Mircea took advantage of being in Cyprus to take a day of rest. He put the bite plates in his mouth to sort out the problem with his jaw, and drank only mineral water. What he wanted was a good strong cup of coffee, but the harsh gritty Turkish coffee was not to his liking. He considered a cup of English tea, but that had never been his style, not even in London.
There was a balcony to the flat he was staying in, and he stood on it, staring out at the view of the sparkling ocean. In the distance was a mosque, with its call to prayer, but he liked the exotic sound of it all. This was the kind of place he’d dreamed about as a kid in Moldova, and for once he was happy to have achieved a childhood dream. Sitting on the balcony, Mircea realised that he felt lonely – there was never anyone to share his experiences with. He could get company, if he wanted it, but he’d never actually had a girlfriend. He’d always looked on women as some kind of expense – you paid for their time, or else have to listen to them yammer and moan. Colleagues who were married or kept girlfriends only ever talked about the cost – the only benefit Mircea saw in keeping a relationship was children. But since having the learned the truth about Piotr, he realised this could be bought as well. If you needed someone to carry on your name and business, just adopt in a kid without a father.
That’s what Mama did with me, he thought, remembering his vile-tempered stepfather. That man gave Mircea his Romanian passport, but kicked him and his mother out when it became too obvious that Mircea wasn’t his. They moved into his grandmother’s tiny apartment, and Mircea had to start earning his keep early on. His grandmother had good smuggling contacts, which provided a good apprenticeship for Mircea, stressing the importance of languages and blending in. He provided as best he could for his mother and grandmother, but was relieved when they died. His mother first, probably at the hands of her oafish boyfriend who was always trying to horn in on Mircea’s business. She was found at the bottom of the filthy stairwell, but not all the bruises on her body corresponded to a fall. Truth be told, it was no great loss to Mircea or his grandmother. The apartment was bigger without her in it, and their lives were less complicated without her moaning and demands for cash.
Mircea massaged his jaw with his fingers, thinking. His closest relationship with a woman was probably with his grandmother. She drummed the value of survival into him, to always to look for a way to improve their circumstances. She was both a Party member and a follower of the church, using her dead husband’s name as way to guilt a patriot’s pension out of the state, and a poor widow’s alms from the church. She was the one who insisted on keeping Mircea’s Romanian nationality, figuring it would someday be of an advantage. It was that Romanian passport that kept Mircea alive; he was away on business in Bucharest when the small apartment developed the gas leak that killed his grandmother. The corrupt firemen and police had neatly cleared away anything of value from his grandmother’s home, leaving Mircea only a few faded photographs and her thin wedding ring. Mircea had had the foresight to bury his grandfather’s gold watch and a pair of silver candlesticks in the courtyard; under cover of darkness he retrieved those. They didn’t bring much money, but they gave him the satisfaction of not having been totally duped. His grandmother would have been proud.
He thought about Ivan and his son in London, sensing that for the first time, he envied Ivan. It made the scene with Piotr in Vinnytsia all the more horrible, as Ivan had something to lose. Mircea had nothing to come home to – if he were shot, it would all end there. There would be no widow, no orphans. He used to always see this as an advantage, but remembering how Ivan and Thomas sat together behind the desk caused an ache in Mircea. Ivan had been so proud of son, so happy to rely on him to fix the books. Mircea didn’t have anyone to rely on.
I’m still young, Mircea told himself. I can have a family! He tried to picture himself with a woman and kids, not unlike Ivan. He envisioned sons, but remembered Ivan had a daughter, too. Mircea remembered the childlike body of the underage Belarussian, and saw her thin arms being folded down as the bodyguard lead her away. He winced. Sons – he would have to have only sons. Girls were too vulnerable.
The undeniable facts forced their way into his brain – those girls all had fathers. Maybe some of them didn’t know their fathers, but it was simple biology – a person had a mother and a father. Each one of those girls had a father somewhere –maybe even one of the leering patrons of the clubs where they worked. Mircea shuddered at the disgusting thought. He wondered how Ivan could stomach the thought when handling the girls – how could he not see his own daughter in the girls they handled?
Mircea realised he didn’t know any women. He only knew the girls he brought into the nightclubs, or the ugly women who worked for him in the cover businesses. He wondered how he would find a mother for his children, then, if those were the only kinds of women he knew. He thought about what Dr Mitu had told him about Anton Kirilenko. Was that the way to do it – create a family by adopting the sons of maids?
Mircea recalled the way Thomas and Ivan huddled together, how they had the same jawline, and the same laugh. He thought about how his own stepfather hated to look at him – he didn’t like to see all the ways that his supposed son didn’t resemble him. Mircea puffed up his cheeks and blew the air out, which caused a twinge in his jaw. Having your own children was important, but how could he be sure to only sire sons? Well, maybe if his daughter was ugly, she wouldn’t have problems. He caught sight of his reflection in the window, and gave up on that idea – no daughter of his would be ugly.
One thing Mircea didn’t have time for was depression. He didn’t want to waste a beautiful day on an island in the Mediterranean with self-pitying thoughts. He spit out the bite plates and smiled at his reflection in the window – it was time he made merry with some women he didn’t have to pay for.
Once he was back inside the flat, he realised how unprepared he was for spending any time outside of a nightclub. He didn’t have sunscreen or sun glasses, or any clothes that weren’t suits. Mircea considered his situation, rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel a sunburn starting already. Mircea sighed; he was going to have to find a department store.
All he could find in the streets near the flat was a pharmacy, which took care of his need for sunscreen and sunglasses. There was a market with stalls nearby, where he found some cheap holiday clothes. It wasn’t what he had in mind, but he refused to get stressed out. The shabby texture of the shorts reminded him of the scratchy school uniform he had to wear back in Moldova. His grandmother would have hated to see him like this! At least the shirt he bought was silk. Until he found a department store, this would have to do.
The newly acquired tourist outfit singled him out for all the vendors in the market to harass him, trying to sell him their silly souvenirs and further tacky clothes. He went back to the flat to drop off his suit; seeing himself in the wardrobe mirror made him do a double-take. He looked like an idiot – there was no way he could chat up a woman looking like this. Sighing, he traded the shorts for the suit trousers. He kept the silk shirt and the inexpensive leather sandals – it wasn’t ideal, but it was an okay look.
Back out in the sun, he slicked some sun cream on his nose. He wandered around town, trying to figure out where he could go to meet people. He tried his usual trick of flirting with shop girls in bakeries and supermarkets, but they quickly averted their eyes. Mircea found himself face-to-face with a big burly guy more often than a sweet dark-eyed girl. He decided to head into the tourist area and take his chances with visitors.
Buying a beer in a hotel got him access to their beach area; Mircea strolled around casually, seeing what was on offer. The hotel he was in seemed to be popular with retirement age Brits, some of whom insisted on wearing skimpy tops and bikinis that wouldn’t even look good on the fit girls in the nightclub. Mircea made sure not to make eye contact, continually scanning for more appealing females. He spotted a hen party that was closer in age to him, but then caught the sound of German by the hotel pool.
Even though German made him think of Michael the Catholic missionary in Ukraine, he was happy to see a group of healthy-looking blondes. They were a bit fatter than he liked, but one of the girls was already smiling at him. He walked over to them, and asked if they spoke English; this was a silly question, as Germans always spoke English. They were actually Austrian, and Mircea was welcome to join them.
Germans (and Austrians) had a predilection for drinking beer – Mircea actually wanted to switch to wine at some point, but the girls were sticking to beer. The girl he was getting close to was Astrid, a physiotherapist from Linz. He actually had his eye on her friend, Manuela, but she didn’t warm to him. She made eyes at a middle-aged Brit across the bar – there’s no accounting for taste! Mircea thought.
He quickly discovered that picking up regular women actually required a lot of time. Mircea found he had to get drinks for all the girls, then single out Astrid to take to lunch. After a leisurely meal, they had gone for a digestive stroll along the beach before he could get Astrid back to her hotel room and get any action. The Austrian was at least energetic and enthusiastic, although Mircea found himself getting unnerved by the non-stop eye contact she insisted on. She also required a lot of sweet-talking, asking Mircea to call her darling and sweetheart. He found himself having to kiss her to keep conversation to a minimum, but that was hard on his jaw. Mircea was exhausted by dinner-time, but Astrid expected him to take her out for another meal and go dancing before taking him back through the calisthenics of the bedroom again.
“Um, I actually have some business to take care of,” Mircea found himself mumbling, as he got out of bed. He found his clothes in a small pile and began getting dressed.
“You’re on vacation!” Astrid argued, playfully snatching his shirt away.
“Actually, I’m not. I’m here on business.” Mircea took his shirt back from her. Astrid then wanted to know all about his business, expressing an interest in seeing the nightclub he claimed to have a share in. Mircea hemmed and hawed, trying to talk her out of it.
The situation was getting comically awkward, as Mircea tried to close out their brief acquaintance. Sensing she was being rejected, Astrid sat up straight on the bed, glaring at him. “What do you mean, I wouldn’t like it?” she demanded as Mircea made excuses to not go to The Swan. He found himself looking away from her nakedness, finding it suddenly very unattractive and uncomfortable. “What kind of a nightclub is it?” she wanted to know.
As Mircea avoided looking at her, she made the obvious connection. “It’s a brothel!” she concluded, sounding disgusted. Mircea looked at her in exasperation.
“Why are you offended? You have brothels in Austria! It’s legal there!”
She finally clutched a sheet to her chest to cover her nakedness. “Legal yes, but that doesn’t mean I like it!” She made a face at Mircea. “You’re just a pimp!” she spat.
Stepping into his sandals, Mircea zipped up his trousers. “I’m a pimp, am I?” he said. He gestured to her wrapping herself up in the bedclothes. “What does that make you?”
With a shriek, she threw the nearest thing at hand at him. Mircea batted the TV remote away and left her hotel room. She was shouting something in German at him as he slammed the door behind him, and he heard something smack against the door. Shaking his head, Mircea went to leave the hotel and the whole afternoon behind him.
The hen party he had seen earlier by the pool was in full swing in the lobby. Several of the women drunkenly grabbed him as he tried to get past them.
“Come on and have some fun with us, Gorgeous!” they called to him.
Smiling, Mircea quickly disentangled himself from their grasping arms. He didn’t even bother to blow them a kiss; he just fled. Regular girls were just too much trouble!