Playing the Moldovans At Tennis (10 page)

Oh dear.

'So where is he taking us?' I asked.

To the hotel.'

'And we're supposed to stay there until Thursday?'

'Yes, but there is more bad news.'

I braced myself.

What is it?'

Well, it is his hotel and he says that you must pay to stay there, and he says that it will cost you $200 a night.'

This was outrageous. Iulian had reckoned that the State run hotel in Soroca had been expensive at $20 a night.

'$200? He's taking the piss, isn't he?'

'Yes, I think so. But at the moment I cannot think what we can do. We are in his car and he is driving it.'

Iulian had stated the obvious, but had correctly identified the quintessence of our predicament. We were in this man's car and he was driving it. We knew nothing about him, where he was taking us and what he planned on doing with us. Short of grabbing the wheel and forcing him over to the side of the road, we were powerless. My bottom went numb again.

As Grigorii Corzun drove us further and further into the countryside, Iulian and I fell silent. Occasionally there'd be a short conversation in Russian between Iulian and our host but I didn't even bother to ask for a translation. I'd decided that for the moment I would rather not know what was going on. Presently, we turned down a narrow lane and drew up in front of a huge house which resembled a Transylvanian castle; gothic style complete with turrets and the odd gargoyle. As if events weren't unfolding unkindly enough, just to compound things, the place to which we'd been brought looked like it belonged in the opening shot of a horror movie. This was the kind of place Scooby Doo would have refused to have entered, regardless of how many 'Scooby Snacks' he'd been offered.

Grigorii eased himself from the car and headed towards the house's big wooden door beckoning us to join him. Reluctantly I emerged from the back of the car immediately stepping in some horse shit as I did so. This wasn't turning out to be my day. Grigorii, seeing where I'd stepped, turned and said something.

'Does he want me to take my shoes off before I go in?' I asked Iulian.

'No, he says that this is good luck.'

Good luck eh? If horse shit brought good luck, then the way things were going at the moment I would need to do more than step in some. I'd need to immerse myself in an entire vat of the stuff.

Grigorii went inside expecting us to follow but I wanted a quick
time out
with Iulian.

'Before we go in there,' I said, 'let's just confirm what's going on here.'

'OK'

'We've been collected at a bus station in a hostile territory by a strange man who neither of us have met before, and we've been driven miles into the countryside and invited to stay at what looks like Vincent Price's house in
Bloodbath at the House of Death.'

'Yes, this is not what we were expecting.'

'Not exactly, no.'

I sighed. The moment clearly warranted it.

The thing is,' said Iulian, 'he insists that we stay here. He says that if we go to a hotel in Tiraspol it still won't be any cheaper than fifty dollars a night and there will be no heating, no hot water and you will have to register with the police.'

'Hmm. I don't fancy registering with the police that much,' I replied thoughtfully. They might just take a shine to my video camera and opt for a bit of confiscation. Oh, what the hell, let's just go in, if I die here I'm sure my loved ones will understand.'

'I don't think we have a lot of choice.'

We went in. Behind the door was a short corridor which led us through to a large courtyard around which there were many buildings. This wasn't an hotel but instead a huge and somewhat opulent complex – a holiday camp for horror movie extras. Grigorii took us on a guided tour. Through the landscaped gardens, past a large wishing well complete with decorative hand-carved gnomes, and then on to the tennis court. He was very proud of this, even though it was the smallest tennis court in the world. OK, it was marked out in regulation size but the fencing hugged the exact dimensions of the court, so there was no luxury of standing behind the base line, and running for any balls which were hit out wide would result in a premature collision with a perimeter fence. Grigorii then proudly pointed above us to some overhead netting about twenty feet up. On this court it seemed that no wild shots were going to lead to any balls getting lost, but then not many winning lobs would be hit either. Grigorii looked at me expectantly, no doubt seeking approbation for this absurd netting. It was difficult, but I managed a benign smile.

'Mr Corzun asks you,' said Iulian, 'if the houses in England have tennis courts like this.'

I wanted to tell him that there were no houses in the world which had tennis courts like this, but instead instructed Iulian to inform him that not many private houses in England had enough land for tennis courts.

'Maybe in America, but not in England,' I added.

Grigorii maintained that in the past he had shown Americans the tennis court and they had said that they didn't have courts in their gardens but that the British did. This deluded man clearly appeared to be of the belief that all Westerners were millionaires and, just as he thought I was doing, they had lied to conceal the fact. I resisted the temptation to say, 'Look mate, if I was a millionaire, which I'm not, then I certainly wouldn't have done what you've done and built myself a castle – such a vulgar and ostentatious shrine to wealth – especially if most of my fellow countrymen were living in abject poverty, you prat.'

I didn't think it would help somehow.

As the guided tour continued I tried to fathom exactly why it was that this rather strange and disagreeable man had brought me here as his guest. His motivation didn't appear to be drawn from any altruistic desire to assist me in my quest, since he had made it plain that his footballer was unavailable for any tennis activities until at least Thursday. My initial presumption that the whole thing had been a stunt to relieve me of my dollars was still plausible, although the palatial surroundings suggested that he was not a man who was short of a bob or two. Perhaps he just wanted to show off to a Westerner how despite the communist system it was still possible for an individual to amass a huge fortune. For a moment I considered the absurd possibility that he made his money from kidnapping Westerners and that I was soon to be the subject of a huge ransom demand.

This couldn't have been further from the truth. The real reason for my invitation was as unexpected as it was bizarre. It became clear as we were led through the gym and past the indoor swimming pool and down into the basement to view a collection of vintage brandies.

'Mr Corzun is suggesting that you bring people here from England,' said Iulian, 'and they stay in his luxurious hotel, and he says that you can take a cut.'

Oh no, surely not. He wanted to go into business with me?

I worked hard to suppress my initial impulse which was to laugh back in his face, and tried to formulate a polite refusal which would not offend. This was a tough call and one which threatened to be beyond me.

This is a very interesting proposition,' I began my response, still with no idea where it was leading, 'and were I more of a businessman I should definitely be interested, but this is such a lovely place and I should certainly like to help in some way.'

Not bad given that what was really going through my head. 'Look mate, you must be joking, no-one in their right mind would want to come here.'

After a few further exchanges on the subject, in which my would-be partner drew my attention to what an excellent area this was for hunting, and in which I promised to write favourably about his leisure complex on my return (a promise which I am now absolutely delighted to be breaking), we were led to the basement. Grigorii had said that this was to view his enormous collection of over three thousand bottles of brandy, but there was a part of me which flirted with the notion that because I had not shown enough enthusiasm for a partnership in 'Transnistria Tours' I was being led here for ritual execution.

We descended the marble stairs, beneath exotic chandeliers and beside mirrors adorned with decorative wood carvings, and entered a small room brimming over with bottles of spirit, covering every inch of wall space. If it was true that Yuri Gagarin had spent two full days holed up in the Cricova wine cellars, then he would have needed at least a fortnight in here. Seemingly all sizes, shapes and colours of bottles were represented. It was explained that as well as 3,000 bottles of brandy, Grigorii also had over 750 bottles of vodka, and that he had just recently started to collect whisky and rum too.

He pointed to a big barrel on the floor and boasted that this was 40-year-old Cognac. He filled a glass and forced it into my hand, instructing Iulian to film me drinking. No doubt this was intended to be a nice little touch for the insert on
The Holiday Programme
which he so eagerly sought. I took a sip and announced for the camera how delightfully smooth it was, slightly irritated by the fact that I hadn't had to lie. It
was
delightfully smooth, but I had wanted to dislike it as much as I was beginning to dislike its purveyor. His taste buds didn't deserve to be caressed by such an exquisite flavour. When Grigorii stood over me and insisted that I knocked back all the brandy in one big swig, I obeyed. For three reasons it was a good idea; it would taste good, it would please Grigorii, and best of all it would get me slightly pissed. I was happy to lose some of my grip on reality, since reality didn't feel that good just at the moment.

When we finally left this alcoholic's paradise and began to climb the stairs, Grigorii turned and said something to me which appeared to be of some import; however, before Iulian could furnish me with the translation, I cracked my head on a low beam above my head. An almost inevitable consequence of the recent infusion of brandy. After a few moments taken by those present to ensure that I was OK and that no blood had been drawn, we continued on our way.

'What was he saying to me before that happened?' I asked Iulian. 'It seemed to be quite important.'

'It was,' came the swift reply. 'He was telling you to mind your head.'

Oh.

'I must have a word with you about how quickly you provide your translations.'

Apart from the crack on the head, another consequence of the liquor now coursing my veins was diminished fear. Just like the small bloke in the pub who's had a skinful, I wasn't going to be afraid of looking up at the hulk along the bar and saying 'Yeah? Come and have a go if you think you're hard.' The problem with this course of action is that nine times out of ten the hulk
is
hard and the small man usually suffers a dent to his pride, as well as one to his skull. I have always felt that it is for this reason that alcohol should carry a health warning as well as cigarettes:

WARNING: THIS LAGER MIGHT CAUSE YOU TO PICK ON SOMEONE MUCH
BIGGER THAN YOU
.

Temporarily emboldened by the alcohol as I was, the next time Grigorii asked me to do a piece to camera for
The Holiday Programme
I was somewhat mischievous. I had been ushered into a large boardroom and deposited before a fireplace with 'Tiligul Tiraspol FC' carved in stone across it, and urged to embark on another reverential tribute to the wonderful world of Grigorii.

'Here I am in the boardroom of Grigorii Corzun,' I began, smiling for the camera and adopting my most artificial TV presenter pose. 'A man whose greatest asset is the fact that he doesn't speak English and therefore cannot understand what I am saying now. So, although I am presently gesturing to things around this room and pretending to talk about how beautiful they are, in fact I am taking this opportunity to put on record that this man is in fact the 'Arsehole of the Universe'.

Grigorii applauded. A great moment for me. I looked over to Iulian who was choking back a laugh. A minor victory had been achieved. True, we were still technically the prisoners of this man with no coherent policy for escape, but the thinking was – if you're going to get kidnapped then you may as well enjoy it.

I suppose that as unpleasant, opinionated, unwanted hosts go, Grigorii wasn't a bad one. At least he offered food, and the brandy kept flowing too. We found ourselves in a kind of dining-room area on one wall of which hung a vast wood-carved plaque depicting hunting scenes and, on another, three guns arranged in a rising diagonal just like the three birds of the stereotypical English working-class home – the key difference being that those birds very rarely get used in anger. ('Choose your weapon.' 'All right – sparrows at dawn.") Grigorii began recounting a story of how he'd been on a trip to England with the national football team and he'd ended up in a hotel bar in Manchester. One beer and a sandwich, he claimed, had cost him £25.

'You were robbed,' I said.

When Iulian duly translated, the mood in the room changed dramatically. Grigorii was not happy. His face became contorted with wrath and he suddenly turned on me with an angry tirade of words, and with an unexpected venom. I had clearly touched a nerve.

'Mr Corzun says that you have made a mistake,' said Iulian, clearly toning down the language, 'and that people in your country earn big salaries and that twenty-five pounds is what they pay for what he had.'

Twenty five pounds for a beer and a sandwich? In Manchester? This bloke was mad.

'I really don't want to stay here Iulian,' I said, while Grigorii shouted at a member of his staff in an adjoining room. When he gets back let's see if we can persuade him that we're dead keen to return here but that we can't afford to lose three days out of our schedule just relaxing here – beautiful though it is.'

'OK, I'll try, but up to now he has been really insistent that we stay.'

Yes, but I want you to go really over the top. Say that I have fallen in love with the place and that I want to start talking to some contacts back in the UK about it. Also tell him that most of my dollars are back in Chisinau and I want to be able to pay him properly for his hospitality and I can't do that until I've been back there to pick them up.'