerned for our road safety returned to their car and drove off without demanding any further redress.

  'Iura says that this guy wasn't The Television after all,' said Iulian, as Iura climbed back into the driver's seat

  'Really?'

  Yes, I made a mistake.'

  'Easily done,' I quipped. The Television all looks the same these days.'

  Iulian didn't smile. Either because he was still thinking about what had just happened, or because he had spotted that I hadn't said anything funny. The look of relief on both his and Iura's face suggested that we may have been in more danger than I'd actually realised. It was comforting to know that we could now continue our journey into Chisinau without recourse to stopping at any hospitals on the way.

  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 el
even 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.

  9

  Arsehole of the Universe

  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 o
nce 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.