Playing the Moldovans At Tennis Read online

  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.'

  Oh dear.

  'So where is he taking us?' I asked.

  To the hotel.'

  'And we're supposed to stay there until Thursday?'

  'Yes, but there is more bad news.'

  I braced myself.

  What is it?'

  Well, it is his hotel and he says that you must pay to stay there, and he says that it will cost you $200 a night.'

  This was outrageous. Iulian had reckoned that the State run hotel in Soroca had been expensive at $20 a night.

  '$200? He's taking the piss, isn't he?'

  'Yes, I think so. But at the moment I cannot think what we can do. We are in his car and he is driving it.'

  Iulian had stated the obvious, but had correctly identified the quintessence of our predicament. We were in this man's car and he was driving it. We knew nothing about him, where he was taking us and what he planned on doing with us. Short of grabbing the wheel and forcing him over to the side of the road, we were powerless. My bottom went numb again.

  As Grigorii Corzun drove us further and further into the countryside, Iulian and I fell silent. Occasionally there'd be a short conversation in Russian between Iulian and our host but I didn't even bother to ask for a translation. I'd decided that for the moment I would rather not know what was going on. Presently, we turned down a narrow lane and drew up in front of a huge house which resembled a Transylvanian castle; gothic style complete with turrets and the odd gargoyle. As if events weren't unfolding unkindly enough, just to compound things, the place to which we'd been brought looked like it belonged in the opening shot of a horror movie. This was the kind of place Scooby Doo would have refused to have entered, regardless of how many 'Scooby Snacks' he'd been offered.

  Grigorii eased himself from the car and headed towards the house's big wooden door beckoning us to join him. Reluctantly I emerged from the back of the car immediately stepping in some horse shit as I did so. This wasn't turning out to be my day. Grigorii, seeing where I'd stepped, turned and said something.

  'Does he want me to take my shoes off before I go in?' I asked Iulian.

  'No, he says that this is good luck.'

  Good luck eh? If horse shit brought good luck, then the way things were going at the moment I would need to do more than step in some. I'd need to immerse myself in an entire vat of the stuff.

  Grigorii went inside expecting us to follow but I wanted a quick time out with Iulian.

  'Before we go in there,' I said, 'let's just confirm what's going on here.'

  'OK'

  'We've been collected at a bus station in a hostile territory by a strange man who neither of us have met before, and we've been driven miles into the countryside and invited to stay at what looks like Vincent Price's house in Bloodbath at the House of Death.'

  'Yes, this is not what we were expecting.'

  'Not exactly, no.'

  I sighed. The moment clearly warranted it.

  The thing is,' said Iulian, 'he insists that we stay here. He says that if we go to a hotel in Tiraspol it still won't be any cheaper than fifty dollars a night and there will be no heating, no hot water and you will have to register with the police.'

  'Hmm. I don't fancy registering with the police that much,' I replied thoughtfully. They might just take a shine to my video camera and opt for a bit of confiscation. Oh, what the hell, let's just go in, if I die here I'm sure my loved ones will understand.'

  'I don't think we have a lot of choice.'

  We went in. Behind the door was a short corridor which led us through to a large courtyard around which there were many buildings. This wasn't an hotel but instead a huge and somewhat opulent complex – a holiday camp for horror movie extras. Grigorii took us on a guided tour. Through the landscaped gardens, past a large wishing well complete with decorative hand-carved gnomes, and then on to the tennis court. He was very proud of this, even though it was the smallest tennis court in the world. OK, it was marked out in regulation size but the fencing hugged the exact dimensions of the court, so there was no luxury of standing behind the base line, and running for any balls which were hit out wide would result in a premature collision with a perimeter fence. Grigorii then proudly pointed above us to some overhead netting about twenty feet up. On this court it seemed that no wild shots were going to lead to any balls getting lost, but then not many winning lobs would be hit either. Grigorii looked at me expectantly, no doubt seeking approbation for this absurd netting. It was difficult, but I managed a benign smile.

  'Mr Corzun asks you,' said Iulian, 'if the houses in England have tennis courts like this.'

  I wanted to tell him that there were no houses in the world which had tennis courts like this, but instead instructed Iulian to inform him that not many private houses in England had enough land for tennis courts.

  'Maybe in America, but not in England,' I added.

  Grigorii maintained that in the past he had shown Americans the tennis court and they had said that they didn't have courts in their gardens but that the British did. This deluded man clearly appeared to be of the belief that all Westerners were millionaires and, just as he thought I was doing, they had lied to conceal the fact. I resisted the temptation to say, 'Look mate, if I was a millionaire, which I'm not, then I certainly wouldn't have done what you've done and built myself a castle – such a vulgar and ostentatious shrine to wealth – especially if most of my fellow countrymen were living in abject poverty, you prat.'

  I didn't think it would help somehow.

  As the guided tour continued I tried to fathom exactly why it was that this rather strange and disagreeable man had brought me here as his guest. His motivation didn't appear to be drawn from any altruistic desire to assist me in my quest, since he had made it plain that his footballer was unavailable for any tennis activities until at least Thursday. My initial presumption that the whole thing had been a stunt to relieve me of my dollars was still plausible, although the palatial surroundings suggested that he was not a man who was short of a bob or two. Perhaps he just wanted to show off to a Westerner how despite the communist system it was still possible for an individual to amass a huge fortune. For a moment I considered the absurd possibility that he made his money from kidnapping Westerners and that I was soon to be the subject of a huge ransom demand.


  This couldn't have been further from the truth. The real reason for my invitation was as unexpected as it was bizarre. It became clear as we were led through the gym and past the indoor swimming pool and down into the basement to view a collection of vintage brandies.

  'Mr Corzun is suggesting that you bring people here from England,' said Iulian, 'and they stay in his luxurious hotel, and he says that you can take a cut.'

  Oh no, surely not. He wanted to go into business with me?

  I worked hard to suppress my initial impulse which was to laugh back in his face, and tried to formulate a polite refusal which would not offend. This was a tough call and one which threatened to be beyond me.

  This is a very interesting proposition,' I began my response, still with no idea where it was leading, 'and were I more of a businessman I should definitely be interested, but this is such a lovely place and I should certainly like to help in some way.'

  Not bad given that what was really going through my head. 'Look mate, you must be joking, no-one in their right mind would want to come here.'

  After a few further exchanges on the subject, in which my would-be partner drew my attention to what an excellent area this was for hunting, and in which I promised to write favourably about his leisure complex on my return (a promise which I am now absolutely delighted to be breaking), we were led to the basement. Grigorii had said that this was to view his enormous collection of over three thousand bottles of brandy, but there was a part of me which flirted with the notion that because I had not shown enough enthusiasm for a partnership in 'Transnistria Tours' I was being led here for ritual execution.

  We descended the marble stairs, beneath exotic chandeliers and beside mirrors adorned with decorative wood carvings, and entered a small room brimming over with bottles of spirit, covering every inch of wall space. If it was true that Yuri Gagarin had spent two full days holed up in the Cricova wine cellars, then he would have needed at least a fortnight in here. Seemingly all sizes, shapes and colours of bottles were represented. It was explained that as well as 3,000 bottles of brandy, Grigorii also had over 750 bottles of vodka, and that he had just recently started to collect whisky and rum too.