Lost Footsteps Read online

  Ana had been young, twenty, still a student of English in Timişoara, and the translating work was useful, when it came. The man was in his thirties, an American archaeologist working at London University, on a field trip to study Romano-Dacian sites at Sintabdrei and Lapusnic. Ana liked him; he gave her Marlboro cigarettes and told her about London, and both of them recognized the inevitability of an affair. In his room at the Continental (which seemed luxurious to Ana, even though Robert Baker complained about it) they made love, then smoked and talked, then made love again; and afterwards Ana lolled in his bath, surveying the one or two desirable bottles and sprays that lined the shelf. He laughed when she splashed on aftershave, but Ana inhaled the spicy, sharp fragrance greedily, as if it could make her head rush like nicotine. That time, and the times afterwards Robert had been careful to use a condom, of course, and after a few days Ana lost her shyness, even laughing as he put it on. But on his last night the packet was empty.

  Then he went away, kissing her casually and promising he would write. Ana shrugged; she wanted no more than she had had: the cigarettes, the conversation – the brief respite. She had not fantasized about marrying a foreigner like so many girls she knew; nor did she have any illusions about the nature of love. But then she discovered she was pregnant, and wandered alone by the opera house, and through the parks along the canal, dreading telling her aunt. Yet strangely, after the fear and the despair came a swelling of something else inside her, an independence that grew like the unborn child. Whatever happened, she knew she would never be alone again. First it was mother, and then father … lost forever. But now – she would make this unknown person, him or her, and there would, at last, be something – someone – who would be her own. For the first time in her life Ana felt a flicker of power, as well as a love that was close to sickness.

  Even now she would sometime pull Ion to her, clutching him so passionately that he would cry out and pull away, half laughing, half in protest.

  They tried to make me give you up. They said I couldn’t keep you. They said it would be better for you in an orphanage. Ion. They, they, they: Aunt and Uncle, their neighbours, teachers, friends. All except Radu – and Doina too. Radu told me to keep you, Ion. I remember it clearly; he said, ‘When you live in a prison the only consolation is creating love.’ He splashed green paint across his canvas, and told me that my unborn child would be a green child; colour of youth and growth and change. Compounded of blue and yellow, heaven and earth combined, green is the mystic colour, the colour of the renewal of life and resurrection. All this in you, Ionica? Of course …

  She carried in the tea, and set the bread on the small wooden table.

  Ion sawed at the crust. Then he laid the knife down carefully, and looked up at her, his eyes wet. ‘The bread is not fresh, Mama,’ he said.

  Rage made Ana tremble, and for a second she could not speak. When she did at last, it was in a voice as normal as possible. ‘It’s not the first time I’ve queued for stale bread. I’m sorry, my love.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Mama.’

  ‘No,’ she said, feeling her rage subside, to be replaced by the the usual dull despair.

  Ion saw. He broke off a piece of bread and dipped it in the saucer of jam, eating with gusto. Then he suggested they play their usual game. Ana smiled, knowing he was trying to please her, for sometimes when she suggested the game, he complained – it was hard work to name things in English.

  He gave her a piece of paper and a stub of pencil to keep the score, and they began. It was a simple game of associations, with Ion gaining a point for each word he supplied, and Ana scoring if he faltered. She would pick an object in the room, and continue rapidly from there. This morning her heart was not in the game. She looked miserably around the tiny living room, surveying, as if for the first time, the threadbare rug, the sagging bookshelves filled with her precious books – from Beowulf to Beatrix Potter – the paraffin stove with its curving shard of pottery, the jagged green-and-blue abstract Radu had given her when she moved to Bucharest, the battered sideboard in which she kept her bedclothes … their home. And today, for reasons she did not understand, it seemed more mean and paltry than ever.

  ‘Come on, Mama!’

  She hesitated, then pointed. ‘What is that, Ion?’

  He smiled. It was easy. ‘That is a – jug.’

  ‘And what is the same colour as the jug?’

  He looked around. ‘Er … your – shoes!’

  ‘And what are my shoes made of?’

  He frowned, then shook his head, and she put a tick in the column headed ‘Mama’. ‘Leather,’ she said, ‘and what does leather come from?’

  ‘From a – cow!’

  ‘Good, and what else does a cow give us?’

  ‘Milk,’ said Ion, then his face fell.

  ‘What is it, Ionica?’

  ‘Will you try and get some milk today, Mama?’ he said, in such a wistful voice that Ana dug her nails in her palm.

  ‘Ion, we’re playing,’ she said, in mock reproach. ‘Now tell me, what do you drink milk from?’

  ‘A cup,’ he said, in a slightly sulky voice.

  ‘What is in your cup?’

  ‘Tea.’

  ‘And what is tea?’

  ‘Tea is a … a … a tree.’

  Ana laughed, ‘That’s a good answer, Ion. It’s really a bush – a little tree – but I’ll give you a mark. Now tell me … um … what grows on a tree?’

  ‘Fruits,’ he called out with a grin, grabbing the pencil from her to put a tick in his column. Then his smile disappeared. ‘I would love to eat some fruit, Mama – can you see if you can get an apple today?’ he said in Romanian.

  Ana heard her own voice – brisk, almost brittle. ‘I think you should ask me that in English, Ion, because we’re still playing, aren’t we? So – what colour is an apple?’

  ‘Green.’

  ‘And what else in this room is green?’

  ‘Radu’s picture.’

  ‘Good boy. That’s eight for you, and one for me. So I’d better try to find you a present today, hadn’t I?’

  He beamed. ‘Yes, but… well, only if you can, Mama.’

  ‘Only if I can,’ she repeated in English, reflecting that by the most simple, even meaningless repetitions of the language she loved it was possible, just possible, to keep madness at bay. And yet always the language led her back, as a maze will cheat you and always lead you back upon yourself, to the contemplation of what was missing, for which milk and fruit were the smallest and most inadequate of symbols.

  It was 6.45 a.m. They would be late. Ion scrambled to gather his books, while Ana put a pickled gherkin between two slices of bread, and wrapped the sandwich in paper, for Ion’s lunch. Then she tugged at her hair before the tiny bathroom mirror, with the spotted surface that always made her look ill. At last they clattered down the interminable stairs, sometimes passing a neighbour, but speaking to no one.

  When they reached the gloomy hallway, with its row of locked mailboxes, Ana stopped. A burly man in his fifties was standing outside, at the entrance to the block, as if on guard. Smoke snaked upwards from his unseen cigarette. Ana recognized him from the red folds of flesh that spilled over his collar. Once he had sat in front of her on the trolley-bus, and now she saw him regularly. She supposed he must live in one of the blocks.

  ‘What is it, Mama?’

  Ana shook herself. ‘Nothing, I just … had a little pain in my stomach, that’s all.’

  They pulled open the door, and Ana said, ‘Excuse me.’ The man turned round, moving aside very slowly, looking Ana up and down all the while in a way that made nausea catch her throat. The smell of sweat, onions and nicotine was sharp in the air; Ana felt trapped into inhaling the stale breath from his mouth.

  ‘Who is that man?’ Ion asked, as she seized his hand and hurried him along.

  ‘Shhh – I don’t know. And I don’t want to know,’ Ana hissed.

  Gentle rain pattered down, pitting
the surface of puddles, and coating Ion’s shoulders with a mist of fine droplets. Ana stopped, yanked up his collar, and adjusted his woollen hat. Her ugly plastic rainhat crackled as she moved her head, a harsh sound in her ears. She knew the man was still watching them, sensed his eyes on her back but fought the urge to turn round – as if to do so would be to admit to fear.

  She kissed Ion goodbye at the end of the short side road that led to his school, leaving him to go the rest of the way alone. Then she joined the long queue for the trolley-bus, waiting for half an hour before she managed to cram herself on. She looked at her watch, anxiety briefly banishing the memory of that bull-like observer – 7.40 a.m. She would be a little late for work. Ana reflected wearily that she had already been up for three hours, and that during that time she had merely moved, as always, from dark to dark, like all the rest of those muffled, sombre passengers whose bodies were contorted in the crush, whose very occupation of space and air was a threat to her own.

  Two

  Whenever she turned into Strada Jules Michelet, and approached the Embassy, Ana thought of the first time. She remembered few details of the interview itself; only those yards up to the iron railings, and the gate with the policeman outside. Twice she had passed; she was early anyway, but her knees were weak at the thought of walking up to the man on guard and announcing who she was.

  By then he was looking at her suspiciously, so there was no avoiding the confrontation. Ana had to heave years of silence into her mouth and let them scatter on the wind, like white birds, to leave room for words – of confidence, of identity. Miraculously, they came.

  ‘I have an appointment, at ten-thirty, with Mr Edwards. An interview for a job,’ she said, thinking her voice would falter in a squeak, broadcasting her terror (not merely of the interview but also of the single example of uniformed authority before her) to the quiet side-street. But the policeman seemed impressed. He stood aside, opened the gate, and closed it behind her, indicating, by a morose leftwards jerk of his head, which door she should approach.

  The interview had been brief. Ana could remember little of what she was asked, only the formal but easy manner of the two men she saw. It was like nothing she had ever known; a directness with each other, and with her, that almost made her cringe, as if her own evasion and fear (which, after all, they were born to – all of them) showed on a lighted screen for them to see. So comic, too, the rituals. They asked her polite questions about her interests, and her English degree, the younger one, Michael Edwards, throwing back his head with amusement when she confessed that she had enjoyed Anglo-Saxon.

  ‘Nobody at Balliol liked Beowulf, and I come all the way to Bucharest and find a woman who did!’

  Ana smiled politely. She did not know what this ‘Balliol’ was, but liked the fact that she was being accepted in a way that was strange to her. She risked a joke, ‘Well, maybe in my country we are fond of monsters,’ and was rewarded by more laughter.

  They had asked about her current library job and Ana recited her duties in a monotonous voice, a dark spring of mirth bubbling within her all the time, released by her own joke. ‘Oh yes, I like the work … I’ve always loved books, you understand, and so I wanted to work with books …’

  And so I started by cleaning the library, you see, because I could find no work when I came to Bucharest, but people like you do not know about such things, sitting here safely inside the British Embassy, cocooned within your world. And when Ion went to kindergarten I approached the Director of the library, a tall, stringy old man, to tell him of my qualifications, and ask if I could have a proper job. He asked if I was a party member, and when I said ‘No’ he shook his head. Then he said that if I was nice to him he might be able to help me. And so each day I had to go to his office, and lean over his desk while he did things to me. I am sure you know about those activities in Great Britain; for although I know little, I think they transcend our systems … And sometimes, because he couldn’t rise to the occasion, if you understand me, gentlemen, I had to kneel before him and work at him to see if we could get some results. And all the time I tried to think of literature, my nose pushed into the books on his desk, or my knees raised on a fat volume of Romanian history to make me the right height … Anyway, he kept his promise, that old man. After two years of this training he allowed me to start work as a librarian, before he retired. The new man has thick glasses, and a wife who wears a leather coat. They are ambitious. He isn’t interested in me.

  ‘… and one day my friend in the library, Simona, a German speaker, told me how one could get jobs in foreign Embassies by going to this special agency, and so I did, but I never thought I would be lucky enough to get a job here. That is,’ she faltered, blushing slightly,’ if you decide … if I have the honour …’

  When Ana left the room, Michael Edwards turned to his colleague, and raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think?’

  John Fitzmaurice folded his arms. ‘Much better than the other four. Her English is excellent and she’s bright. She’s also …’

  Michael interrupted. ‘She also happens to be one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life,’ he said enthusiastically.

  ‘Well, as a happily married, middle-aged man I don’t notice things like that, Michael,’ said Fitzmaurice dryly, ‘I was going to say that she’s also keen on this place, on English culture and so on, and the others just seemed to be thinking about possible perks, if I read them rightly. But I tell you this, she’s probably a plant, so whatever you do, don’t get any ideas in that direction.’

  ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’

  ‘No, I just think you’re a soft touch. But don’t worry, another six months here’ll cure you of that. After five years I can categorically state that I never met a Romanian I could trust. Let alone a beautiful one.’

  Michael Edwards remembered that conversation as he glanced down from the window and saw Ana walk briskly up to the door, show her pass and enter the building. She was five minutes late again, he noticed, glancing at his watch.

  Fitzmaurice was in Washington now, lucky devil; Ana had worked as assistant in the Information Department for eighteen months, and Michael knew his superior had been wrong. She was not a ‘plant’. Without any evidence to the contrary, he trusted her. And yet, the warning voice still whispered, how can you be sure? How do you know anything in this godforsaken country? No wonder they categorized it as a hardship posting, the only one in Eastern Europe. It was the daily drain on all your resources, so that each night you went to sleep with your brain aching, as a muscle will ache, from the punishing exercise of running round and round in circles, lopsided. Yet his Department was laughingly called ‘Information’, when even to subscribe to that myth was to collude with their lies.

  On the one hand there was rumour, whispering, buzzing and rumbling its way around the corridors, as it did in the street outside; on the other hand there were official lies and disinformation, the old diplomatic games. Worse, somewhere between the two, was the bad faith by which you were forced to conduct every second of your life. In Paris, in Washington, in Bonn you could absorb yourself in the country, forming friendships, even having love affairs. But not here. Here the words died on your lips, the very adjective called into question, the noun itself open to contradiction by Him, by Ceauşescu, when you simply stuck your head around the door to say, ‘Good morning.’

  Ana looked up very briefly from her desk, as Michael did so. Without smiling she returned the greeting, then immediately bent her head to continue cutting the newspapers.

  ‘Did you have problems this morning?’ he asked, addressing the dark crown of her head, from which the hair was pulled roughly back into a makeshift chignon. Sometimes when Michael looked at his assistant he found himself imagining her sweeping into the Royal Opera House, discreetly made up, her long hair gleaming about her face, dressed in wine-coloured velvet … on his arm, of course. She would match anybody. Yet there she was, bent and dowdy, dressed in a nondescript brown skirt, a
n olive-green polo-neck he knew to be second-hand (one of the cast-offs the diplomats and their families gave to be sold to local staff from time to time, in aid of church funds), with only a cheap, folksy cotton scarf knotted at her neck for ornament.

  She looked up at him. ‘A few problems, yes. The bus,’ she replied, in a dead stonewalling voice.

  And you have lived here – what is it? – for over two years now, and you ask me about problems! As if you knew nothing about rising before dawn to queue for bread that is stale, and wondering if you can glean anything on the streets at lunch-time, to take home to your child. I know you know these things, for it is the information we give to those journalists who come to us for facts, and so much we can tell them is true. So you know, yet you ask me about problems! But how can you know? Each week you have supplies sent in by plane: coffee, whisky, tins of ratatouille (your favourite), and mushrooms and chicken in white sauce, Earl Grey tea, and all the other essentials you would not dream of queuing for. You have letters from home, and you know that, one day, you will leave here, remembering the place only as a dark, impossible hellhole. The point is, you will walk away. But Ion and I will still be here, locked within these borders, queuing for stale bread in a line of people that will stretch from here to eternity. There are, you might say, problems …

  ‘Ah yes, the old trolley-bus,’ said Michael Edwards, thinking, as she stared at him in that blank way, how infinitely preferable hostility would be in those extraordinary almond eyes. Any real feeling; anything but this chilly formality. ‘I am sorry I was late. It will not happen again, I can assure you of that fact.’

  Sometimes it was as if she deliberately adopted a clipped, ‘foreign’ intonation, thought Michael, as if the minutely overemphasized parts of speech were so many bricks, placed carefully in the wall between them. And yet he knew this speech to be false, remembering how she was in interview, and even at times since, laughing and relaxed. Yet less and less; lately Ana Popescu had withdrawn to a point so far away, so implacably distant that Michael was not only puzzled, but offended too. He assumed they were getting at her. And there was nothing he could do.