HEADING WEST

AFTER A RUDIMENTARY security check, he stepped into the international departures zone as if he were walking through an open door. He sat down on a bench in the waiting area and watched the procession of tall young women walking arm in arm with their nouveau riche boyfriends. His fingers were just itching to have some fun, but he restrained himself. He pulled a newspaper from his knapsack and hid behind the day’s headlines.

The plane stunk of kerosene and stale urine, but he had come to love takeoffs, when the whole plane shuddered and the stewardesses held themselves stiffly in their seats with well-practised composure. He slept on and off during the flight — not much, but deeply.

Kolia stepped onto Romanian soil at 10 p.m. on July 20, 1995. It was 31 degrees Celsius in Bucharest. A young woman thrust a glossy pamphlet at him. It was written in English, and apart from the words InterContinental Hotel and Casino, the text was incomprehensible. He dropped it on the ground, which was already covered with them.

He hailed a taxi and handed the driver the address of his hotel, which he had written on a piece of paper. It was a good distance from the city centre. The driver spoke to him in English, and Kolia answered in Russian. Kolia could see the man’s unease in the rear-view mirror. He switched to French and the driver’s mood brightened immediately — he switched off the meter. The ride was free.

“Why have you come to Bucharest?”

“To visit a sick friend.”

“A Romanian?”

“No.”

Kolia did his best to put on a smile.

“My name is Mihail.”

“Kolia.”

“Are you French or Russian?”

“Russian.”

“Your hotel used to belong to the Party. It was a pretty chic place in the ’70s. But now . . . well, it’s okay.”

“It’ll do.”

“If you need a cab, call me.”

As they crossed the city, Mihail gave Kolia a history lesson. He knew Bucharest like the back of his hand, even in the dark. He dropped him off in front of the Hotel Casă Cotorgeanu and handed him a box of matches with his phone number scribbled on it. The hotel looked like a bunker. The beige tower had been built in the same constructivist style that characterized much of Bucharest’s recent architecture. It was all too familiar. He checked in at the front desk, headed straight up to his room, and jumped in the shower. When Kolia turned on the faucets, the water was rust coloured, and he waited until it ran clear. There was no soap, so he made do with a bottle of shampoo. Toilet paper was provided, but he noticed that the roll was almost at its end. He’d need a lot more than that if he wound up contracting a bug from the not-so-pristine water he was bathing himself in. He kept his mouth shut.

He pulled on a clean pair of black jeans and a crisp white shirt, rolling the sleeves up to his elbows.

With his hair still wet and his stomach grumbling, he sought out the hotel restaurant. Despite the late hour, it was still open. The dining room was located in a huge ballroom which had been stripped of all embellishment and felt more like a gymnasium. There were large round tables scattered here and there with no apparent logic.

“Room number?” a young woman asked gruffly in English.

“Pardon?” Kolia responded in French.

He had decided not to risk speaking Russian for the rest of his stay.

“Your room number,” the waitress said again, this time in French and much more warmly.

Mihail had mentioned the contempt he had for freeloading locals who hung around restaurants like the plague.

“Room 18.”

“Bon appétit, monsieur,” she said, gesturing towards the buffet.

He helped himself to a few juiceless slices of tomato, a thick slice of ham, a bread roll, and some cubes of cheese. He poured a cup of tea and looked around the room. The ceiling was at least five metres high. There were huge square-paned windows that must have taken hours to clean. The mottled concrete floor undoubtedly took a beating when local big shots started pelting it with plates and glasses, after one too many. There were about a dozen customers scattered here and there — mostly businessmen from Ukraine and Bulgaria, and an American. Not one woman. Kolia ate in silence in the light of a faux candle that was baking a fly to the tablecloth.

The next day, he got up at daybreak and caught the first taxi he could flag. Once it reached the centre of the city, he got out and started looking for the address that Schaeffer had given him. The building, if it was still there, was located only a few streets away from the Piaţa Revoluţiei, where the December Revolution had taken place six years earlier. He stopped at a currency exchange, and then continued past the stately Casă Monteoru, until he found the address he was looking for. The building was framed by two massive trees and looked like it had been plucked out of Paris in the 1800s, but it no longer offered accommodation. It was a beauty salon. Facials, hair removal, Swedish massage, and permanent makeup. He decided not to go in, but took a picture, without really knowing why, and then turned around and headed back the way he came.

The city was submerged in a humid smog that made the simple act of walking onerous. He flagged a passing taxi and returned to the hotel. He called Schaeffer. When the German heard what had become of the sleazy hotel where he and Iosif had lived, he burst out laughing. Kolia asked him for the name of the cemetery where Iosif was buried. Schaeffer’s laughter exploded out of the receiver again, he choked on his cigarette and started coughing uncontrollably. He took a moment to get his breath back and swore in German. Kolia waited patiently for his response. The call was costing him the equivalent of a restaurant meal.

“Kolia, you’re looking for a mass grave.”