Playing the Moldovans At Tennis Page 4

  'And you have to win?'

  Yes.'

  'Wow, that's a tough one.'

  It was getting tougher by the minute.

  'Right Iulian,' I continued. 'Any ideas where to start?'

  'No, I don't know.'

  Christ, he'd done as much homework on this as me. Then his eyes lit up.

  'Ah, Corina mentioned that there is a sports journalist who may be able to help. I need to get his mobile phone number from his wife who works at the American Embassy.'

  That would be a great start – to talk with him.'

  This shouldn't be a problem, I will arrange for us to meet with him later.'

  There was nothing in Iulian's confident tone of voice to suggest that I wouldn't actually speak to this journalist until Friday afternoon. In fact, the whole of this first morning served to show me how getting things done here was not straightforward. We wanted to call this sports journalist as well as the country's Tennis Centre and Football Federation, but with each phone call we either got no reply or the engaged signal. Either people here made phone calls and then just went out immediately or the phone system was powered by the batteries from a Sony Walkman.

  Just before we were about to adjourn for lunch, Karen, an American volunteer who was working at the centre, broke with the general office trend and asked how I was getting on.

  I explained how things were proceeding and she offered a bleak prognosis, predicting that I would only have three matches. Corina, overhearing in passing, was more optimistic and forecast that I would manage six. Neither prediction did much to lift the spirits.

  'I must admit,' I added rather plaintively, 'I thought I might have achieved more from a full mornings work.'

  Welcome to Moldova,' came Karen's ominious response.

  After lunch we set off for the Moldovan Football Federation and spent two and a half hours getting lost. It seemed that Iulian had a propensity for confidently heading off in the wrong direction, a confidence which didn't seem to wane in the face of repeated failure. It was impressive and somehow noble, but quite tiring on the legs. I didn't really mind though. Wandering around any city is always the best way to get to know it.

  Much of Chisinau was destroyed in the Second World War and as a consequence it is a city with a muddled and eclectic architecture. Charming nineteenth-century two-storey buildings adorned with ornate porticos were flanked by Sixties boxlike structures, and many new buildings were under construction, a sure sign that Western companies were moving in to exploit a new market. The area of 'old Chisinau' around which we were walking had a pleasant feel. The roads were wide and tree-lined, and the traffic, though constant, circulated freely. How long before these streets would be grid-locked I wondered? In the new capitalist system which this fledgling country was now openly embracing, owning a car was surely going to be the way individuals signalled to the rest of society that they were doing all right thanks.

  The hub of life in the capital centred around a main street called Boulevard Stefan cel Mare. One end of it was home to all the government buildings and the other formed the main shopping area. The people went about their business looking uncompromisingly stern, and the atmosphere, though not hostile, was hardly one of geniality. A privileged few sat outside cafes sipping coffee and basking in the winter sun, but laughter and frivolity was not the order of the day. I guessed that the years spent living under an oppressive regime with its institutionalised system of secret police and informers had left the population favouring a cautious approach to any public display of emotion. Not here the heated street-corner debates of southern Europe with raised voices and animated gesticulations, but instead a measured, deadpan exchange of the required information. No frills.

  Suddenly I noticed that all the tables in the cafes and bars were round and made of plastic. For some reason the expression 'Carrying coals to Newcastle' popped into my head. Everywhere I looked, there were plastic round tables. And thanks to me – and Do It All of course – now Moldova had one more. King Arthur wasn't going to be that impressed.

  I needed to change the dollars which I had brought with me, and Iulian took me to one of the many roadside bureaux de change which dotted the main street. When I began my transaction the small kiosk was empty, but by the time I had completed it I turned round to see that a large queue of people had formed behind me.

  'Where did they come from?' I asked Iulian.

  'People must have noticed you come in.'

  'What do you mean?'

  Well, you don't look typically Moldovan. They realised that you must be changing foreign currency and people want to buy it.'

  'Why?'

  That is how they save. No-one trusts our currency – or the banks.'

  With a pocket stuffed full of Moldovan money, I left behind the line of locals who were desperate to get their hands on the dollars which had been in my pocket only moments before. It seemed odd, but on an infinitesimally small scale these people were playing exactly the same game that George Soros played. Some would be winners and some would be losers. Welcome to capitalism, folks.

  What have I got here?' I asked Iulian as I sifted through my wad of new notes.

  'You have about 700 lei. Our currency is the leu. It means "lion".'

  Lion, eh? Well, judging by the scene I had just left behind, the leu wasn't exactly a lion which was King of the World's Financial Jungle.

  Our perambulatory and unintentional exploration of Chisinau's backstreets continued until finally we stood outside a building with 'Federatia Moldoveasca de Fotbal' emblazoned above its door. This was a good sign, literally, as it surely meant this was the Moldovan Football Federation, unlike the four previous buildings that we had been to. I could see that Iulian looked a little uncomfortable. The morning's failures on the phone had driven me to opt for this policy of just turning up, and it wasn't really Iulian's style, or given his sense of direction, his forte.

  What shall I say?' he asked me as we hesitated on the steps outside.

  'Not too much at first. Just say that I'm a journalist from England who would like to find some of the national footballers for an interview.'

  'OK.'

  Inside Iulian spoke rapidly to the man behind the desk who bore as little resemblance to a pretty receptionist as I could remember ever having noted. He shuffled off and returned with a delightfully gentle-looking young man who spoke excellent English. He politely introduced himself as Andrei, the team's translator.

  'How may I help you?' he asked.

  I explained. I gave him the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. He laughed, especially at the bit about stripping naked and singing the Moldovan National Anthem.

  'So how may I help you?' he said again.

  'Er, well . . . here's a list of the players I have to play – it would be very helpful if you could tell me which clubs they play for, where they train, and offer any ideas on how best to contact them.'

  Andrei looked a little taken aback and a little short on ideas. To be fair to him, an Englishman turning up wanting to play tennis against the footballers for whom he translated may not have been what he was expecting of his Monday afternoon. Nevertheless he promised to help and returned ten minutes later with all the relevant details nicely typed out for me in English. What a splendid fellow.

  He went through it with me. Some of the news was good. Five of the players played for one club – Zimbru Chisinau, and two other players also played for clubs based in the capital. A further two, Stroenco and Rogaciov, played for clubs in Transnistria. This I knew could be a problem.

  When Gorbachev began perestroika during the later 1980s there had been an upsurge in Moldovan nationalism which favoured the adoption of Romanian as the national language. However there was also much opposition to this from the Russians who formed the majority in the region east of the River Dniestr known as Transnistria. These Russians supported a political movement called Yedinstvo ('Unity') and when Moldova became a republic in September 1991 they refused to recognis
e the new government and suspended application of Moldovan law in their jurisdiction. Unilaterally they gave themselves the snappy title The Transnistrian Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic', and embarked on a full-scale civil war with the Moldovan government in Chisinau. All this had gone largely unnoticed by Western observers and particularly by me. I'd been too busy practising my serve.

  The lingering problem was that although the fighting had ceased, none of the disputes had been resolved. The region had its own police force, currency and army, and it operated strict border controls even though it was not recognised by the International Community. 'Not being recognised' by the International Community meant that apart from the International Community walking straight past you without nodding, they didn't bother to invite you to enter the Eurovision Song Contest, or allow you to have a national football team which could compete on the international stage. And so it was that Stroenco and Rogaciov played for 'Moldova' even though they came from the 'Transnistrian Moldavian Soviet Socialist Republic', a territory described to me as bandit country and a place which I should consider unsafe to visit.

  The other bit of bad news was that two recent transfers meant that Alexandru Curtianu was now playing his football for Zenit St Petersburg in Russia, and Marin Spynu was with a club in Israel.

  This might take longer than I thought,' I said with a wry smile.

  Yes,' said Andrei.

  Iulian remained silent.

  'Ill meet you tomorrow at ten at the Journalism Centre,' I said as we stood outside the bar, 'and the plan will be just to turn up at the headquarters of the football clubs.'

  Iulian nodded obediently and headed off into the Chisinau evening, his first day over with his new boss. I wondered what he had made of it all. He didn't look in the least bewildered. Perhaps he was good at dissembling.

  I couldn't really have chosen a more downmarket bar, but it was close by and it suited my purposes. I wanted to ruminate on the day's events over a beer before wandering back to the Journalism Centre where in an hour Corina and her husband Aurel would meet and drive me to the lodgings they'd arranged for me. The bar was grim and stark. Apart from two posters advertising Coke and Orbit chewing gum, there were no decorations anywhere. Totally incongruous House music blared from a radio which wasn't quite tuned in correctly. Behind the bar there was one shelf with a dozen or so bottles standing on it, a calendar and a big woman who would have struggled to meet the criteria for entry into Stringfellows.

  I ordered an Arc beer using a combination of vague Romanian and accurate pointing, and went and sat down at one of the four empty tables. The other customer, an old man crouched over a vodka at the end of the bar, looked up and viewed me suspiciously. Then he gathered himself, threw back the vodka in one swift action and marched out of the bar without ever breaking eye contact with the floor just in front of his shoes. I looked up at the barmaid and smiled. She immediately averted her eyes and went back to washing up some glasses. I took a sip of my beer and sat back pensively.

  A few minutes later another man ambled in. There was a short exchange at the bar and a vodka was poured. He took hold of the glass, threw the drink down his neck, turned around and walked straight out of the bar again. The whole transaction had taken no more than thirty seconds. Other imbibers followed at regular intervals. The fastest time was set by a big bloke in a leather jacket who managed to order, down his drink and be out of the bar in seventeen seconds flat I had been there fifteen minutes and was still only half way through my beer. No wonder I was getting funny looks. Theirs was not social drinking. There was no joy in this. People came into this bar to demolish drinks. No passing of the time of day, not even a nod which acknowledged the presence of anyone else; simply a quick fix and then out again. Nurse, give me something to deaden the pain.

  Presently a man with a ruddy complexion which divulged the nature of his favourite pastime, staggered over to me and muttered something. I shrugged and gave him my apologetic Romanian for 'I am from England':

  'Sunt din Anglia.'

  Then he did something odd. He smiled.

  'Sunt Moldovan,' he said, before wobbling out into the night.

  I looked up to see the barmaid smiling too. I felt good. Two smiles. As Corina had said that very morning, 'Nothing is impossible.'

  Darkness had fallen during the period of revelry in the bar. I started to walk back to the Journalism Centre, confused by something. This was odd. It seemed that the darkness was darker here in Moldova. It was, it was definitely darker here. How could that be? I looked up and around me to discover I was enveloped by an inky blackness. I could see nothing except for the reason why this was so. No streetlights. Not a light on anywhere. Behind me I heard breathing and, startled, I stopped and turned, only to feel a body brush past me. In the murky dimness I could just make out a woman carrying a shopping bag. I fumbled around in search of the pavement, which I was only able to do by taking advantage of the occasional moments of illumination provided by cars' headlights. Nervously I negotiated the two blocks back to the centre.

  'Is there a power cut?' I asked Corina from the back seat of the car, as we headed towards the home of the family where I was to stay.

  'No, it has been like this for four years now,' came the reply. The government is trying to save power by having no lighting in the streets.'

  Wow.'

  Yes, I suppose that you are surprised. We are used to it now. The worst thing about it is the manholes.'

  The manholes?'

  Yes, they have no covers, they are made of metal so organised gangs steal them and melt them down for profit.'

  'I see. Nice mix – pitch darkness and random holes in the ground.'

  'Yes, we have many injuries.'

  Corina registered my look of disbelief before continuing, You are lucky to be staying with Grigore and Dina, they have hot water – most of the flats in Chisinau don't have this or heating because of problems with the boilers and this power shortage.'

  I had become used to power always being available at the flick of a switch. I was yet to discover that much of my journey was to be taken up with learning how to cope without it.

  4

  Forty-three Ears

  At once, I liked them both very much. Grigore was in his early forties, dark, plumpish and with a neatly trimmed wispy moustache. His wife Dina had an elegant beauty which I guessed would have made her quite a catch in years gone by. Kindness was in their faces. They greeted me warmly, and though evidently weary, their eyes shone with a sense of being alive which had been so absent from many of the faces I had seen throughout the day. These were my landlords. Two doctors – you will like them. Typical Moldovan,' Corina had said. Their children stood proudly at their sides; 17-year-old Adrian, and just the sweetest little 11-year-old girl Elena. This was to be my family while I was here. Good, I liked the idea of this.

  Adrian and Elena went off to do their homework and I was left in the hallway with Dina, Grigore, and a huge communication problem. Grigore's linguistic skills covered Romanian, Russian and a little German while Dina spoke Romanian, Russian and knew a few French words. I spoke English and French. So, from our vast collective vocabularies we were reduced to scrabbling about in Dina's sparse lexicon of French in order to hobble towards any semblance of understanding.

  Things moved discouragingly slowly. Grigore said something to me in rapid fire Romanian and looked at me expecting a response as if I had understood him completely. I shook my head. Dina repeated the same sentence more slowly and this time I shook my head in such a way as to suggest that I was getting closer to understanding, even though I plainly wasn't. Then I took a guess and picked up my bag, thinking that they wanted to show me to my room. They waved at me to put it down, saying 'Nu, nu, nu, nu.' (From my extensive studies I knew that 'nu' meant 'no'.) Then Dina struggled with some French. It served no purpose other than making me feel very good about mine.

  Eventually the miming began. I took to this with ease as I already felt like a man walki
ng into the wind. Grigore made frantic gestures with his fingers near his mouth.

  'Ah!' I gushed in excited realisation. 'Do I want to eat?'

  'Da da!' exclaimed a relieved Grigore.

  From my extensive studies I knew that Dada was either an early twentieth-century international movement in art and literature repudiating conventions and intended to shock, or Romanian for 'Yes, yes'. I took an intelligent guess that the latter had been intended, and offered my very own 'Da' in authentic Romanian, adding in English,

  'I am hungry.'

  Grigore immediately responded at enormous speed in his native tongue. It was as if he felt that now we'd cleared the blockage caused by not knowing whether I was hungry or not, there was nothing to prevent a free-flowing dialogue from here on in. At the end of his long sentence I was too weary to try and communicate that I hadn't understood a bloody word of it, so I took a chance.

  'Da,' I said, in confident bluff.

  Grigore and Dina said nothing; in fact they looked a little shocked. I decided to change tack.

  'Nu,' I said, correcting myself.

  The two faces looked instantly relieved and Grigore laughed, picked up my bag, and lead me to my bedroom. To this day I do not know what he'd asked me. For all I know he could have said:

  'Are you intending to introduce my children to Western pornography, sleep with my wife and steal vintage brandy from my collection beneath the stairs?'

  'Nu' was the right answer to this one every time, even if you didn't really mean it.

  At dinner, for which Grigore opened a bottle of Moldovan white wine in honour of his new house guest, communication was a little easier because Elena was eating with us and she spoke incredibly good English for her age, picked up largely from watching American cartoons on television. The poor girl was under enormous pressure since all dialogue was relayed through her. The delay caused by waiting for the translations brought a weighty formality to proceedings. It was like we were delegates at a meeting of the United Nations. I suddenly became aware of the power of the interpreter, a power which could easily be abused. One had no choice but to trust that they were giving an accurate representation of your views. I wondered how many of the world's troubles had been caused by interpreters simply deciding to give their own spin on things: