‘No matter,’ the other took his hand. ‘Welcome to my house, please enter. We’ll eat at once.’
Inside, it was just a little claustrophobic. The rooms were large but low-ceilinged, and the decor was dark and very ‘old’ Romanian. In the dining-room, at a huge square deal table which could have seated a dozen easily, Dragosani found himself with a side of his own, facing a window. The light was such that the face of Use, who, after she had helped her mother serve, sat opposite, was set in a vague semi-silhouette. To Dragosani’s right sat Hzak Kinkovsi, with his wife when her duties were done, and to his left two sons of maybe twelve and sixteen years respectively. A small family by farming community standards.
The meal was simple, abundant, deserving of an accolade. Dragosani said as much and Use smiled, while her mother Maura beamed delightedly across the table at him, saying: ‘I thought you would be hungry. Such a long journey! All the way from Moscow. How long did it take you?’
‘Oh, well I did stop to eat,’ he answered, smiling. And then, remembering, he frowned. ‘I ate twice, and both meals were unsatisfactory and very expensive! I even slept for an hour or two, in the car, just this side of Kiev. And of course I came via Galatz, Bucharest and Pitesti, chiefly to avoid the mountain passes.’
4A long way, yes,’ Hzak Kinkovsi nodded. ‘Sixteen hundred kilometres.’
‘As the crow flies,’ said Dragosani. ‘But I’m not a crow! More than two thousand kilometres, according to my car’s instruments.’
‘And all this way just to study a little local history,’ the farmer shook his head.
They had finished their meal now. The old boy (not really old, more weathered than withered) sat back with a clay-pipeful of fragrant tobacco; Dragosani lit a Roth-mans, one of a pack of two hundred Borowitz had purchased for him back in Moscow at a ‘special’ store for the party elite; the two boys left to tend to evening chores, and the women went off to wash dishes.
Kinkovsi’s remark about ‘local history’ had taken Dragosani a little by surprise, until he remembered that was his assumed reason for being here. Drawing on his cigarette, he wondered how much he dare say. On the other hand, he was also supposed to be a mortician; perhaps it would not seem too strange if his inclinations ran altogether morbid.
‘Local history in a way, yes – but I might just as easily have gone into Hungary, or cut short my journey in Moldavia, or gone on across the Alps to Oradea. Or Yugoslavia for that matter, or as far east as Mongolia. They all hold a common interest for me, but more so here for this is my birthplace.’
‘And what is this interest, then? Is it the mountains? Or perhaps the battles, eh? My God – this country has known some fighting!’ Kinkovsi was not merely polite but genuinely interested. He poured more farm-brewed wine (made from local grapes and quite excellent) into Dragosani’s glass and topped up his own.
The mountains are part of it, I suppose,’ the younger man answered. ‘And in this part of the world, the battles, certainly. But the legend in its entirety is far older than any history we can hope to remember. It’s possibly as old as the hills themselves. A very mysterious thing – and very horrible!’
He leaned across the table, stared fixedly into Kinkovsi’s watery eyes.
‘Well, go on, don’t keep me in suspense! What is this mysterious passion, this ancient quest of yours?’
The wine was very heady and had robbed Dragosani of most of his natural caution. Outside, the sun had gone down and dusk lay everywhere like a mantle of blue smoke. From the kitchen came the clinking of dishes and soft, muted voices. In another room, an old clock ticked throatily. It was the perfect setting. And these country folk being so superstitious and all –
Dragosani couldn’t resist it. The legend of which I speak,’ he said, slowly and distinctly, ‘is that of the vampir!’
For a moment Kinkovsi said nothing, looked stunned. And then he rocked back in his chair, roared with laughter and slapped his thigh. ‘Hah! – the vampir – I should have known it! Every year there are more of you, and all looking for Dracula!’