Lit by candles, and by two small mirrored oil lamps, the room is like a cave, warm and red; all flaws of damp and age hidden in the half-light. A child laughs, low and gurgling.
Feet in black-laced shoes spin round: little clumsy feet, round and round and round, stumbling slightly on the spot. His eyes are bound by a woman’s patterned cotton scarf; his straight black hair falls in a lick across it as he laughs in excitement and fear, his familiar world darkened for the game. He is dizzy now, and giggling; then, very suddenly, the hands which have been twirling him are removed and he is still.
‘Now you must count to ten before you start.’
‘One, two, three, four …’
‘Too fast!’
‘One … two … three … four …’
After ten he gropes forward, moving like a sleepwalker, the known transposed, the level slanting beneath his feet. His hands paw the air. But she is not here – or here.
Just a few feet away, in the opposite direction, she is creeping backwards, instinctively exaggerating all movements like a character in a cartoon. When she reaches the low divan she bends, raises the woven blanket which covers it, and crawls beneath, pulling it over her head. Now the little mirrors behind the wall-lamps reflect a tiny, convex world, containing only one living thing – the child who stands hesitantly, arms outstretched.
‘Mama?’
A spring creaks.
He turns towards the sound, where the shrouded lumpy shape shakes with hidden laughter. Tottering forward, he reaches the divan sooner than he expects and half-falls on it, feeling the soft outline of her – then prodding and tickling. He tears off the blindfold and jumps on her, screaming with laughter. ‘Mama – you cheated, you hid!’
Breathless, helpless with laughter, she allows him to tickle her, then at last turns the tables, rolling over so that they both lurch to the floor in a tangle of woven material. She sits astride him, tickling him mercilessly until tears are squeezed from the corners of his eyes and he squeaks, ‘Stop it, please stop!’
‘Yes – but only if you promise to be good. You promise?’
He nods, in mock fear.
She pulls him to his feet, then bends down, smiling and still out of breath, her hands on his shoulders, face a bare two inches from his. ‘Now, Ionica, I think it’s time for your presents.’
Under sagging bookshelves on the wall is a small table set with five orange gladioli in a glass vase, and ten thin yellow tapers, stuck with their own wax to a strip of wood. ‘Now, see if you can count them in English for me, Ion.’
‘One, two, three, five, six, seven, eight, ten.’ He frowns, puzzled at the two candles that are left.
‘What a little boy!’
‘But I’m ten, Mama!’
‘Try again.’
This time he counts correctly.
Three small parcels, wrapped in brown paper, lie on the table. On each one is written a large letter in pencil. I and O and N. In front of them, lying flat, are two white envelopes addressed to ‘Ion Popescu’.
With a ceremonial flourish she sits him down in the chair, and for a few seconds he stares at the display – unwilling to disturb it. But she pushes a card towards him, and he opens it carefully. On cheap, greyish paper, cut roughly at the edges, is a vivid painting of a small boy with black hair, astride a dragon flying over the moon, a kite floating in the air behind him, tiny white sheep in the green field far beneath. He looks at it in astonishment, touching it with a finger.
‘It’s from Radu,’ she says. ‘It must be from Radu and Doina. He painted it himself, Ion.’
‘They always remember,’ he says, standing the card by the tapers and examining it gravely. ‘Radu made it for me. Isn’t he clever! I wish I could paint like that!’
‘You will, Ionica.’
Then he picks up the other card. This one is bought; a line drawing of some rabbits, with the words ‘Joyous Greetings’ in French and in Romanian, in fine script above them. ‘It’s lovely,’ he says. ‘Thank you, Mama.’
Again he pauses before picking up the first present; everything must be prolonged, no moment of anticipation lost through impatience. Very slowly he untucks the ends of the little package, to reveal a plastic paintbox – the size of his hand. ‘I needed some paints, now I can make a picture – as good as Radu’s!’
She nods and pushes the second parcel towards him: this one is an awkward shape. It contains a small motorbike, orange plastic, ridden by a black plastic man. He grins and pushes it around the table, making motorbike noises.
‘It’s not much, but … well, now open the last one, Ion – quickly!’
He seizes the package (this is the largest of the three) – pulls off the paper, and draws in his breath. There in his hand is a brightly coloured package of sugar-coated chocolate sweets – M & M’s. He looks up at her, awestruck and speechless, then utters one word, half-questioning, half-exclaiming: ‘Mama!’