Mary did not know whether to laugh or cry. But I’m going to do something about it, she promised herself.
The folk theater was on Rasodia Romană, a bustling street filled with small stands selling flowers and plastic slippers and blouses and pens. The theater was small and ornate, a relic of more halcyon days. The entertainment itself was boring, the costumes tawdry, and the dancers awkward. The show seemed interminable, and when it was finally over, Mary was glad to escape into the fresh night air. Florian was standing by the limousine in front of the theater.
“I’m afraid there will be a delay, Madam Ambassador. A flat tire. And a thief has stolen the spare. I have sent for one. It should be here in the next hour. Would you like to wait in the car?”
Mary looked up at the full moon shining above. The evening was crisp and clear. She realized she had not walked the streets of Bucharest since she had arrived. She made a sudden decision.
“I think I’ll walk back to the residence.”
He nodded. “It’s a lovely evening for a walk.”
Mary turned and started walking down the street toward the central square. Bucharest was a fascinating, exotic city. On the street corners were arcane signs: TUTÚN…PIINE…CHIMÍST…
She strolled down the Calea Moşilor and turned into the Strada Maria Rosetti, where there were red and tan trackless trollies crammed with people. Even at this late hour, most of the shops were open, and there were queues at all of them. Coffee shops were serving gogoaşe, the delicious Romanian doughnuts. The sidewalks were crowded with late-night shoppers carrying pungi, the string shopping bags. It seemed to Mary that the people were ominously quiet. They seemed to be staring at her, the women avidly eyeing the clothes she was wearing. She began to walk faster.
When she reached the corner of Calea Victoriei, she stopped, unsure of which direction to take. She said to a passerby, “Excuse me—could you tell me how to get—?”
He gave her a quick, frightened look and hurried off.
They’re not supposed to talk to foreigners, Mary remembered.
How was she going to get back? She tried to visualize the way she had come with Florian. It seemed to her that the residence was somewhere to the east. She began walking in that direction. Soon she was on a small side street, dimly lit. In the far distance she could see a broad, well-lit boulevard. I can get a taxi there, Mary thought with relief.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps behind her, and she involuntarily turned. A large man in an overcoat was coming toward her, moving rapidly. Mary walked faster.
“Excuse me,” the man called out in a heavy Romanian accent. “Are you lost?”
She was filled with relief. He was probably a policeman of some sort. Perhaps he had been following her to make sure she was safe.
“Yes,” Mary said gratefully. “I want to go back to—”
There was the sudden roar of a motor and the sound of a car racing up behind her, and then the squeal of brakes as the car screamed to a stop. The pedestrian in the overcoat grabbed Mary. She could smell his hot, fetid breath and feel his fat fingers bruising her wrist. He started pushing her toward the open door of the car. Mary was fighting to break free…
“Get in the car!” the man growled.
“No!” She was yelling, “Help! Help me!”
There was a shout from across the street, and a figure came racing toward them. The man stopped, unsure of what to do.
The stranger yelled, “Let go of her!”
He grabbed the man in the overcoat and pulled him away from Mary. She found herself suddenly free. The man behind the wheel started to get out of the car to help his accomplice.
From the far distance came the sound of an approaching siren. The man in the overcoat called out to his companion, and the two men leaped into the car and it sped away.
A blue and white car with the word Militia on the side and a flashing blue light on top pulled to a halt in front of Mary. Two men in uniform hurried out.