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"I sought out the people I used to enjoy a drink with after work. Most of them have left, and those who have stayed complain all the time about a constant feeling of insecurity. I walked past some of my old haunts, and I felt like a stranger, as if nothing there belonged to me anymore. The worst of it was that my dream of one day returning gradually disappeared when I found myself back in the city where I was born. Even so, I needed to make that visit. The songs of exile are still there in my heart, but I know now that I'll never again live in Lebanon. In a way, the days I spent in Beirut helped me to a better understanding of the place where I live now, and to value each second that I spend in London."
"What are you trying to tell me, Dad?"
"That you're right. Perhaps it really would be best to understand those blank spaces. We can look after Viorel while you're away."
He went to the bedroom and returned with the yellow file containing the adoption papers. He gave them to Sherine, kissed her, and said it was time he went to work.
HERON RYAN, JOURNALIST
For a whole morning in 1990, all I could see from the sixth-floor window of the hotel was the main government building. A flag had just been placed on the roof, marking the exact spot where the megalomaniacal dictator had fled in a helicopter only to find death a few hours later at the hands of those he had oppressed for twenty-two years.
In his plan to create a capital that would rival Washington, Ceausescu had ordered all the old houses to be razed to the ground. Indeed, Bucharest had the dubious honor of being described as the city that had suffered the worst destruction outside of a war or a natural disaster.
The day I arrived, I attempted to go for a short walk with my interpreter, but in the streets I saw only poverty, bewilderment, and a sense that there was no future, no past, and no present: the people were living in a kind of limbo, with little idea of what was happening in their country or in the rest of the world. When I went back ten years later and saw the whole country rising up out of the ashes, I realized human beings can overcome any difficulty, and that the Romanian people were a fine example of just that.
But on that other gray morning, in the gray foyer of a gloomy hotel, all I was concerned about was whether my interpreter would manage to get a car and enough petrol so that I could carry out some final research for the BBC documentary I was working on. He was taking a very long time, and I was beginning to have my doubts. Would I have to go back to England having failed to achieve my goal? I'd already invested a significant amount of money in contracts with historians, in the script, in filming interviews, but before the BBC would sign the final contract, they insisted on me visiting Dracula's castle to see what state it was in. The trip was costing more than I expected.
I tried phoning my girlfriend but was told I'd have to wait nearly an hour to get a line. My interpreter might arrive at any moment with the car and there was no time to lose, and so I decided not to risk waiting.
I asked around to see if I could buy an English newspaper, but there were none to be had. To take my mind off my anxiety, I started looking, as discreetly as I could, at the people around me drinking tea, possibly oblivious to everything that had happened the year before--popular uprisings, the cold-blooded murder of civilians in Timisoara, shoot-outs in the streets between the people and the dreaded secret service as the latter tried desperately to hold on to the power fast slipping from their grasp. I noticed a group of three Americans, an interesting-looking woman who was, however, glued to the fashion magazine she was reading, and some men sitting round a table, talking loudly in a language I couldn't identify.
I was just about to get up yet again and go over to the entrance to see if my interpreter was anywhere to be seen, when she came in. She must h
ave been a little more than twenty years old. She sat down, ordered some breakfast, and I noticed that she spoke English. None of the other men present appeared to notice her arrival, but the other woman interrupted her reading.
Perhaps because of my anxiety or because of the place, which was beginning to depress me, I plucked up my courage and went over to her.
"Excuse me, I don't usually do this. I always think breakfast is the most private meal of the day."
She smiled, told me her name, and I immediately felt wary. It had been too easy--she might be a prostitute. Her English, however, was perfect, and she was very discreetly dressed. I decided not to ask any questions and began talking at length about myself, noticing as I did so that the woman at the next table had put down her magazine and was listening to our conversation.
"I'm an independent producer working for the BBC in London, and, at the moment, I'm trying to find a way to get to Transylvania..."
I noticed the light in her eyes change.
"...so that I can finish the documentary I'm making about the myth of the vampire."
I waited. This subject always aroused people's curiosity, but she lost interest as soon as I mentioned the reason for my visit.
"You'll just have to take the bus," she said. "Although I doubt you'll find what you're looking for. If you want to know more about Dracula, read the book. The author never even visited Romania."
"What about you, do you know Transylvania?"
"I don't know."
That was not an answer, perhaps it was because English--despite her British accent--was not her mother tongue.
"But I'm going there too," she went on. "On the bus, of course."
Judging by her clothes, she was not an adventuress who sets off round the world visiting exotic places. The idea that she might be a prostitute returned; perhaps she was trying to get closer to me.
"Would you like a lift?"
"I've already bought my ticket."
I insisted, thinking that her first refusal was just part of the game. She refused again, saying that she needed to make that journey alone. I asked where she was from, and there was a long pause before she replied.
"Like I said, from Transylvania."
