A French Kiss in London (13 page)

“
Oui, oui
,” she replied, smiling at the older woman, who returned the gesture, displaying unusually white teeth. She said something else and Gerard translated.

“She says she’ll give it to you, as a present, so you can have a souvenir from the Hoia-Baciu Forest. That’s what this place is called.”

Linda’s first impulse was to decline. It felt that she was taking away the only treasure in this shabby but so welcoming little place. Seeing the woman’s kind expression, she squeezed her hand. She lifted the other hand, into which she held the rock, and said with all the gratitude she felt, “
Merci beaucoup, Madame
!”

“
De rien
,” the woman replied, then turned to Gerard and gave him back the notepad on which she had drawn the route. With obvious reluctance, she also handed him the pen. Linda took it from his hand and gave it to the woman, smiling. What she told her didn’t need translation.

“A present for you, Madame…”

“Maria,” the woman said. “
Je m’appelle Maria
.”

“Madame Maria,” Gerard addressed her in French, “Thank you so much for your help, but we must leave. It’s nearly full dark.”

“
Oui, bien sûr. Aller avec Dieu
!” she blessed them.

They left her standing in the doorway, watching them with a strange nostalgia, while they were lost beyond the trees.

Linda was still holding the phosphorescent rock. Both she and Gerard were marveling at the strange light coming from it, walking in the inky darkness. Afraid not to lose it, she put it in an inside pocket of her handbag and zipped it shut. Then she grabbed Gerard’s arm.

Above them, at a dizzying height, an almost full moon made its shy appearance through the irregularly spread treetops.

“Do you know what the oddest thing in this whole business is?” he ruminated thoughtfully. “She asked me where we left our carriage.”

“Our carriage?” she repeated, stunned.

“Yeah. She told me to beware of wolves and boars.”

“Jesus!” she whispered, nestling closer to him, looking around fearfully as though seeing a threat in every silhouette, branch or tree-hollow.

He understood her wariness. If, before, the contorted trees seemed bizarre in a fascinating way, now he perceived them as being grotesque and scary. The most striking thing was the dead stillness, the silence, which was not at all natural in a forest. At the very least, the insects should have made some noise, but not even a single mosquito made its presence felt.

A flutter of wings suddenly broke the silence, very close to their heads. He sensed that Linda was ready to scream—that tensed she was, clinging hard to him.

“It’s just a bat, baby,” he whispered, hugging her even tighter. “We’re almost there. Look, you can see our
carriage
,” he joked, in an attempt to relax the atmosphere.

The car was in the middle of the road, right as they’d left it—a sign that no man or car had passed on this deserted path.

After they got inside, Gerard started the engine and turned the car around. Driving with the Jeep’s strong headlights on, they both began feeling safer. He turned on the radio and the pop music blaring from the speakers helped restore their state of comfort.

He drove carefully, following closely the directions scribbled on the notepad. Shortly, they were on a highway flanked by houses. On the horizon, they could see mountains contoured against the dark-blue sky. Or maybe they were just some high hills. On their surface glowed tiny lights here and there, indicating the presence of a few isolated huts.

Night had fallen by now and the road was illuminated by streetlights. Traffic was quite heavy, convincing them they were truly back into the civilized world.

Even the GPS gave signs of life, because suddenly it started to function again, thus easing the deciphering of their route.

The buildings of Cluj-Napoca were beautiful. Most of them were old, with a personality of their own. The town’s history seemed imprinted on every brick.

They drove by houses, churches, blocks and shops, until they finally reached their final destination:
CLINICA BATTISTE
.

Chapter Fourteen

The two-story building was simple, white, with a small yard delineated by a thin fence. Lights glowed through most of the windows.

Jean-Paul had told Gerard he lived in a tiny house, right next to the clinic. The two got out of the car. Stretching, they studied the surroundings.

“Let’s go inside,” Gerard urged, taking Linda’s arm.

They climbed the few steps leading to a massive wooden door, which opened easily when Gerard pushed it.

Inside, a well-illuminated corridor ended in a spiral stairway. On each side of the corridor were a few doors. On the second door along the right wall, a small sign announced in black letters:
Dr. Jean-Paul Battiste
. From inside came the sound of masculine voices talking something in Romanian.

Gerard knocked before opening the door. He stepped back to let Linda enter first. Two men sat on each side of a desk, in the room stuffy with rings of cigarette-smoke.

Although he hadn’t seen him in many years, Gerard recognized Jean-Paul immediately. He was tall and extremely thin, dressed in the white robe of their profession. As he rose to greet them in their native tongue, which he missed so much, Gerard noticed that Jean’s hair was now completely gray.

“Jean-Paul,
mon ami
! It’s so good to see you, after all these years!”

He hugged his old friend tightly, while the other man strongly grasped him in return.

“Good to see you too,
copain
!” the old Frenchman replied in his rough, raspy voice that somehow managed to be friendly. For Linda’s benefit, he spoke in English, with an accent similar to Gerard’s. “
Mademoiselle
”, he addressed her and kissed her hand. “You are a jewel of a woman, beauty personified!”

“
Merci, monsieur
!” she replied, smiling. “You are very kind.”

“Judging by your voice and by the smell, I can tell you haven’t quit smoking. Tobacco will be the end of you,
mon cher
,” Gerard told him, then turned to Linda.

“It’s incredible that a doctor who fights to cure other people of cancer is so careless when it comes to his own health!”

“I’m not at all careless,
mon ami
. Why do you think we fight to find a cure for the most nasty and terrible disease? So we can live a hundred and fifty years enjoying all the vices we love! This is Professor Blazius Olariu,” Jean-Paul introduced the other man, who had also stood. “He speaks Romanian and Russian, so you can communicate only by signs, or by using truly yours as a translator.”

The man was almost an anti-Jean-Paul—short, overweight, bald and blue-eyed. He smiled at them nodding, then said something in Romanian.

“He says he’s happy to meet you,” Jean clarified. “He was just getting ready to leave. If he arrives home too late, his wife gets pissed. Hitler himself would fear that old bat,” he added in an undertone, making Gerard and Linda guffaw.

Looking a bit puzzled, the professor waved them goodbye, after grabbing a briefcase from the desk. He left in a hurry, closing the door silently behind him.

“He’s a genius,” Jean told the couple. “He invented a procedure of tonsillectomy surgery, done by melting the tonsils with liquid nitrogen. Somebody else got the credit and patented the discovery.”

“Really? He seems quite…absent-minded,” Linda remarked.

“Appearances are deceiving,
chérie
! Now, let me show you to our humble home. Mariana will help you get settled. She speaks French and a bit of English. We’ll get along,” he said smiling broadly, then opened the door.

The Battiste’s house was right next to the clinic. It was a small building, made from gray brick, with copper-colored borders, which matched the roof and front door. In the front yard, beyond the fence, colorful rosebushes lent the setting a touch of color.

They entered into a narrow hallway, where Madame Battiste greeted them. She was a tall, slender woman, middle-aged in Gerard’s opinion. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a bun. She had extremely dark eyes. They were nearly black, very expressive and welcoming. Over a blue home attire, she wore a pink apron around her waist.

“Mariana, these are our friends, Linda and Gerard. First, let’s show them the room they’re going to sleep in.”

“Welcome!” the woman spoke in strongly accented English. “It’s very nice to meet you!”

She smiled warmly and gestured for the two to follow her. As they moved forward, they both admired the paintings and all the Romanian traditional decorations adorning the walls and shelves.

Theirs was the last room on the left. Mariana urged them inside, followed by Jean-Paul, who served as a translator.

“Leave your luggage here, change, and then we’ll have dinner. Right next to your room is the bathroom. We’ll leave you to get settled. After that, we’ll be waiting for you in the living room, first door on the left. In fact, our house has only three rooms, so it’s hard to get lost. Just be careful not to stumble into our bedroom in the middle of the night!” Jean joked, laughing heartily. Mariana dragged him out of the room, smiling chagrined, then closed the door and left the guests alone.

They looked around curiously. Their room was small, like the rest of the house. It was furnished with a big bed, two nightstands, a table, a couple of armchairs and a closet. Gerard wasn’t all that intrigued, but noticed that Linda was very impressed by all the knick-knacks scattered around the place. They’d both found out later from their host the name of every object.

The bed was covered by a colorful knitted
macat
, with a complicated floral pattern. On the wall above the bed was a
carpeta
—a woven colorful canvas, portraying a pastoral scene. On the opposite wall, next to the closet, hung something called a
goblen
—a wooden-framed canvas, onto which were sewed in vivid colors a Virgin Mary and a tiny Baby Jesus.

What she seemed to enjoy the most were the
mileuri—
lacy, crocheted webs, which decorated shelves and tables or sat under
bibelouri
.

“I wonder if all these are made by Mariana’s hands,” she mused aloud, while they were unpacking their shoulder bags and arranging their clothes in the closet.

“I think so. From what Jean told me, sewing, crocheting and weaving are her biggest passions. I believe she even sells some of this stuff. I seem to recall him saying that.”

“Fascinating!” she remarked admiringly, as she was undressing and preparing to put on a simple housedress.

“Very,” he whispered softly into her ear, sliding his arms around her from behind. “I just hope they don’t stumble upon us tonight,” he added, skimming the delicate lobe of her ear with his teeth and tongue.

She cleared her throat, then stepped back reluctantly.

“Shame on you!” she said in a faked demure tone, lowering her eyes coyly. “Don’t even think we’re going to do indecent things in the home of these decent people!”

“Have I ever done anything indecent to you, Linda?” he asked wickedly. He traced her lower lip with his tongue, before kissing her deeply and thoroughly. “We’ll hide under the quilt,” he said breathlessly a moment later. “I just hope the bed doesn’t squeak.”

He winked at her, laughing when he saw the pink stains rising into her cheeks.

The living room was as prettily furnished as the rest of the house. A round table sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by six chairs. Other furnishings included a huge bookshelf, a couch and a TV, which seemed to be a replica of the one in
The Flintstone Family.

Dinner was delicious, consisting of
ciorba de perisoare, gulas de porc
and
gogosi cu branza
. While Gerard talked with Jean about their business, he could hear Linda praising the food. She’d even learned a few words in Romanian, mainly food names. Using English and sign language, she asked Mariana if she could write down the recipes of the dishes they’d had. When Mrs. Battiste agreed gladly, Linda excused herself to go get her notepad.

Meanwhile, Gerard and Jean-Paul put together a plan, describing to one another the progress they’d made in their attempts to eradicate, or at least reduce the sufferings produced by cancer.

“For now, I have four patients at the clinic. I’d like you to see them tomorrow,” Jean-Paul said.

“What’s their diagnosis?”

“Two of the women have breast cancer. One already had a partial mastectomy, but the disease relapsed. Another one has an area covered with melanomas—here, I think your treatment would come in handy, if she agrees to try it. There’s also a man who, unfortunately, I don’t think has many chances left. Pancreatic cancer. He’s already in metastasis. There’s not much I can do for him,” he continued on a long breath, regret roughening his voice. “Maybe just to send him to a hospital in the capital. I don’t know if he can handle chemotherapy. He’s very weak.”

They all kept a moment of silence, which was interrupted by Linda’s appearance in the doorway. A puzzled expression shadowed her beautiful face.

“Gerard, do you know where my notepad is?” she asked. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

He shrugged, gnawing thoughtfully at his lower lip.

“I’ve no idea. Wasn’t it in your handbag?”

She sat again at the table.

“I usually keep it there, but I think you had it after you finished reading the road directions.”

“What directions?” Jean-Paul asked curiously.

Gerard sighed, putting his fork down.

“Ah, it’s a long story, my friend. On the way here, we got lost somewhere into the woods. We stumbled upon a cabin, which seemed to have been there since the last century, and a woman explained to us how to get here. You were right when you told me how great this country is. From a geographical point of view it is gorgeous, but…”

He trailed off, noticing that Mariana and Jean were no longer eating, but watched him strangely.

“What happened?”

Linda, who had also remarked their odd behavior, addressed the question to no one in particular.

“In what woods where you lost?” asked Jean.

“Some forest named Hoia or something like that. I can’t remember the exact name.”

The look the two Battistes exchanged, combined with the expressions on their faces, was so strangely alarming that Gerard felt how an inexplicable shiver crosses through his entire body. He knew Linda felt the same, because she became motionless. They all stood still for a long moment, until he broke the tense inertness.

“What’s the deal? Why are you looking at us like we’re crazy or something?”

Jean-Paul didn’t answer, just gazed at him thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.

“Why don’t you tell us more about this? And who do you say gave you directions? What woman?”

Because Gerard didn’t reply, Linda took over. She related in detail the entire episode that had taken place into the forest, then concluded by saying, “That’s why I thought Gerard had my notepad. On it was drawn the route that woman, Madame Maria, sketched for us. But I can’t find it. I can’t possibly imagine where it’s disappeared,” she added perplexed.

“I don’t believe you’ll ever find it.” Jean’s firm and somewhat somber tone tensed the atmosphere even more. “Haven’t you ever heard of the Hoia-Baciu Forest?”

The young couple looked at one another, and shook their heads.

“No,” Gerard replied. “Should we have?”

“It’s quite well-known, worldwide. There seems to be a very high frequency of, ehm, paranormal phenomena around there. There have been numerous documentaries, extensive research, even pictures and recordings with UFOs. They appear to be authentic. Yoga and Wicca practitioners from all around the world come here to explore the depths of this forest, but without much luck. Many witnesses stated that, no matter to which direction one walks, after less than three hundred meters one finds himself back to the same point from where he left. Also, most of them claim they’ve heard strange noises there. Radios, cameras, phones, composes don’t work in that area. Its nickname is
The Romanian Bermuda Triangle.
”

While Jean talked, Gerard and Linda remained quiet, listening motionless. As the older man went on speaking, the two felt cold shivers sliding down their spines. All the hairs on their bodies grew erect, like in the presence of a huge source of static electricity.

After he took a sip of water, Jean-Paul put the glass down and continued, “Romania was formed as an official state in 1862, when Transylvania, Tara Romaneasca and Moldova were united by Alexandru Ioan Cuza, one of the most important rulers of this country. Obviously, he’d made many enemies, so in 1866 he was forced to abdicate and was exiled. It was speculated he had an informant, his most trusted man, whom he wanted to leave here in the country.”

“I’m sorry, but what’s this history lesson got to do with what we were talking about?” Gerard interrupted, slightly reclining in his chair.

“I’m going to tell you in a moment. In the Hoia Forest—which back then didn’t have this name—that mysterious informant and his family had built a cabin. They lived many years in the heart of the woods, safe, without anybody even suspecting their existence. But shortly after Cuza’s exile, the informant’s hiding was discovered. The members of the coalition that had discarded the ruler ordered their men to burn the cabin to the ground. And so they have. They set it on fire one night, secretly, and made sure there were no survivors.”