7.

25 June, 7:00 PM, Czernograd, the Old Town

“I would recommend pracuszki,” she said. “It’s a local speciality, made from sheep liver and fermented milk.”

“Oh dear,” Jake murmured under his breath, scanning the bilingual menu for any familiar and safe alternatives to sheep liver.

Marina was very persuasive, if not in her food recommendation, then at least in quickly making him overcome the embarrassment of mistaking his taxi driver’s sister for a hooker, and then convincing him to talk about his situation over dinner. She knew this small restaurant in the neighbourhood, she said, not too touristy, with some nice local flavour, and it would be reasonably quiet on a night like tonight.

On the way to the restaurant she told him a bit about herself. She had studied English literature at the local university, and foreign languages were her passion. She would love to work as a teacher, or maybe even write, but it was not easy finding jobs or for that matter making a decent living in these professions. In the meantime, while waiting for the destiny to show its hand, she was doing odd jobs around town, putting to good use her language skills; translating, guiding tours, private tuition for foreign businessmen who wanted to get the basic hang of the local lingo. It wasn’t really what she wanted to do forever, but even these odds and ends added up to more than she could have earned elsewhere, and it gave her enough spare time and freedom to roam around and do things that actually interested her.

“Like a Gypsy,” said Jake, trying to contribute to conversation.

“Well, half-Roma,” Marina said.

“Oh, you’re half Italian?”

She laughed. “No, no. Roma, as in Gypsy. That’s our real name. So half-Roma; half-Gypsy in my case.”

She saw the mixture of confusion and more embarrassment on Jake’s face, because she quickly continued, “Michal and I, our father was Roma - a Gypsy. Mum wasn’t. A bit of a misalliance, it doesn’t happen too often. He died when we were little, but we never had it easy. Lots of people are still prejudiced against Gypsies, you know. Horse stealing, and all that...” The smile drifted away with her words.

“Horse stealing,” he said. “My mum from Mid-West; apparently there was some of that in our family. Someone even got hanged for it. A long time ago.”

Her face told Jake that his attempt to build a cross-cultural bridge did not quite work. For all he knew, Marina’s ancestors never actually touched anyone else’s horses. “I imagine it must have been tough,” he added, “with all that prejudice.” That he didn’t know much about.

“Well, one good thing is that it got me into university,” she smiled again, happy to drift back to the better present.

“Truly?”

“Yes, truly. When our government applied for the membership of the European Union they suddenly realised that there would be some human rights strings attached. Pervasive ethnic or religious prejudice wouldn’t look too good on the application. So they decided to do some quick window dressing – is that how you would say?”

Jake nodded.

“So one of the things they did is they made it easier for some minorities to enter universities. So, I got a degree I always dreamed about, thanks to some guilty conscience and political self-interest. And window dressing,” she laughed.

“To window dressing,” he raised his wine glass.

She bowed her head with a grin and clicked her glass against his.

Her teeth were the whitest that Jake has ever seen outside of dental products commercials. They shone from her face the same way her eyes did. The dark complexion and the curly jet-black hair must have come from her father. Together with stereotypes and discrimination. It made for an interesting, exotic combination, thought what little Jake has so far seen of the locals, it gave lie to the blond, blue eyed Slavic stereotype. Or was it meant to be the Scandinavians? Or the Aryans?

Over the entrees, Jake gave Marina what he thought was a comprehensive summary of the events that led him from a Midtown Manhattan law office to her brother’s taxi. Unlike Michal, she understood everything; like Michal, and for the whole “sister help” thing, she couldn’t either.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know anyone at the Customs,” Marina said after he finished his tale of woe. “But I will try to talk to them to find out exactly what’s going on and how long it’s going to take. It always helps if it comes from a local. When you’re a foreigner they give you a run-around. Not that they’re expecting bribes or anything; it’s just an old habit.”

The waiter brought in the mains. Steak with wild mushroom sauce for him, pracuszki for her.

She cut off a small piece of meat on her plate and held it out to him across the table.

“You sure you don’t want to just have a little bite to try?”

The moment of truth has arrived with a strong acidic whiff.

Jake leaned over and allowed himself to be fed. He chewed down on the liver and decided he’s had better and he’s had worse.

“What do you think?” Marina asked.

He nodded as if pleasantly surprised. It was easier to lie with no words.

“Now,” she said, “what are we going to do about this little matter of someone trying to kill you?”

Jake’s cutlery froze over his steak. “You mean...?”

“Yes, the blue Volvo that tried to run you over outside the airport,” Marina took a sip of her wine.

“I’m sure it’s just an accident,” Jake shrugged, the knife and fork still levitating. “Someone was just speeding away in a hurry and didn’t notice us.” What the “Lonely Planet” guide said about the crazy local drivers.

“Not according to my brother,” she said.

Jake finally cut off his first piece and stared at her.

“He says that the man who was driving the Volvo was looking straight at you two and accelerated as he got closer.”

Jake took the bite and started coughing.

“Are you alright?” Marina tensed in her chair, ready to spring to help. He motioned her down with his hand and turned sideways, away from the table, to clear his throat. When he finished, he drained his wine glass to wash everything down.

“Why would anyone try to kill me?” he said. “I’m only an American tourist who just arrived into your country. I haven’t done anything... Maybe some drug smuggler thought I was trying to muscle in on his territory?”

The attempt at a light humour did not work; Marina wouldn’t let it rest.

“This is quite serious. You – and my brother – might have been seriously injured. Or worse.”

“Well, maybe it was a case of mistaken identity,” Jake shrugged. “Assuming that Michal is right, that is. Maybe whoever was driving that Volvo thought that I – we – were someone else...”

“That doesn’t make it any more serious,” she shook her head. “Tomorrow morning we’ll go to the police.”

“Police?” Jake stiffened. “I don’t know. I’ve already have enough problems dealing with your Customs Service; I’m not sure I want to involve-“

“It’s not like you don’t have plenty of time now on your hands while we wait for the Customs,” she chastised him with a wave of her fork while pouring herself another glass of wine. Women here clearly didn’t wait for men to do the gentlemanly thing. “And if my brother is right, assume that for a moment, and it wasn’t as you say an accident or mistaken identity – think about it – someone means you harm. And if they tried once, they can try again.”

This was starting to get somewhat uncomfortable, and Jake couldn’t even blame the sheep liver.

“Let’s not try to build whole conspiracy theories out of one unfortunate incident,” he said. “I’m sure-“

“OK, OK,” her voice softened and she put her hand on top of his. She smiled again and Jake found himself forced to smile back.

“But we’ll still go and see the police,” she said.

Sneaky, he though.

“But what are we going to tell them?” he tried to outflank. “There are no witnesses. Except me and your brother. And I didn’t really see anything.”

“This took place just outside the only international airport in our country,” she said without skipping a beat. “There are security cameras installed everywhere. There will be plenty of footage.”

She was good, he had to admit.

“Whoever is driving that Volvo, we should be able to see their licence plate. And then hopefully find who they are and why they tried... did what they did. And hopefully you are right and Michal is wrong and it will turn up to be just some mistake or accident...”

But the unsaid “but” hang over the table like the cigarettes and aftershave aroma of Marina’s brother.

“OK, you win,” Jake sighed.

“I always win,” she winked at him again. “The luck of a Gypsy. Actually I only win half the time because...”

He laughed before she needed to finish. Jesus, what a day, he thought. If his friends back home could see him now they would be laughing too, most probably at him. He was pretty sure at least one of them would try to goad him to get his news Gypsy friend to read his hand and tell him his future. Not funny, guys.

Jake insisted on paying for dinner. Marina walked him back to the hotel, in her tour guide mode pointing various landmarks along the way and telling him interesting anecdotes. One, regarding a merchant’s five hundred years old, three storey town house involved an alchemist; another, more recent, had to do with Russian mobsters conning some Arabs by selling them fake radioactive material. Different times, the same bullshit. For bonus points: that’s where the word chemistry comes from: al-chemia, alchemy, chemistry, get it? He shrugged involuntarily. A few more hours with Marina and everything will start to seem connected.

“I will come by at 10,” Marina said as they were saying their goodbyes outside the hotel, “and we’ll go to the police station.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said, still unconvinced it was. He hesitated for a moment. “There is one other thing...”

She gave him a curious look.

“Money?” he said quietly.

“Money?” she repeated.

“Well,” he said, “you mentioned that you work as a tour guide or translator or... And I-“

She laughed. “Oh,” she patted him on the chest, “listen, I’m not doing this for money.”

“That’s very kind of you,” Jake insisted, “but I couldn’t possibly-“

“I’m doing this because I’m now quite intrigued. This is not some business deal I have to make sure both sides know they’re buying and selling the same thing. This... is more interesting. Grandfather’s ashes, dangerous cars,” she laughed again. He liked the sound, just not the context - him.

“Still-“ Jake tried to persevere but Marina cut him off again.

“Listen, really, don’t worry about it. Maybe one day you will be able to help me too. Maybe you’ll just buy me a nice bunch of flowers at the end of it. Or a castle... Just joking.”

She took a few steps backwards, waved at him – “See you tomorrow at 10” – and started walking away. Jake watched her slowly disappear into the darkness beyond the fading light of hundred years old gas lanterns restored and converted to electricity.

When he returned to his room, he spent ten minutes trying to chase away the feeling that something was amiss. Then he gave up and sat in the armchair in the corner of the room and looked around. Everything seemed normal. And yet...

He finally realised, maybe after another ten minutes. A small pile of papers he had left on the bedside table before going to dinner with Marina was slightly askew the edge. He didn’t know why he was so anal about it, but he would always leave things just in the right place, at the right angle, symmetrical. That’s why, in the end, he would always notice.

Jake stood up and slowly came over to the bedside table. He was right. And the page he remembered leaving on top of the pile wasn’t there anymore. Instead it was now underneath the second page. He put it back down and absent-mindedly tapped his fingers on the pile.

While he has been out of his room, enjoying his steak with wild mushroom sauce and a bite of pracuszki, lively conversation and some local colour, somebody has come in and looked through his things, not just the papers, he was sure of that, but all of his possessions, searching for God know what.

Marina’s paranoia had a way of becoming contagious - and manifested in flesh. He wondered if it was a Gypsy thing. Or perhaps a Galician thing.

Photo by Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash