Playing the Moldovans At Tennis Read online

  Twenty minutes later we were still in the bus station but with twice as many people on the bus. The driver had crammed an insane number of people on to his vehicle, the weight of whom were now pressing me against the rear window. Had I wanted to turn around it would have been physically impossible for me to do so. I was trapped. I wanted to get off but I couldn't. My crotch was being rammed into the spare tyre with such vigour that it probably suggested to onlookers that I had developed an immense physical attraction for it, and was not being shy about making this known. The girl with the unkempt teeth was now being crushed alongside me, but this didn't prevent her from offering another attempt at a sweet smile. I'm afraid I just couldn't return it with one of my own. I didn't feel relaxed enough. It felt too much like I was having sexual intercourse with a tyre. And a bald one at that.

  With the driver finally satisfied that the bus was full, now that he was the only one on board still afforded the luxury of movement, we set off. It was not a comfortable ride. (Tyres rarely are.) After half an hour, just when extreme discomfort was giving way to pain, and when the friction of body against tyre was threatening to melt rubber, we stopped at a small village called Drasliceni, where a good number of passengers alighted. I could breathe freely again and now there was enough space around me to see just how profusely I'd been sweating. It was the beginning of November. How did the locals suffer these journeys in the height of summer?

  As we continued on our bumpy way, largely through drab and unremarkable countryside, I made a firm decision to abandon my original plan. There was no way I was going to leave this bus and then immediately get on to another. I would not willingly submit myself to any more of this torture. This bus was going to Orhei, not Orheiul Vecchi, but as far as I was concerned that was a good enough destination for a day's outing. On the map it looked like a good sized town and there must be something of interest there. I'd have a wander, a late lunch, a beer and then leave. The only other bus I was going to catch today would be the one that took me home.

  A further hot and not altogether pleasant hour of travel passed, during which I was on the receiving end of more smiles from my female travelling companion. She seemed to have a soft spot for me, in spite of having seen how intimate I'd been with that tyre. Obviously not the jealous type. She had a nice face and was quite pretty, at least until she smiled, when the inadequacies of Moldovan dentistry became only too apparent. It was somewhat disappointing for me, a man who had always put a 'nice smile' right up there in what he looks for in a woman, to find myself in a country where observing one was such a rarity. True, the less shallow individual would have been able to recognise the real beauty within – to see beyond the teeth, but I'd been successfully brainwashed by the gleaming beaming glistening grins of the Western TV ad, and I was having trouble finding merit in what I saw as a mouth full of flaws. This was something I needed to get better at; like being tidy and getting Moldovan footballers to agree to play me at tennis.

  The bus stuttered to a halt and the girl tapped me on the shoulder.

  You – you go here,' she said, a little sheepishly.

  Go here? I looked around me. Surely too many people around to take a leak here, I joked feebly to myself.

  You go here,' she repeated, 'Now. Here.'

  I realised what was happening. Not knowing about my change of plan the girl was drawing my attention to the fact that we'd arrived at the fork in the road where I should change buses.

  'No thank you.' I said, 'I have decided to stay on the bus and go to Orhei for the day.'

  She didn't understand, and repeated her instruction with a little more urgency. Never mind, the bus would move on in a second and this little moment of awkwardness would be over. Just as I was about to have another go at explaining my revised itinerary, I heard a commotion at the front of the bus and looked down the crowded aisle to see that the driver was on his feet, having switched off the engine and climbed out of his compartment. He was shouting at someone and waving his arms about. What had happened? Had some kind of family feud erupted?

  The minor fracas nudged its way towards becoming something of an incident when the passengers around the driver began to join in with the shouting and gesticulating. The object of their attentions seemed to be someone near me but I couldn't make out who. The impatient driver started to force his way down the bus, still calling out at volume. The passengers who had initially remained outside the dispute were now becoming frustrated that their journey was being held up, and they began to vocalise their displeasure, the overall result being something best described as a din. Still it was not clear who was the object of all this clamour, but whoever it was, the noise levels and unanimity of feeling were such that this person would soon need to present a very persuasive argument in their defence.

  Then something quite terrible happened. Stupefyingly shocking. I realised that it was me. I was the one who everyone was shouting at. I was the one who was holding up the bus. I shivered. For those of you who haven't experienced a bus full of Moldovans shouting at you, I assure you that this is how you respond, regardless of outside temperature. As I looked down the bus, all I could see were animated faces and a frenzy of waving arms, accompanied by a soundtrack of baffling foreign sounds. It was overwhelming. What was happening? What had I done? I had no answers. My mind was only able to produce one thought, and it seemed to stamp itself like a newspaper headline over this vision of turmoil before me.

  BOY, DO I NEED IULIAN RIGHT NOW!

  He could explain to me what on was going on, and he could tell the others that I was a nice chap and that I hadn't killed their president or done whatever it was they were upset with me about. I was innocent! I couldn't be treated in this way, did these people not know that I was a fully paid-up member of Amnesty International? My only hope was that my female admirer could save me.

  What is it? What do they want?' I called across to her.

  They want you go. You go. Go here. Go now,' came the reply.

  'But why?'

  'Because you go here for Orheiul Vecchi. We go Orhei. You go Orheiul Vecchi.'

  Was this all it was? Was the driver and the entire bus up in arms because they wanted to ensure that I didn't miss my connection? It seemed unbelievable and totally out of character with my Moldovan experience to date – that anyone should care – but it seemed to be the case. I began waving my arms back at them.

  'No, no!' I called out. 'I've changed my mind. I want to stay on the bus and come with you to Orhei!'

  The response was extraordinary. As one, the bus fell quiet even though no-one had appeared to understand what I'd said. The passengers turned and looked to the driver for his reaction. They were going to be led by his response. He stared at me for a moment and then gestured to the door uttering an emphatic statement. A few passengers chimed in with some words of support. I was in a difficult position. These people were trying to help. They were trying their damnedest to get me to the place where I'd said I wanted to go. They were going out of their way to make sure that I didn't go out of my way. I had only seconds to make a decision. The bus had been stationary for too long now and the bus driver would surely have to continue taking his passengers to their destination soon. Did I leave the bus and therefore satisfy the driver and everyone else who was on it? Or did I hang on and leave them all frustrated and disappointed that they had been unable to prevent me from fouling up my journey? OK, not quite Sophie's Choice, but it's right up there.

  I looked out of the window and saw more than a road junction in the middle of the Moldovan countryside. I saw a man, a foreigner, an Englishman, called Tony, stranded – unable to squeeze on to a bus, falling prey to bandits and shivering in a ditch as the night closed in. That did it, I was staying. I looked up at the driver and I shook my head to him. He shook his. I dropped my eyes to the floor. I was making it abundantly clear that I wasn't budging. I heard the driver mumble something under his breath, and observed from the corner of my eye as he threw his head back in frustration and turn
ed to make his way back to the driver's compartment. A murmur of disapproval. Then the engine starting. The girl looked at me.

  You come to Orhei?' she asked.

  Yes, I come to Orhei.'

  I was going to Orhei.

  'Where you go now?' asked the girl, as I stood in the area of wasteland that appeared to be Orhei town centre.

  'I don't know. I thought I'd get something to eat. Is there a restaurant in Orhei?'

  'Restaurant? No, I do not think so.'

  'No restaurant? There must be one, surely?'

  'Maybe. Come with me.'

  Maybe. How, I mused, had I ended up in a country where the answer to the question 'Is there a restaurant?' was 'maybe'?

  As we climbed some steps to the part of town where this restaurant might be, I learned that my companion was Rodica, a 21-year-old who worked as a secretary in Chisinau and was returning to Orhei for a weekend visit to her parents. Her knowledge of English was so limited that establishing this information filled the entire ten-minute walk to the ugly concrete block outside which she was now leaving me.

  Thank you,' I said. You are very kind.'

  'And you are very nice.'

  Thank you again.' I pointed to the run-down building to our left. 'Is the restaurant in here?'

  'I think so.'

  Looking at the building I could see why there was an element of doubt. It was falling to pieces and looked deserted. If, in having met the nice Englishman, Rodica had something of a story to tell, then she certainly wasn't going to dine out on it. Not in this town, anyway.

  Well, goodbye then,' said Rodica, rather plaintively.

  'Yes, goodbye,' I said, shaking her hand.

  Lovely Rodica. She'd been so kind, and but for an accident of dentists we could have been made for each other.

  'Do you have a telephone number in Chisinau?' I asked, drawn to the idea that I should repay her hospitality by taking her out for a nice meal there next week.

  'Yes I do,' she replied, beaming broadly, and as a result not really presenting herself at her best.

  With some enthusiasm she wrote her number neatly on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  Thank you,' I said, 'I shall call you.'

  'I hope so. Enjoy you meal.'

  'OK Goodbye.'

  Rodica smiled again and then turned from me, rather self-consciously. I watched her walk away, back to the world of her mother and father, back to the world of her youth. Did I detect a slight spring in her step? Had she construed the taking of her number to be a friendly gesture which had broken the monotony of a routine day, or as a sign that I might be some kind of Western knight in shining armour, ready to whisk her off to a land where the restaurants outnumbered the problems? At the street corner she looked back and saw that I was still watching her.

  'I hope you can clean good your trousers,' she called out with an accompanying wave, before disappearing between the buildings which formed the jaws of the adjoining street.

  I looked down and saw that the entire crotch area on my trousers had been blackened by the rubber from the bus spare tyre. It looked ugly and it looked unsavoury. It looked like I used my leisure time with an unwholesome creativity. Maybe that was why Rodica had not chosen this occasion to introduce me to her parents:

  This is Tony from England. He likes to fuck tyres.'

  That's me. Always ready to be an ambassador for my country.

  'So how did you like Orheiul Vecchi?' asked Adrian, as we sat down in the kitchen, the kettle toiling towards boiling point.

  To my relief I'd been able to sneak upstairs and change my trousers before bumping into any family members.

  'I didn't go to Orheiul Vecchi. I went to Orhei,' I replied.

  'But Orhei is boring.'

  'Yes, that's why I got the bus straight back.'

  'It is a shame that you did not go to Orheiul Vecchi.'

  'Yes.'

  'Orheiul Vecchi is interesting.'

  All right, don't rub it in.

  Actually, Adrian was displaying a mischievous side here. He'd realised that I'd completely failed to reach my intended destination, in spite of only that very morning boasting that I didn't know the meaning of the word 'failure'. In his own gentle and unassuming way he was making a point. In the unofficial and undefined tussle which was taking place between the two of us over the credibility of my positive philosophy, Adrian had scored valuable points. His lead, which was already substantial, was to be extended later that night.

  The occasion was a recital of Rachmaninov at the Filarmonica, Chisinau's Concert Hall. One of Dina's patients, a violinist in the city's prestigious orchestra, had given her a couple of tickets for tonight's recitation and I was invited to accompany Adrian to the concert, if I so desired. Looking through my diary and finding myself unexpectedly free of social engagements that night, I happily accepted.

  The Filarmonica was yet another example of austere Soviet architecture. It was physically cold (the absence of any heating meant that the audience would remain in their coats throughout the evening's proceedings) and as Adrian and I filed in to take our wooden seats, it felt like we were attending school assembly rather than a musical recital. The only concessions to the aesthetic were a huge chandelier hanging from the ceiling and some second-rate portraits of famous composers on one of the walls. We sat down. Hard seats. The dim lights began to dim still further. The concert was about to begin.

  I'm no connoisseur of classical music but I've been known to be surprisingly moved by its live performance. Rachmaninov's Concerto for Piano and Orchestra No. 2 in C minor provided another such occasion. As well as the passion of the music, there was the visual spectacle to be enjoyed – the unison bowing of the string section, the extravagant flamboyance of the solo pianist, and the enthusiastic arms and flashing white baton of the conductor. It was by turns, spellbinding, soothing, inspiring and uplifting. Certainly there were flaws in the performance, notably the musicians not having learnt the piece and having to bring the sheet music on with them, and Rachmaninov's second movement having been unashamedly plagiarised from the Eric Carmen hit 'All by myself (Rachmaninov was well known for this – he did the same with the theme to the South Bank Show), but I was prepared to overlook these details. The whole thing was rounded off perfectly when the cymbal player, who had stood with an admirable stillness throughout, finally got to do a bit of crashing in the climactic crescendo which preceded the interval. I'm sure he was thinking, as he walked off stage with three crashes in forty minutes under his belt, 'I was magic tonight.'

  'How did you enjoy it?' I said, turning to Adrian.

  'It was great.'

  'I thought so too. What happens now?'

  Well, we wait for the second half.'

  'Shall we go to the bar?'

  There is no bar.'

  'Oh. How about ice cream? Do you want an ice cream?'

  There is no ice cream.'

  'Oh. Well there must be tea or coffee?' Adrian shook his head. 'Or someone selling programmes?' Another shake of the head. 'So what do people do in the interval?'

  They wait for the second half,' said Adrian, with deadpan delivery.

  To me this seemed absurd.

  'Well I'm not just going to sit here, I'm going to take a little wander. Do you want to come?'

  'Why?'

  Well, it'll make a change from sitting here. Something might happen.'

  'I don't think that anything is going to happen.'

  'You mustn't think like that, Adrian. If you think like that then nothing will happen. I believe that if you think in the right way, then you can make things happen. Just watch me. I'm going to get up and wander round a bit and I think that something is going to happen.'

  What kind of thing?'

  'I'm not sure. I might bump into someone I know. I might fall in love. I might become involved in a political discussion. We'll see. Do you want to come?'

  'No thank you. Nothing is going to happen.'

  We'll see about that.
'

  I got to my feet and struggled past the rest of the people in the aisle who seemed to share Adrian's view that leaving your seat was an act of madness. I made my way out to the foyer, hoping to see an animated throng milling around discussing the merit of the work they had just witnessed. Nothing. Just three blokes making their way to the toilet and the woman in the cloakroom slumped on a chair and watching her feet as if they were a TV channel. I climbed a flight of stairs only to meet a uniformed man whose stern shake of the head suggested to me that upstairs was closed, so I returned to the foyer and waited. Something was going to happen. Something had to happen. I had promised it to Adrian.

  Nothing happened. Of course it didn't. Adrian was right, I was wrong – and I just had to face it. However, I couldn't just go straight back to my seat, I had to try and save face somehow, so I made my way back into the auditorium and started to march down the central aisle. Having clocked that Adrian was watching me, I proceeded to carry out a succession of elaborate mimes depicting a man who had just seen a number of his very good friends dotted around the theatre. It was not a subtle performance – one of which Mr Bean would have been proud. I pointed, waved, laughed, and kept tossing my head back in amazement that I should encounter quite so many of my friends here in this Chisinau Concert Hall. Before me, a sullen mass of bodies in big coats viewed me as if I'd lost my mind. I didn't care because to my delight I was scoring a bigger victory than I ever could have expected.