The Equality of Darkness

- Chapter 16 -

The bar was apocalyptic.  The sign on the toilet read “Defekt”.  The walls oozed cigarettes and beer. Sinister bacteria lurked in the tablecloths.  It was ten in the morning.  The locals had evidently been there for some time.  The bar wench skeptically measured out drinks for the ravaged alcoholics.  Naomi certainly was a new and unusual presence for them, a breath of freshness, of Western gold.  But what exactly was she doing there?

In the morning she’d gone out to buy some presents for her aunt Helene.  On the way she stopped to look at an extraordinary shop window. The sign in the window said Bijuteria but there was no jewellery in sight, only a toy truck wrapped in plastic, a sneaker and a plate. As she turned to go she bumped into Piri and Gábor.

“Baktalo!  Hallo!  How are you?" Piri rasped, "Mitt vettel nekem?  What have you bought me?!” she said laughing.

Then Piri insisted Naomi join them for a coffee in the bar, then a beer and then a cherry liqueur, several of those, the sickly sweet kind, hangover guaranteed.

“Our cousin just died,” Piri said with a sniffle, “so Gábor isn’t shaving for six weeks and there’ll be no music either.”

Naomi offered them her condolences and another round of cherry liqueurs. Piri sniffled again and eyed the string of beads around her neck.   

“Sell me your necklace!” she demanded.

“They were a gift from my mother.  I can’t sell a gift from my mother now can I?”

It’s was a harmless lie. Piri nodded in agreement, then tried again a few minutes later.

There was an unarticulated tension in the bar.  White girls just didn’t drink with Gypsies. A milk blonde Aryan next to their table called out to Naomi.

“Do you know when Romania will enter the European Union?”

Was he joking? It was 1992.

“I read an article about it, in a newspaper,” said the man, heavily slurring his words, “and it said that Romania would become part of the E.U. in the year 3000.”

To Naomi’s relief they found this amusing.  It was one of the redeeming features of the Transylvanians. Then he pulled a brand new 2000 lei bill from his pocket. In gaudy, but by now familiar tri-colour shades, there was the map of Romania. Almost perfectly spherical were it not for Dobrudja, a vertical finger in the south-east corner. The drunk folded the bill in two, so that all that remained of the map was Dobrudja’s little phallic protrusion.  Triumphantly, he handed it to Naomi. She smiled enthusiastically at the man and showed Piri and Gábor.

“Very funny,” Piri said to him, “that joke’s as old as your underpants.”
Everybody in the bar laughed.

“Aveamende,” Piri said to Naomi as they were leaving the bar, “come over to our place.”

Naomi agreed and ceremoniously linked arms with her.

They made a jolly trio heading down the dirt road, high as kites at eleven in the morning. Past the bridge with the terrifying hole in it, where rag carpets were drying in the sun and below it the children swimming in the river. Past Marina’s house and the kultúrház, down Strada Burebista, past Helene’s house and Anikó, the white bearded lady, who looked at Naomi quizzically and said, “Hallo! And where do you think you’re going?”

Naomi waved gaily and continued on, but inside she felt like a silly child, for she sensed that there was no point in flouting convention.  That the rest of the village would only shake their heads and think that she, the naïve foreigner, was being swindled by the ever-cunning Gypsy.

It was the brightest house in the street. Screaming tonsil pink.

“We’ve been here a long time,” Piri said, “we like the house but it isn’t worth a lei, the foundations are all rotten, look.” She pointed to the right side of the façade which was slowly sinking into the ground. “Come in, welcome, welcome!  Gábor, put some music on for our guest!  Demeter,” she said to a little dark boy that was watching them from the front door, “go and buy some beer and don’t come back without two bottles.” She handed him a bill.  “He’s my grandson!” she said proudly.

“He’s gorgeous.”

“He looks like an Indian.”

The house was as bright inside as out.  It made a nice change from Spartan aunty’s. They sat in the tiszta szoba, the clean room, the one reserved for guests.  The walls were painted sunset orange.  There was a picture of baby Jesus and mother Mary. Underneath that, just over the divan, was a surreal tapestry of five cats sitting around a table playing cards. In between were a smattering of Orthodox icons draped in white towels so that their holiness would not be soiled by the human touch.  The divan was covered in a ghastly assortment of floral doonas, blankets, bedspreads and cushions, and propped up in front of these were oversized dolls, some in mottled dresses, some naked.

After a little while the boy returned with a single bottle of beer.

“Only one?” Piri said.

“You didn’t give me enough money,” said Demeter.

“Okay my angel, here, have a little beer.”

He shook his head.

“Gábor, come and have some beer,” she called out. “Our son is coming home, tonight or tomorrow from Hungary. He’s been working there, making good money, but he got sick, he was drinking too much and fighting and his head got messed up and they had to put him in hospital and now he’s coming home soon and when he comes home I’m going to have a birthday party and you must come!” Then she winked and said, “And you must bring Helene néni too, and a big present!”

Naomi nodded dumbly, unsure how to respond to Piri’s story. She watched as Piri stuck her finger inside the glass, pulled something out of it and filled it with beer for her.

“Demeter, drink some beer!” she said, shoving the bottle at the cringing kid. “It’s good for you, for your kidneys, drink up! When I was thirteen, they stole me, I was that beautiful, wasn’t I Gábor?” she shouted out to her husband who was working in the yard. “I’ll show you a picture.”

Behind her was a glass cabinet full of curios and trinkets and pickled vegetables.

“I want to give you a present!” she said suddenly, sweeping her hand through the air. “Pick anything you like from in here and it’s yours!”

“Can I see the picture of you?” Naomi asked as she peered into the cabinet.

“Let’s see if I can find it.  Demeter, drink some more beer!”

“These are fabulous” Naomi said, pointing to an exquisitely gaudy pair of raspberry pink ceramic slippers.

“They’re yours!” said Piri, and just as she was handing them over to Naomi, Helene burst into the house.

“It’s time for lunch!” she shouted, and grabbing Naomi by the arm with that titan strength of hers which seemed undiminished by age, she dragged Naomi away before she could say another word.

“Feritoldel!” Piri called out, “God bless you and keep you!” And her great body heaved with bitter laughter.

Back at aunt Helene’s house Naomi was scolded for her cavorting. She felt ashamed for not respecting the rules of the land, even if she did not understand with them.

“You can’t just go ‘round with Gypsies like that!  They’re not like us!  They deliberately misunderstand you and manipulate you and then they’re knocking on your door all the time, wanting this and wanting that, and all for free you understand.  I know, but you don’t.  You don’t really know what goes on here, what these people are really like.  The Gypsies and the Romanians, they’re all the same.  We just weren’t meant to live together.  Now wash your hands and we’ll have lunch,” she said peaceably, squashing a fly in the folds of the white lace poly curtains. “I knew you’d be mine” she tells it, as the inert little body drops to the ground.

Helene was feeling particularly expansive that day. While Naomi was gone the post had arrived. Her pension had been raised. So she went straight out and bought a chicken and made her favourite soup: sour cherry and chicken. Separately, they are enough to induce year round satisfaction. The Hungarians eat their chicken soup with a noodle that rivals angel hair for delicacy, but the secret to its flavour is celeriac. As for their sour cherry soup, it’s eaten chilled in the summertime and tastes like the colours of a volcanic sunset. Together however, the two were simply unthinkable. Its colour was worse than pink and brown paintbrushes sitting in a glass of dirty water. Its taste could only be likened to curdled tea, and like the travesty of lemon and milk, the two should never meet.

Helene sucked joyously on the chicken feet which bobbed on the surface of the terrine, waving at Naomi. She waited desperately for Helene to go to the stove and put the meat in the pan.  All she needed was a few seconds to tip her soup back into the terrine, but she never did get those precious few seconds.  As long as she lived, Naomi would remember the thrill of disgust induced by Helene’s sour cherry and chicken soup. ◊