The Madonna on the Moon (56 page)

“You’ll have to be patient a little longer.” Stephanescu could hardly contain his pride and vanity. “The appointment won’t be official until tomorrow afternoon. But
when did you want to do the interview? Not right now, I hope?”

“No, not now. But it should be soon—tomorrow noon at the latest,” answered Fritz. “With a seven-hour time lag, the editors will have it on their desks at breakfast time.
Three days later your picture will be on display on every newsstand. And other magazines and newspapers will follow suit. All over the world. But we need an exclusive interview for the American
market. The boys from
Newsweek
are buzzing around here somewhere, too. You mustn’t grant them access until the day after tomorrow—I hope I can count on your cooperation? Would
two thousand dollars be acceptable as a fee for your time and trouble?”

“You Yanks are really smooth operators. Slick, really slick!” Stephanescu unbuttoned his sport jacket. He was back in a jovial mood. He emptied his brandy snifter in one swallow and
called for another bottle of Rémy. “You must forgive me—it’s the strain of the past few days. A revolution like this is also a war of nerves. Brutal, I’m telling you.
Lots of stress. At some point, you have to wash it all down. But about that exclusive interview—of course, that can be arranged. For you: anytime. The new cabinet is meeting tomorrow at noon.
Shall we say ten thirty? Here in the hotel? In my suite, so no one will disturb us.”

“Okay, at ten thirty then. And just one little tip while we’re on the subject. You don’t need to tell the
Newsweek
reporters about our little Q-and-A, ’cause if
you do, they’ll leave their dollars in their wallets. I suggest a down payment of five hundred.” Hofmann turned to Buba. “Angelique, take it out of the account for special
expenses if you don’t mind.”

Buba looked right and left and fidgeted uneasily with the gold cross between her breasts. “Too many men here,” she whispered to Stephanescu in feigned modesty. Then she discreetly
lifted the hem of her dress, reached slowly under her garter, and made a great show of coaxing out a few bills. Stephanescu stared at her thighs. When he didn’t take the money right away and
instead turned to yell at the dumbfounded waiter that he’d ordered champagne for the lady, not just Rémy, Buba Gabor knew that the fish had taken the bait. It was obvious that the hook
had also been set when Fritz and I rose from our seats and Buba gave the impression she was leaving as well.

“Must you leave so soon? I insist on treating you—treating you all, that is. Today, on this historic day. Besides, who doesn’t like to be among friends on Christmas?”

“To be honest, dear colleagues”—Buba played her role with amazing credibility—“I don’t really feel ready for bed yet. A glass of champagne after all that
excitement today—well, why not? And anyway, it’s nice and warm here. You need to know, Mr. Stephanescu, that there’s no heat in my room at the Interconti. It’s freezing
cold, atrociously cold. Meanwhile, my two colleagues can’t fall asleep because their rooms are so hot.” Buba was so convincing that she really had goose bumps on her arms. As the
intimidated waiter was uncorking the Dom Pérignon, Fritz and I took the opportunity to take our leave. We wished them good night, and Buba promised to catch a cab in an hour or two.

“Are you still cold, my dear? I hope you will permit me to address you as such?” Stephanescu stroked Buba’s arm almost paternally. She indicated she was feeling more
comfortable. Then he poured her a glass of champagne while he stuck with cognac. “A drop of the good stuff will warm you up. From France! I must tell you, I won’t stand for any
criticism of France. A perfect dream of a country—the cuisine, the wine, the culture. Montmartre, Sacré-Coeur, Pigalle.
Fantastique!
Paris!
Mon Dieu!
That’s
what the French say. But the women, they stick up their noses a bit too much, don’t you think, Angelique? Angelique—that sounds more French than Italian, doesn’t it?”

“My mother gave me that name. My friends call me Angie. It sounds more American. My father was Italian, but my mother’s from Paris. And I was born in that wonderful city but have
never lived there long. I’ve traveled all over Europe, always on the go. Madrid, London, Munich, sometimes here, sometimes there. Like a Gypsy.”

“I knew it! I could see it right away. You have some mysterious fire, a glow. Your husband must consider himself a lucky man.”

“Please! Let’s talk about something else.” Buba’s hoarse voice sank to a deep sigh. “Believe me, Mr. Stephanescu, that man was no . . . Let’s forget it. It
was a long time ago. He died a few years ago in a motorcycle accident.” Buba hurriedly crossed herself.

Stephanescu took her hand. She smelled his alcoholic breath. The acrid smoke from his cigarette made her tear up.

“After the shadows comes the light. Your American colleague said something like that. That’s absolutely right! But please, call me Stefan!
Mon Dieu!
A native
Parisienne
! Right here in the Paris of the East. I’ll tell you what, Angie: in all honesty”—Stephanescu refilled his snifter—“our Paris is dead. You should
have seen what it used to be like. But today is the day our people emerge from the shadow of the past. I will resurrect this city. I promise you, my dear, on the ruins the Conducator left us the
new Paris of the East will blossom. We’re going to live again!”

His tongue loosened by the cognac, Stephanescu had spoken so loudly that the men at neighboring tables started clapping and cheering at the words “Paris of the East.” A drunken
officer had the idea to strike up “The Internationale,” whereupon some took aim with their index fingers and yelled “Pow, pow, pow” while others thrust their right fists
into the air and bellowed, “So comrades, come rally, and the last fight let us fa-a-ace.” Stephanescu drank.

“Getting a little wild here. Maybe not a good place for a woman.”

Buba brushed her hair back and reached behind her with both hands to undo the chain and take off the golden cross. “It does bother me a little.” She smiled at him, picked up her
glass, and toasted him before drinking. Immediately he slid nearer to Buba, put his arm around her, and stared unabashedly at her cleavage. “It’s too loud in here for me, Stefan. And
too many eyes.” Beneath the table she ran her hand slowly up his leg and gently massaged his crotch. She felt his reaction and whispered, “Right now I need a real man who knows what he
wants.” By this time the man was staggering drunk but trembling with lust, and it took less than five minutes for them to reach the Presidential Suite of the Athenee Palace.

A quarter hour later he was sprawled naked and snoring on his bed with his underpants around his knees. Two long-stemmed glasses and an open champagne bottle from the minibar stood on the night
table. Buba hadn’t drunk any more. Stephanescu had emptied about half his glass, which was more than enough. Buba poured what was left into the toilet. Then she concealed the little bottle
with drops for fending off unwelcome advances in her bra again, picked up the house telephone, and dialed the reception desk.

Fritz and I were waiting in the black armchairs in the hotel lobby. Sooner than expected, the woman behind the desk announced, “Herr Hofmann, a call for you from the Presidential Suite.
I’m supposed to let you know that the photo session can take place as scheduled.”

The red illuminated numbers of the alarm clock built into the headboard of Stephanescu’s bed showed 1:28 a.m. as Fritz set about arranging the scene. I provided the props. I put a portrait
of the Conducator on the nightstand and shook up the bottle of champagne. Buba exposed her feminine charms to just the extent necessary and without a trace of shame. Knowing how interchangeable
reality and illusion were, she mounted Stephanescu’s prone form and leaned back with an expression of voluptuous ecstasy. With the remark, “Okay, that’s perfect,” Fritz
pressed his shutter release a half-dozen times. The flash caused Stephanescu’s closed eyes to twitch almost imperceptibly, but that was all.

While Buba and I lay wide awake with exhaustion in Fritz Hofmann’s room in the Interconti, the night staff of the newspaper
Voice of Truth
considered it their duty to help out the
international photojournalist. Although the technical capacities of their in-house photo lab were limited, Hofmann was able to develop the film, get usable negatives, and produce some prints he
found very satisfactory. Then he had them ring up the editor in chief out of a sound sleep—a man who had published a courageous editorial in which he didn’t conceal his preference for
the engineer Ion Iliescu as head of state instead of Stephanescu, whom he labeled an opportunist. The widely respected editor was a man of few words. He took a look at the photos and said only,
“Professional job. He won’t survive this. We’ll drop this bombshell day after tomorrow on page one.”

On Monday, December 26, shortly after 10:30 a.m., Buba was already on her way to her uncle Dimitru when armed militiamen accompanied Fritz and me into the elevator leading to the suite on the
top floor of the Athenee Palace. Dr. Stefan Stephanescu opened the door. He was alone and looked hungover. He offered us seats in a grouchy voice, making no attempt to hide his foul mood.
“Where’s your Italian colleague?”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“A woman, Italy, and punctuality . . . Forget it,” Fritz said. “Angelique must have gotten to bed pretty late last night.”

“She didn’t show up for breakfast anyway,” I added. “I guess we can take care of the interview without her.”

“Then shoot. But keep it short. I don’t have as much time as I thought.”

Fritz Hofmann spared Stephanescu any more wasted time. “Dr. Stephanescu, your opponents have attacked your past politics. Let’s take a look back. During the developmental phase of
Socialism you were in charge of collectivization in Walachia. You are said to have put down rebellious farmers with a heavy hand. Today, you’re leading the people’s revolution.
Aren’t those two things incompatible?”

“I’m glad you asked. It gives me the chance to clear up a few things. Yes, I was a genuine believer in the idea of collectivization. No question about it. I’d never deny it.
But do you have any idea how dirt-poor the smallholders were after the war? Did you see the appalling lot of the mothers? Did you look into the eyes of the starving children? We had an obligation
to do something about it. Socialism! Wealth for everyone! Yes, indeed, that’s what we in the party believed. I parroted Marx myself. But in Walachia, I always trusted in the power of the
word. Persuading the people to accept the inevitable, ideological education—call it what you will, even propaganda for all I care. But the work was important, and it was the right thing to
do. The problem was President Gheorghiu-Dej. He yielded to Soviet pressure from Moscow—too much for my taste. The Little Stalin they used to call him—just so you know. And it’s
true, there were some unpleasant cleanup operations. You have to break eggs to make an omelet. I never liked that proverb, by the way. But what was I supposed to do? I was young, an idealist if you
will. Fresh from the university with a degree in economics, but still a political greenhorn. Worst of all, I didn’t have any influential friends who thought the same way. And as you know,
there’s strength in numbers.”

“I don’t quite understand. You seem to have had no lack of political cover; otherwise how could you have had such an impressively rapid rise? If our information is correct, as party
chief in Kronauburg you were the youngest district secretary in the country. You had that post for more than thirty years. And this afternoon you’re going to be named prime
minister.”

“Correct. I got a lot done during my time in Kronauburg. Cleared away a lot of sleazy bureaucracy. Administrative efficiency, new jobs in the agro-industrial complex in Apoldasch,
optimization of the food supply and nutrition, etc., etc., etc. The town of Kronauburg was flourishing. So was the entire district. Let’s not forget the new schools either, even in the
remotest mountain hamlet. Children are our future. I came up with that slogan myself, if I may be a little immodest. Feel free to confirm it. All of which is to say, without meaning to boast, that
I was popular with the people. That’s one of the reasons why the leadership was hesitant to cut me out. They kept my flame turned low, but they couldn’t extinguish it
completely.”

As Fritz Hofmann nodded in agreement, and I also showed that I understood his plight, Stephanescu’s initial grumpy hangover gave way to a verbosity on autopilot. He stood up, walked over
to the minibar, and got out a glass and an already open bottle. We declined the proffered drink. As Stephanescu took his first swallow, I knew we had our enemy where we wanted him. Dr. Stephanescu
smiled. He thought he was on solid ground.

“
Konjaki
Napoleon. Not the best brand, but it drives out the ghosts of the past. Ghosts I admit to being haunted by as well. But let’s keep going. The central role I played
in the development of the Kronauburg District was talked about in the capital, especially after the catastrophic floods. The Tirnava River destroyed wide swaths of the countryside. When I was able
to get a dam and hydroelectric plant built in record time, thus securing electric power even in the remotest regions of the mountains, I gained more influence in the party. I was even mentioned as
a candidate for the post of minister of the interior. But with the rise of the Conducator, the atmosphere changed. He took all the credit for the hydroelectric project and arrived by helicopter for
the dedication. Cheering crowds surrounded him. From then on, he put nothing but stumbling blocks in my path. New roads, bridges, construction projects—nothing got approved by the Central
Committee. The taps were gradually turned off. And you know why? You can’t have missed seeing the Conducator’s gigantic palace, all covered in gingerbread. He had half the center of our
wonderful Paris of the East torn down to make room for it. You can imagine how much of the people’s money was thrown away on that. I was always against that pompous pile. But take it from me:
the voice of reason counted for nothing in our delusionary dictatorship. The individual was powerless. All opposition was quashed. The Conducator and his unspeakable wife couldn’t stand
having anyone beside them.”