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It was a sunny, late summer day. The plaza in the middle of town was buzzing: tourists marching out of the train station and large buses with bold words and pictures splashed on them. Tour guides and souvenir shop owners were scrambling for those tourists, reaching out and sputtering well-rehearsed phrases, some with notoriously bad English.
Gothic churches and medieval stone buildings dominated the downtown plaza, but none piqued the interest of the tourists as much as the famed Bran Castle, spooky home of Vlad the Impaler, a.k.a. Dracula. The funny thing was, according to most historians, Dracula had actually never stepped foot in this castle. But, like most other tour guides, Christian kept telling tourists about all the horrors that took place in the dungeons and that, because of the lack of written accounts from that era, no one could prove that Draculadidn’tcommit them with his own murderous hands. That was good enough for most tourists to dish out the hundred euros for the four-hour roundtrip on the minibuses.
Christian scanned around for a spot to park, exhaling slowly and trying to ignore the looks and comments his van always got when he drove into town. It was the one good thing about his engine being so loud—he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He slammed his hand against the center of the wheel, forcing the croaking horn to let out a blast. It scattered the gawkers, who waved their fists at him, their mouths moving like a TV show on mute.
The problem was the horn didn’t stop once he lifted his hand from the wheel.I need to stop honking like this, he told himself as the loud blare tore through the air, attracting all eyes to him. He smacked the steering wheel, hoping it would quiet. It didn’t. He frowned at how he must look to potential customers: a rickety, smoky bus bouncing down the road, honking ceaselessly.
Christian sighed and reached down the side of the wheel till his fingers grazed the group of exposed wires, most of which used to have a function but had now been snipped off. He connected the horn to the battery and the honking died.
The other fancy tour vans were parked in a line, which made it almost an act of war once the tourists came along. It was every tour guide for himself. Some of the more aggressive guides would approach the tourists and grab them by their arms, sweet-talking them until they were safely seated in their vans. Christian never did that; he thought it was harassment.
Christian parked his old bus along the row of colorful, semi-new, and downright fancy minivans. His creaked and spurted out thick smoke and backfired before coming to a halt. The other drivers, old bald Luca leading them, laughed at the sight of Christian.
“It’s smokin’ Chrisi,” Luca hollered, his round belly moving up and down with each laugh. He had a white towel draped around his sweaty neck, which he occasionally dabbed his face with. “Here to snatch all the tourists again?”
“It’s as ancient as this town,” another skinny guide in a polo shirt chimed in, glancing at Christian’s van. They all laughed.
Christian smiled and folded his arms. “Well, that means it fits right in, just like me, here to stay . . . forever.” Christian grinned. The other drivers stopped laughing. He knew what they really were doing. If they could get him to quit, it would be one less tour guide to battle with. Most of these jokers understood that if he had a better bus, they wouldn’t be able to compete with him: He was good with people, he knew his history, and his English was solid.
The train finally arrived and the guides, including Christian, became alert, like lions ready to pounce on unwitting prey. They started moving closer to the train station and the street that led to the plaza. After a few moments, a fresh swarm of tourists flooded out of the train. It was a diverse swarm, this round, filled with families, older couples with cameras hanging around their necks, and the golden ticket of the tour bus business: large Asian groups. Their faces were full of awe, their cameras constantly snapping, just begging to take in these sights that were oh-so-different from their own cities. But Christian’s bus was too small for them anyway, so he let the others jumped on them as he approached a middle-aged couple holding a travel guide with large red letters on it—Europe. The man had a suspicious look on his face as soon as he spotted Christian. His eyes went to his wife and the look intensified.
“How about a tour of my beautiful city? Dracula’s castle is not far from here,” Christian said with a smile, his English smooth and error-free. The woman blinked her long eyelashes and smiled at her husband, but the man grunted, regarding him closely.
“How much?” he asked in an American accent as he scratched his brown beard.
Christian opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Luca shouted out in broken English: “Hey Christian, are you sure your AC is fixed? It’ll get hot today.” He nodded up to the bright, cloudless blue sky. “Very hot,” he added, his bald head glittering like a polished bowling ball as he overdramatically wiped his white towel over his face.
“You don’t have AC?” the American man frowned and glared at Christian’s bus.
“No, but we won’t be staying in the bus all day, sir. And with the windows down—”
“How about I take your friends on a tour for you?” Luca chipped in innocently.
“Thank you, Luca, but I’ve got this,” Christian said.
The American tourist frowned. “Sorry my friend, but I need AC.”
Luca rushed over to his bus and opened the door. “My bus is temperature controlled and even has USB charger ports for you. Come along, I will split this fare with my good friend Christian for referring you.” Luca smirked at Christian, who could do nothing but watch helplessly as the couple followed Luca. Luca wouldn’t split anything with him, that was a bunch of bull.
Another client gone.Christian ran his hand through his hair.
He kept trying, each time using his charm and witticism on the prospective clients, but all that wouldn’t matter as soon as they saw his bus.
“Get yourself a better van, pal, and I’d love that tour of yours,” one tourist said with a friendly smile and gave him ten euros. Christian imagined how much the man would have paid if he’d been the one to take him to Bran castle. He knew his tours were better than Luca’s. He had studied at home for years to perfect his English and learn all the history of the region, but with a bus like this . . .
“Just one tour is all I need,” Christian kept telling himself while he waited, the sun hotter now and the town bustling with people. He felt a slight pang in his stomach—hunger—but ignored it. Now’s not the time, he told himself. Then he saw the group of women—or heard them. They were loud, laughing a lot, and speaking quickly. As expected, he was not the only one to notice the opportunity. Three other tour guides already swarmed around them like bees over a soda, but for some reason the five women brushed them away and headed straight for Christian. At first glance, they looked as if they were college students from abroad. They were colorfully dressed in short pants, tank tops, dresses, and lots of makeup, and they wouldn’t stop giggling. One of them, a tall blonde, had a bottle of vodka in one hand with her purse clutched in the other. Christian smiled; he liked seeing people out and enjoying their lives.
“Hey, pretty boy,” the tall blonde one said and came to a stop awkwardly close to him, her blue eyes sparkling as she checked him out. She turned around, her tight dress clasping her rounded frame, and shouted to the others: “What a village beauty!”
The other girls laughed and surrounded him with loud giggles and flushed faces.
“He’s such a cutie. Can we keep you?” another joked, taking a sip from a red plastic cup.
“A sexy cutie,” Christian heard from behind him and jolted when he felt a hand slip over his stomach. He stepped back so that the ladies were all in front of him. He gave them his charming smile and spoke politely.
“Hello ladies, how about a tour of Dracula’s castle? Its dungeon is—”
“Have a drink with us first,” the tall blonde one blurted out. The others hooted and laughed and held their cups up to his face, urging him to do just that. His smile remained plastered on his face. He’d seen this sort of thing before, tourists having a little too much fun. No harm done. He was sure he could handle it, and he needed the money.
