Just a Monumental Summer: Girl on the train (6 page)

“It’s always something,” my mother used to complain after a long, sleepless night. Only now, it was me who wasn’t sleeping very well. And it was not something; it was everything: new place, no space, no privacy.

After we woke up, Alin decided to rehearse his song. The song was improving, but he was still trying to rhyme the lyrics. I went to the balcony and opened the door. The air was salty and fishy, and the sun was already shining.
Why can’t I live here forever?

He stopped playing, and I heard the soft padding of his feet as he approached me. I didn’t turn around. His arms slid around my waist, and his fingers interlocked in front of me. His kisses on my neck were divine. He gently pulled my hair up and continued to lovingly nuzzle my neck. I tried to forget everything else: the botched exam, Alexandru, my aunt’s filthy apartment, my mother’s disappointment; my life.

Suddenly, his voice interrupted my fantasies. “

“I can’t wait to hear our song on the radio. You are my poetry, babe. Do you want to be my muse?”

Are you kidding me? I would be your cleaning lady
. “I thought I was already your muse,” I said. “So when do you think it will be ready?”

“We have rehearsals in two days, and we will start working on it.” His voice intoned doubt as he went on. “I hope this year we’ll break through.”

It was one in the afternoon. Alexandru was supposed to be here at five. Plenty of time. I said I wanted to go to the beach and have something to eat. I was trying to figure out how to tell him to take his stuff from my room. “Alin, a friend will be here at five. He will help me to get a job here.”

He didn’t let me finish. “It’s ok. I understand.” He took his luggage and his guitar and went toward the door. “Get ready. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

We stopped in front of a small bistro. We chose to stay inside, as the sun was too strong. The place was packed, outside and inside. We found a small table with two seats, and a girl, about twenty, approached us.

“Hey, sweetie,” said Alin. “How are you?” He gave her a warm hug.

What the fuck! You can only use your smile with me, Alin.

She smiled at us. She was wearing a decent, below-the-knee, flowery dress. Her light-brown hair was tied up in a ponytail, and she was wearing no makeup.

I am not jealous; I am not jealous. Who is that bitch?

“Dana, this is Mona,” Alin said, looking kindly at her.

Dana said hello to me, and I couldn’t help but instinctively warm to her sweet smile, although I refused to let down my guard down.

“Mona, did you see the statues?” Dana asked, ignoring him. “They are everywhere around the resort.”

“Ah, I did see one. The one that looks a corkscrew bottle opener,” I said hesitantly, knowing my comment would make me look embarrassing.

Alin laughed. “That’s how we refer to it. The screw opener. But actually, it represents butterflies swirling around.”

Dana joined his laugh. “There are more statues all around. Real art. Not communist, horrendous pieces of shit. All great artists exhibit their art here. I would be happy to show you the real Costinesti, Mona.”

While admiring her cute and delicate face, which was playfully sprinkled with naughty freckles, I had to ask myself:
Are you for real? How can a person look sosweet and innocent?

We had a good lunch. Dana took a break to sit with us and chat about the statues, about her dog, and about her “stupid” neighbor, who apparently couldn’t stand her dog. There was something about Dana—the way she talked, the words she used. She breathed genuine kindness from all her pores. I’ve always felt drawn to and admired pure people. Dana was a wonder for me. I asked myself how someone could be so innocent when the world was ugly and bad. I envied her because I knew I couldn’t be like her. I lost my innocence a long time ago, and I knew I could never go back to that place.

A group of people from the other table recognized Alin and congratulated him for last night’s performance. “You guys were awesome. Great show, man. Are you working on something new?” a skinny, dirty guy, probably a student, asked while shaking Alin’s hand.

I need to remind Alin to wash his hands,
I thought while trying to hold my breath; this guy smelled bad—really bad.

“I will have a new song coming soon. I was working on it, and now I may have found my muse.” Alin looked at me with an accomplice’s smile. I was grateful and smiled back at him.

“Oh, man. Great, man. So happy to hear it, man.” He kept shaking hands and didn’t seem to notice the secret message Alin was trying to deliver to him; he didn’t give a damn I was Alin’s new muse. “Man, keep going. You rock. Literally.”

I was suddenly annoyed, watching the student leave. “Such a moron. I suppose he’s a student. By the way, go and wash your hands.”

Alin looked at me, confused; it seemed he didn’t get me. “He was a fan. I like to be nice with people,” Alin said simply.

“I’m nice as well. I know how to behave, but I have little tolerance for dirty and lazy people. He was so dirty, Alin, I could smell him from a distance. I may need to throw up, and he didn’t notice I was your muse,” I said, frustrated.

Alin laughed. “Oh, you know, not everyone can afford to stay at the hotel. Those guys sleep in a tent, all together, a lot of them. All they eat is one breakfast a day. They get to use the beach showers, but…”

I cut him off. “Or they are too lazy to take a shower. As you said, they can wash themselves at the beach. Not a big deal.”

Alin didn’t like my attitude. “Mona, don’t be judgmental. We all have a fight and a cross to carry.” 

I changed my tone: “Do you know what the paradox of tolerance is?”

“No. One of your
crazy
theories?” He asked using air quotations.

“I wished. There is great philosopher Karl Popper who argue that all views should be tolerated. The theory states that unlimited tolerance will lead to the disappearance of tolerance. If we exercise unlimited tolerance, even to those who are intolerant, how can we defend a tolerant society against the onslaught of the intolerant? Practicing tolerance with all price, the tolerant will be destroyed, and tolerance with them.”

He raised his eyebrows: “Challenging theory, but you can’t use it a pretext to extend your judgmental opinions.”

“Of course not. I am not saying we should always suppress the ideas of intolerant ethics. It has to be a balance. This is the secret of happiness, and success. I can’t be tolerant all time. Blame my demons, blame my vanity, or my flaws. That’s me. And going back to
your
student: he was drinking beer. He has money for drinks -” I couldn’t stop mentioning.

“Oh, they are inventive. You know the deposit the tourists have to pay for the beer glasses? They’ll watch out, and when you go into the water, they will steal the empty beer glasses, bring them back to the kiosk, and get money back from the deposit. They do this a couple of times, and they can buy their beer.”

“Damn, why I didn’t have this idea?” I laughed. Then I added: “Now, they are also thieves.”

“But inventive ones.” He laughed as well. “Don’t be judgmental, Mona,” It sounded like a very nicely worded request.

We said good-bye to Dana and promised her we would go and see the statues. We left the beach and tried to find a space close to the radio station. The Obelisk statue was the best spot to be while at the beach; its stark-white, curvaceous features had an almost mystical quality about them. Standing more than eighteen meters, it was a well-known tourist attraction and more.

The original structure had fallen victim to storms and flooding and now lay buried in the sand. It was rebuilt about ten years ago. Over time, it had become a place where many students congregated. The beach was narrow and short, not more than a mile long and around eighty feet wide. The Obelisk was the place where most spontaneous concerts and events took place during the day. In the evenings, when the heat started to settle, students would gather around the fire, singing and having fun. The radio station would air foreign songs, folk music, poetry, interactive contests, and a lot of exciting shows.

The radio station villa was small, but you could spot it easily—colorful billboards were hung around the building. The radio station didn’t transmit through the air—it was only an amplification station—but it had more listeners than standard FM stations because of the nature of the place itself, averaging between ten to twenty thousand listeners a day.

The place was crowded. Colorful. Young. An improvised stage, made of wood placed on the sand, was the only empty spot. I wondered why nobody had put some chairs and umbrellas onto it. The sand was hot, and there was no place left to put a towel. 

“There’s no way we will find an empty spot, Alin,” I said, discouraged.

“We don’t need it. The afternoon show starts soon.” He saw my look, and he continued, “Oh, I forgot. You’ve never been here. Today, we have a live interview. It will be outside. It’s fun. George T. is great. An asshole, but he is good at his job.”

George T. was the most famous radio personality in the country. He had his own show, heard across the country. His voice was made for radio. For the summer, he got residency in Costinesti and ran the radio station.

I avoided telling Alin about my radio internship job with George T. ; first, I had to be sure I’d get it. 

We walked toward the villa, trying to bypass the crowd gathered outside the radio station. 

We went inside, and Alin’s band was already there. Only two small rooms, separated by a glass wall. I looked around and saw George T. with big headphones on. I knew the moment of truth had come: the famous George T. talking into the microphone with his recognizable gravelly, distinct, low voice. It had to be him. There was no one like him.
But that can’t be him!Not at all. The balding, dark-skinned, old guy with a horse mouth and fake big teeth couldn’t be the famous George T. It could not be him!
Whoever had given that body to that smoky, mysterious voice must have been drunk.

Geta approached me. Her hair was not blond anymore but was a dark, shiny red. “Do you like my hair?” she asked in an unusually proud way.

“You dyed it.”

“Yep, I am a hairdresser. Just finished the school, and I need to practice. Let me know if you are interested.”

My hair was long, shiny, and healthy, and I was proud of it. I didn’t know if I should trust her or not. She must have noticed my doubts, because she reassured me. “Don’t worry, I am good. I do everyone’s hair. Alin’s, Vladi’s, all the girls who work in here. My clientele’s growing day by day.”

I was wondering why a man needed a personal hairdresser, but I guessed that was one of the perks of being a rock star.

We left the radio station. Outside, the stage was filled with chairs and umbrellas, and the overflow of people had already created a thick circle around the stage. Some were standing, some were sitting on flexible camping chairs. Alin brought me a seat. George T. came out from the villa, and the crowed started to cheer. George T. approached the stage, enjoying the clapping and yelling. He sat at his designated spot, took the microphone, and yelled, “Hello, Costinesti! Are you ready to have some fun?” 

He had good chemistry with the crowd. “We have great guests today. Silent Delusion is here,” George T. added proudly.

The group of fans cheered. I envied Alin and his group for a second, and I wanted badly to be part of their life.

It took a while to silence the crowd. Then, George T. said to the band, “I know you’ve heard this question a lot of times, but why Silent Delusion? It sounds like a romance novel title, the kind that bored housewives hide under their pillows and read when they’re alone.” 

 A loud “ouch” crossed the entertained crowd’s lips. Yep, I remembered; irony and sarcasm were like a second language to him. 

Alin laughed innocently. “George, you have to understand, we started our group when we finished high school. We simply thought it was a cool name for a band. Now we’re stuck with it, I guess.”

Jony interrupted Alin. “Anyway, George, how come you are an expert in bored housewives?”

The crowd laughed. George T. waited till the crowd had calmed down and answered, “Fair enough. You are not the only band who’s had name difficulties. The Beatles’ first band name was the Quarrymen. They also briefly changed their name to Johnny and the Moondogs.”

Jony took the microphone again and asked in a passive-aggressive tone. “George, it seems you are very interested and you know a lot about music. But are you musically inclined? Can you play
least
one instrument?”

George T. didn’t hurry to answer. He took a long sip from his water. He set the bottle down slowly. “Actually, I am not musically inclined, but that’s fine with me, because around ten thousand people are injured by musical instruments each year across the world,” he finally answered.

The crowd cheered. I noticed Alin giving Jony a short, disappointed look.

The talk lasted about an hour. Alin got to talk about future plans and about his new song he was working on.