Mirage Beyond Flames (Coriola) (15 page)

Above
them, at a dizzying height, an almost full moon made its shy appearance through the irregular tree tops.

“Do you know what’
s the oddest thing in this whole business?” Gerard ruminated thoughtfully. “She asked me where we’d left the carriage.”

“The carriage?” she exclaimed stunned.

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

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

He completely empathized.
If before the contorted trunks 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, not at all natural in a forest. At the very least, the insects – which overpopulated any forest– should’ve made some noise, but not even a single mosquito made its presence known.

A flutter of wings suddenly broke the silen
ce very close to their heads. He felt Linda 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 midd
le of the road, right as they’d left it - a sign that no man or car had crossed by.

After they got inside and
started on their way, the Jeep’s strong headlights illuminating the road, they both began feeling safer. Gerard turned on the radio, letting the rhythmic music to reestablish a state of comfort.

He drove carefully, following
closely the directions on the notepad. Shortly, they were on a highway flanked by houses. In the horizon were contoured mountains – or maybe just some high hills. On their surface glowed a light here and there, indicating the presence of some isolated huts.

Darkness had really fall
en, but the road was brightened by street-lights. The traffic appeared quite animated, convincing the two they were back in the civilized world.

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

The buildings of Cluj-Napoca we
re beautiful, mostly old, with their own personality, seemingly having imprinted on each brick the town’s history.

They passed by houses, churches, blocks and shops,
finally reaching the place the GPS indicated as their final destination:
CLINICA BATTISTE
.

The
building was simple, white, having two stories and 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 t
he clinic. The two got out of the car.  Stretching, they studied the surroundings.

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

They climbed the few steps leading to a massive wooden door that 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:
Dr. Jean-Paul Battiste
. From inside came masculine voices, talking something in Romanian.

Gerard knocked then opened the door, letting Linda
enter first. Two men sat on each side of a desk, in the room stuffy with cigarette smoke rings.

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. While he rose to greet them in the native tongue he’d missed so much, Gerard noticed his hair was now completely grey.

“Jean-Paul, my friend, it’
s so good to see you after all these years!”

He hugged his old friend tight, exclaiming
enthusiastically while he was strongly grasped by the other man.

“Good to see you too, my son!” 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 Linda, kissing her hand. “You are much more beautiful in reality than in the newspaper. A jewel of a woman!”

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

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

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

“I’m not at all careless,
mon amie
. 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 only Romanian and Russian, so you can communicate only by signs or using truly yours as a translator.”

The man was almost an anti-Jean-Paul: short
, overweight, bald and blue-eyed. He smiled at the two, 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.”

The
professor waved them goodbye, grabbing a briefcase from the desk. He left in a hurry, closing the door silently.

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

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

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

The Battiste’s house was exactly next to the clinic. It was a small building, made from grey brick, with copper-colored borders that matched the roof and front door. In the front yard, beyond a thin fence, colorful rose-bushes gave the ambient a touch of color.

They
entered in a narrow hallway, where they were greeted by Madame Battiste. 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, nearly black, very expressive and welcoming. Over a blue home attire she wore a pink apron around her waist.

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

“Welcome,” the woman told them in
strong-accented English, smiling warmly. “It’s very nice to meet you!”

She gestured
the two to follow her along the hallway. As they walked, they both admired the paintings, as well as the Romanian traditional decorations along 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.

“Lea
ve your luggage here, change, then we’ll have dinner. Right next to your room is the bathroom,” he showed them. “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 in our bedroom in the middle of the night!” he joked laughing. Mariana dragged him out of the room smiling chagrined and closed the door, leaving the guests alone. 

The two analyzed the
new surroundings. Their room was small, like the rest of the house, furnished with a big bed, two night-stands, a table, two chairs and a closet. Gerard wasn’t all that intrigued, but noticed Linda was very impressed by all the decorative objects. They’d both found out later from their host the name of every object.

The bed was covered with a colorful
macat
, having a complicated floral pattern. On the wall, above the bed was a
carpeta
– a woven colorful canvas representing a pastoral scene. On the opposite wall, next to the closet, was hanging something named
goblen
– a wooden-framed canvas on which were sewed in vivid colors a Virgin Mary and a tiny Baby Jesus.

What she
seemed to enjoy the most were the
mileuri,
spread all around the house – lacy crocheted webs that decorated shelves and tables, or stood under
bibelouri
.

“I wonder if all the
se are made by Mariana’s hands,” she told him while they were unpacking their shoulder bags’ contents, arranging their clothes in the closet.

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

“Fascinating!” she remarked admiringly while she was undressing, preparing to put on a simple house-dress.

“Very,” he whispered roughly in her ear, sliding behind her, enveloping her in his arms. “I just hope they don’t stumble upon us tonight!” he added, kissing the lobe of her ear.

Linda cleared her throat, stepping
back reluctantly.

“Sha
me on you! Don’t even think we’re gonna do indecent things in the home of these decent people!”

“
I’m not planning to do anything indecent, baby. We’ll hide under this wonderfully weaved quilt. I just hope the bed doesn’t squeak.”

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

Chapter Seventeen

The living room was as prettily furnished as the rest of the hous
e. In the middle of the room stood a round table surrounded by six chairs. Other furnishings included a huge book shelf, a couch and a TV which seemed to be a replica of the one in The Flinstone 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. She asked Mariana, using English and sign language, if she could write down the recipes of the dishes they’d had. When the latter gladly agreed, she excused herself to go get her notepad.

Meanwhile, he
and Jean-Paul put together a plan, describing 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,” his older colleague told him.

“Wh
at’s their diagnosis?”

“Well, 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 went on, regret roughening his voice, “maybe just 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, interrupted by Linda’s appearance in the doorway, wearing a puzzled expression on her beautiful face.

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

He shrugged.

“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 curious.

Gerard sighed, putting his fork down.

“Ah, it’s a long story, my friend. On the way here we got lost somewhere in the woods, we stumbled upon a cabin which seemed to have appeared from the last century and a woman explained us how to get here. You didn’t tell
me how great this country is. From a geographical point of view it is gorgeous, but…”

He sto
pped abruptly, noticing Mariana and Jean weren’t eating anymore, but watching 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 Battiste family members exchanged
, combined with the expressions on their faces had an element so strangely alarming that Gerard felt how an inexplicable shiver crosses his entire body. He knew Linda felt the same, as she grabbed his hand, uneasy. They all stood still for a long moment, until he broke the tensed inertness.