Capsia was busier than ever. Most of the tables were taken, and the waiters skimmed along the deep blue carpets as if their shoes had invisible wheels.
Impassive at his post the Maître d’Hôte greeted us. He took Leo’s bag and the jar, which I now saw was Iranian caviar. Obviously one of the Comrade’s staff had done some shopping in Tehran. When Leo asked him what he recommended this evening he replied solemnly and with no hint of irony, ‘The lobster, sir, it is very fresh,’ and whisked his trawl to the kitchens.
We were shown to Leo’s private function room, unofficially known as the ‘Labis Room’, after the young dissident poet Nicolae Labis, who, after a night of drinking and daring political talk in 1956, stumbled and was decapitated by a tram just outside Capsia. Leo had asked for it specifically.
In the main dining room apparatchiks and
nomenklatura
eyed both each other and each other’s plates. A senior policeman in full uniform sat with three men in suits, an interpreter and some North Koreans in military dress, while a group of Arabs sipped Fanta from plastic bottles wedged into ice buckets. At a table near the string quartet the minister for work was softening up another scared adolescent for his under-table lunge. Nearby, behind calico screens, were tables of people so senior each had their own waiter. One of these, I learned later, was General Milea, the army chief of staff, in the process of making his greatest and last mistake.
In the Labis Room a long oval table was set in fin-de-siècle style. A fire burned, the red wine breathed and the cheeses sweated. Ozeray and Maltchev arrived first, followed a few minutes later by Professor and Mrs Ionescu and Rodica without her husband.
Ottilia joined us soon after. She kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear, ‘It’s bad – bodies are coming in from Timişoara. Dozens of them… so far. Campanu says they’re dumping them at the morgue and cremating them, piling them into the incinerators…’
Leo tapped his glass three times.
‘Friends! Let me thank you all for coming. As many of you are aware, these are my last few days. My last few days in this epoch of light, my last few days basking in the last few rays….
ah
, I hear you ask,
whose last few rays, that’s the question, Leo’s or this luminous epoch’s
?’
Nervous laughter. Ionescu scanned the room in panic, trying to calculate who might be tonight’s Securitate plant. Satisfied that the likeliest candidate was himself, he relaxed. A few Party people had come, but I knew Leo had invited them as insurance for himself and for his friends – he had the lowdown on their corruption, since he had been its principal conduit. Leo’s tactic was never to exclude people if they could be implicated instead.
Ottilia nudged me and nodded towards Maltchev who stood at the edge of the crowd checking his pager and listening to something through a concealed earpiece. We knew there was something significant going on, but that was different from knowing what it signified. We sifted through portents, read the tea leaves, pored over the omens without ever knowing what they meant. Everything had a double meaning; you just never knew if what you had grasped was the meaning or its double.
Leo called me over. ‘Where’s Trofim? Give him a ring. See what’s holding him up.’
‘I’m not sure I’ve got the stomach for this “celebration” tonight.’ Ottilia joined me when Leo had gone. ‘It’s not right that we’re stuffing ourselves and drinking and pretending it’s all a joke when there’s people getting killed around us.’
‘I’m not sure anyone has the stomach,’ I replied. ‘Look…’ Maltchev was reaching for his barely portable phone. ‘I’ll get hold of Sergiu for Leo and then we’ll go home.’ The phone near the kitchens was broken so I turned down into the corridor and past the storerooms. At the very back I came upon the door to the wine cellar. I smelled earth and cobwebs. The door was open and the Maître d’ looked up at me silently, holding a paraffin lantern which swung its light across the bottles. Before I could ask about the phone he pointed to a door I had missed on my way down. He closed the cellar door behind him. I heard the sound of animated talking, smelled the familiar fug of Carpati in a cramped, unventilated room. I had passed this room without noticing it. The waiters’ rest room. There must be a phone in there.
The talking stopped as soon as I entered. The smoke stung my eyes. My hand, which lingered on the handle, was seized and the door slammed shut. I had time to see people crowded around a table, some in military uniform, others in suits or jeans. A man I did not recognise sat at the head of the table, unshaven, with thin dark hair and a tanned face. He wore a check shirt and no jacket or tie and though the least well-dressed he was obviously the one in charge. Before I registered any more, someone had pulled my wrists together and was holding them fast with one hand, while pressing the base of my neck and grinding my face into the wall with the other. I did not need to see behind me to know the room was full, and not of waiters.
‘What the fuck were you doing, Andrei? Dozing again?’
‘Sorry boss,’ came the voice behind me, ‘I’d gone for cigarettes and when I came back he was just opening the door.’ Andrei had his face up against mine. His breath smelled of raw garlic and Carpati.
‘Great. What happens now?’ A different voice, then silence. Finally a chair scraped against the floor and footsteps came towards me. There was a touch on my shoulder. My captor loosened his grip. ‘Get him out of here, Sergiu.’ I recognised Manea Constantin, alert and edgy. ‘It’s all right, we’ll deal with this.’ I should have been reassured but I wasn’t. Then came Trofim’s voice at my back, guiding me through the door, telling me not to turn around.
Back in the corridor I rubbed my neck. Trofim had my arm, ostensibly for support but it was myself I felt sagging as we walked. ‘Do not ask,’ said Trofim before I opened my mouth, ruthless beneath the kind smile, the bright, amused eyes. ‘Now let us help Leo with his official send-off.’
Leo’s party had run aground. Maltchev had returned, and stood with his back to the fireplace watching the door. He stopped talking when we came in and looked at Trofim, who nodded very gently. Maltchev had his cue. ‘I have received reports tonight, minutes ago, that there is a full-scale uprising in Timişoara and that it is spreading. There are rumours, unconfirmed, of a great many deaths. The security forces are shooting to kill. Witnesses are talking about live ammunition, tanks and tear gas. It is a very bloody night.’
Leo stood to Maltchev’s right, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. The food and drink lay untouched on the table. I felt the fear and apprehension in the room, but also rage and something like desperation – a sense that we were stepping into the beyond.
Ottilia rose from the table. ‘I spoke to Campanu at the morgue earlier… he said he’d received bodies, dozens, with more to come… most had been shot, but he said there were signs of torture too… they’re being cremated in the night…’
Maltchev again: ‘It’s gathering momentum: Arad, Sânnicolau Mare, Oradea… anti-Ceauşescu demonstrations. In Brasov a group calling itself the New Workers’ Council has called a general strike. The ringleaders have been arrested but the strike is holding. Right across the country the unrest is spreading.’
Trofim spoke now, calmly pouring himself a drink and walking to Maltchev’s side. ‘The president is still in Iran, but will cut short his stay and return to Bucharest tomorrow. He does not believe these demonstrations are against him. He has been told that they are protests about wages and rations and he thinks he will be able to resolve them. We will see. At present, it is Elena who has taken over, and she has given specific orders for the security apparatus to respond to unrest. We have seen that response.’
‘That’ll be why General Milea is eating quails in the next room,’ Leo chipped in. ‘Has he been sacked or what? Does the fat sod even know what’s going on?’
‘I am not sure the General is master of his destiny right now,’ said Trofim ambiguously. ‘It is becoming clear that what Ceauşescu is doing to the country is not being done in the name of the Party, and I cannot imagine that the Party as a whole is behind the latest torrent of repression.’ He turned to Maltchev for confirmation. Maltchev nodded.
I knew what Trofim meant. I had just walked in on a crisis meeting between dissident communists like Trofim and members of the Party high command like Manea Constantin: The National Salvation Front. The rest of those in the Labis Room, better attuned to doublespeak than me, grasped it immediately. Ozeray raised a glass to his mouth, the diplomat’s way of hiding a reaction. Ionescu smiled, seeing the restoration of his old job ahead, which, coupled with the prestige of the injustice he had suffered, would make him an unstoppable force once back in place. Turda Technical College would be getting a brace of new janitors soon enough.
Though everyone knew what Trofim meant, Leo was the only one ready to question him. ‘
The Party
… what you mean, Comrade, is that the rats are deserting the sinking ship, isn’t that right? But all they’re going to do is regroup somewhere else, hose down the decks a little – Christ, I can’t seem to shake off these bloody nautical metaphors – then back to business as usual…’
‘I have no knowledge of any such plan, Leo.’ Trofim glanced at me and I looked away, ‘I am speaking in a personal capacity which, as you know, is an isolated and…’
‘Sergiu, I don’t for a moment believe that, but if it makes it easier for you, I’ll say no more. What I do know is that all of you Party hacks have something invested in the system. What’s the old Romanian saying?
New brothel, same old whores
…’
‘What you are suggesting, Leo, is without foundation. I have no idea of any plans. I am as they say “out of the loop”, but I was permitting myself to speculate…’
Leo cut him off. ‘Some speculation. You think we don’t know? For one thing, you’re meant to be under house arrest, and yet you’re here, getting more attention than you were as UN ambassador…! What does that tell us? Right across the country they’re rising up and getting shot, the army’s on alert, troops are coming in under cover of darkness… but Sergiu Trofim’s suddenly got himself carte blanche to visit his chums in Capsia, and all day the black Dacias line up outside his flat… “out of the loop”, eh?’
‘Now come on, Leo!’ Maltchev interjected.
‘And as for Sergei Maltchev here, well, there’s another story for the historians to unpick – I don’t suppose Comrade Maltchev knows anything about the sudden influx of Russian “tourists” in Timişoara and Cluj and Brasov? In Bucharest you can’t move for Russkis – what are they doing here? Christmas shopping?’ Leo was right – the last two weeks had seen a suspicious rise in Russian visitors to Romanian towns and cities. Young, single men with cars, cameras and lots of dollars, none of them resembled ordinary tourists.
Ozeray stepped forward. ‘I think we have all speculated enough. Tonight’s occasion was to mark Leo’s departure, the departure of a good friend who has kept us entertained, sometimes endangered, always well-supplied…’ Leo raised his hands in surrender and beckoned Trofim and the others to table. Maltchev was still smarting from Leo’s accusations, but let it go.
Ottilia took my arm and whispered, ‘I can’t take any more of this. I want to go home.’
I tried to catch Leo’s eye but he was in the thick of things, shaking hands and raising glasses, ringing the bell for service. Ottilia and I left the room as the first course was arriving on trolleys: lobster thermidor. I had time to hear the gasp of amazement as the creatures were wheeled in, and Leo boasting that he had caught them himself.
The Maître d’ raised his eyebrows as he held the door open for us, discreetly surprised to see us leave. He offered to call a black-market cab but we declined.
It was a mistake. The state-owned taxis had shut and there were no buses. We began the long walk home in the snow. A few black Dacias were parked sufficiently far away from the restaurant to look as if they were not waiting.
‘Leo…’ said Ottilia as we crossed Piaţa Republica roundabout, ‘won’t he be angry? It’s his farewell dinner. We shouldn’t be missing it.’
‘Leo’s not going anywhere. He’s got his ticket but that doesn’t mean anything. They’ll have to drag him through the airport… besides, he doesn’t think it’s going to happen… you know Leo, he’ll find a way round, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a letter waiting for him at home, from Ceauşescu himself, telling him he can stay…’
‘He really believes it, doesn’t he? That between now and tomorrow afternoon it’s all going to change?’
‘I don’t know, maybe it’s just bluff, but I know he’s not intending to be on that plane tomorrow.’
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘What plane will you be on?’
‘The same one as you, I hope. Leo’s getting you a passport. It’ll be ready in time.’
‘We’ve discussed this…’
‘No we haven’t. You’ve said you weren’t leaving, that’s not the same as us actually
discussing
it…’
We were interrupted outside the Atheneum by a policeman asking for ID. Ottilia looked relieved to see him. He shone a torch into our faces and examined our papers, taking down our details, and keeping Ottilia’s back. The snow was falling in flakes thick as blotting paper. ‘Present yourself at the central police headquarters between 8 and 9 am tomorrow. Your papers will be returned then.’ I saw from his face that he was calling out, but it came to us as little more than a whisper as wind and snow drowned him out.
At home the gas and electricity were cut off, the cold and darkness so thick it was as if the flat had never been lived in. I struck a match, lit a candle and we groped our way towards the centre of the living room, where I fed a flame to the small butane heater. It gave off enough light to see ourselves by. The radio had batteries at least – we could hear the news – but as I put out my hand to switch it on Ottilia took my wrist.
‘Please don’t. I don’t
want
to hear any more, any more rumours, any more speculation. I don’t want to know what’s happening…’ I followed her into the bedroom, holding the gas heater carefully in front of me, and put it beside the bed. We stripped in the freezing darkness and made love in the dark, holding each other until the gas ran out and the sweat turned to ice on our bodies. Then we got up and dressed like people getting ready for work and climbed back into bed to sleep. The National Salvation Front made its first official declaration that night. By the morning, Radio Moscow and Radio Free Europe had paper copies, in which they constituted themselves an official democratic political party, called on Ceauşescu to resign or on the Communist Party to depose him, and declared their support for the uprisings in Timişoara and elsewhere. In Timişoara meanwhile reports claimed hundreds of deaths. Workers at the Timis petrochemical plant had issued an ultimatum to the army: join us or leave the city; otherwise we blow up the factory and most of the town.