The Madonna on the Moon (55 page)

“I’d like to hear what it is,” I said, with steely determination.

“We have to wait for his moment of triumph and then use his own weapons against him. Dimi says that when the demon is backed into the farthest corner, he will show his face. And then the
person who carries the demon within him is either redeemed or burned up.”

“Okay,” I said, “we’ll have to turn the world upside down a bit.”

“Yes, we will, with a little bit of playacting.”

T
he date was December 25, 1989. When I returned to the Hotel Intercontinental with Buba Gabor in the wee hours, we were hatching a desperate plan and
didn’t yet know that we would be putting it into operation that very night.

At two minutes to three on the afternoon of Christmas Day, a telephone rang on the reception desk of the Athenee Palace Hotel, the best address in the capital. The caller, an army doctor at the
Targoviste barracks who had just filled out two death certificates, asked to be connected to the presidential suite where Richard Nixon had once stayed. Stefan Stephanescu picked up the receiver
and heard the words from the lips of Dr. Florin Pauker: “It’s over.”

One hour later, the main masterminds of the coup d’état (poets and dissidents excepted) met in secret in the hotel’s conference room. For the present, they agreed to keep
their deliberations in strictest confidence. At the same time, unconfirmed reports began to circulate among the journalists in the Intercontinental that the president had been found guilty by a
drumhead court-martial and had sung “The Internationale” shortly before being shot.

The news of the execution of the Conducator and his wife spread like wildfire. But since absurd rumors that seldom turned out to be true were an hourly occurrence in recent days, the reaction
was muted at first. When people close to the National Guard announced that Studio Four of the state television network, now under revolutionary control, intended to broadcast original footage
showing the execution of the dictatorial couple, the streets and squares of the capital emptied in a flash. While everyone waited spellbound in front of their TVs and network spokespersons kept
postponing the broadcast of the videotape because they wanted to ensure that they hadn’t fallen for a clever falsification by counterrevolutionaries, the handpicked members of the Front for
National Salvation took their seats around a conference table.

In less than two hours, under the direction of Stephanescu, the members of an interim government had been sorted out. During the negotiations, the faction of the Kronauburg District secretary
had quashed any doubts about who had the strongest claim to lead the country as future prime minister. Stephanescu extended their vow of confidentiality until that evening and adjourned the
meeting. A public proclamation was scheduled for 8:00 p.m. in the former Royal Palace of the Republic. It would fall to Stephanescu as the designated head of state to announce the death of the
Conducator and the victory of freedom over Socialism.

When Fritz Hofmann, Buba Gabor, and I learned who was going to lead the country out of the darkness and into the light of a democratic future, I told Fritz, “The time has come for us to
start sawing.”

Fifteen minutes later, the three of us were sitting in Fritz’s hotel room. “The best protection against bugs,” Fritz said as he opened the tap in the tub as far as it would go.
“Believe me, a waterfall like that drives every secret service guy listening totally crazy. Although I doubt that at this point there’s a security agent left with any desire to listen
in. But better safe than sorry.”

I sketched out the plan Buba and I had hatched, and Fritz listened closely. He rubbed his hands. “Okay,” he said. “Very good. I’m in. But you’ll never pass as my
colleague wearing clothes like that. At least not for an interview with a foxy politician.” Fritz pointed to the closet. “My things will fit you. Pick something out.”

“And as long as you’re about to transform your appearance,” added Buba, “a bath and a shave wouldn’t do you any harm either. But I have to get going, too. Nobody
will take me for a passionate Italian looking like this. But just wait till you see the chic things I have in my suitcase.”

“How long will it take you to get to your uncle’s, change, and get back here?” asked Fritz.

“At least two or three hours by bus.”

“There’s a revolution going on today,” I said, “and besides, it’s Christmas. The buses won’t be running.”

Fritz reached into his camera bag and pulled out a wad of green bills. “There are taxis in front of the hotel.” He gave Buba a fifty-dollar bill. “That should do the trick. But
wait—what if the Securitate check you and want to see a press pass?”

“You doubt my skills?” Buba replied in mock annoyance. “You can bet I’ve learned how to persuade men to do anything I want. See you at nine. We’ll meet at the
Atheneum, by the monument to . . . what’s that poet’s name?”

“Mihail Eminescu!”

Chapter Fourteen

Buba didn’t get back until ten, worn out and complaining. “The taxi driver messed me up. He wouldn’t drive me into Titan II for all the dollars in the world.
He promised to wait for me just outside the neighborhood, but he left while I was changing. It was stupid to give him his money before he brought me back. I never would have done that in Italy. I
had to walk back, and in these shoes! Is he in the hotel already?”

“Man, I’m just happy nothing happened to you.” A weight fell from my heart. Fritz was relieved, too. “No, they’re all still at the Royal Palace. I would guess there
are a few thousand people crowded into the ballroom. There was lots of activity in town just now. Everybody wants to hear the head revolutionary Stephanescu. Our time line has been moved back. The
new government clique won’t show up at the hotel before midnight. Let’s only hope our doctor delivers a brilliant speech. That’ll increase his desire to celebrate his triumph in
the bar.”

“What if he doesn’t drink as much as he used to when he partied with Angela?” Buba seemed nervous. “If he stays sober and wants to keep a clear head, what’ll we do
then? What’ll I do then?”

“He still drinks,” Fritz assured her. “People like that can’t stand themselves otherwise.”

“Let’s go to his hotel and wait for him inside.” I was shivering. I was wearing nothing but an anthracite-colored jacket, a white dress shirt, and clean blue jeans. My
clean-shaven cheeks exuded the scent of fresh cedar and Italian lemon ice. “You smell good, Pavel,” Buba remarked, “and you look good, too.”

A porter in a sequined jacket, flanked by two National Guard soldiers in camouflage uniforms, threw open the door of the Athenee Palace Hotel. The almost-deserted reception hall was pregnant
with an atmosphere outside of time. The oppressive burden of past history was as much in evidence as the exciting confusion of the present and the uncertainty of the future, all mixed together with
the sticky sweet taste of the Christmas message of Christ’s birth. Silver tinsel glittered from the ceiling. Colorful lights twinkled in a Christmas tree whose tip had been clipped off so it
would fit under the staircase next to the elevator. Teenage soldiers dozed in the corners, arms around their assault rifles. They raised their heads, looked the three of us over, their eyelids
drooped, and they nodded off again.

Buba plopped down onto one of the heavy leather easy chairs across from the reception desk. I hardly dared look at her. I had expected another Buba and, as I admitted to myself, I had feared
another Buba, a woman who attracted rapacious stares. Brash, provocative, louche. But a quick glance at Buba revealed her to be almost inconspicuous. She seemed to sink and almost disappear into
the black easy chair. She laid her dark cape over its arm and I saw that beneath it, she was dressed entirely in black. To my surprise, with her expensive shoes, silk stockings, long skirt, and
soft wool sweater with a modest neckline, Buba revealed much less of herself than I had feared in my suspicious anxiety. Although she by no means hid her cleavage, a delicate cross hanging between
the curves of her breasts gave them a hint of girlish charm and chaste innocence. She had put on just a bit of lipstick and otherwise dispensed with cosmetics or flashy jewelry. Her locks were
hidden by a black head scarf. A widow, the thought flashed through my mind. She was married and she’s a widow. But when Buba slipped off her pumps, stretched her aching feet, and gave me an
impish sideways wink I knew she was playing a sophisticated game. She didn’t reveal herself, she concealed herself instead. She made known her feminine attraction by keeping it hidden. For
the first time since rediscovering her, I felt I didn’t just love this woman, I desired her with a yearning that almost consumed me. She stroked my cheek. “Trust me, dearest. I know
what I’m doing.”

“Okay, time to throw the fish some chum.” Fritz Hofmann shouldered his camera bag. Buba and I watched as he strolled calmly over to the reception desk and exchanged a few words with
an employee behind the counter. She smiled, disappeared for a moment, and returned with the head reception clerk. Hofmann shook his hand, wrote a few lines on a piece of paper, and handed it to the
man along with a banknote he had discreetly slid beneath it. Fritz garnered an eagerly subservient nod, and the man placed the message into the mail slot of the presidential suite.

The elevator boy took us to the hotel bar on the second floor. There was no one at the semicircular bar except three women in tight leatherette miniskirts, sucking on slim filtered cigarettes.
They gave Buba a dismissive once-over, giggled among themselves, and then went back to sipping their cocktails.

Fritz gave Buba a gentle pinch in the side. “You’ve got some hot competition there,” he smirked.

She replied, “Don’t talk about those girls like that. The bodyguards will be kicking them out of their beds before the night is over.”

Buba ordered orange juice, Fritz and I mineral water. Around eleven thirty the first leather jackets showed up with scowling faces and beeping intercoms to reconnoiter the bar. The noise level
started to rise. In a few minutes there was hardly any room left to stand at the bar. Then he arrived. The people at the bar cleared a path for him and applauded—just a few at first, then the
applause became a rhythmic clapping punctuated by frenetic cheers.

Stefan Stephanescu sat down at a reserved table with blue plush benches along with some other Salvation Front people. A waiter brought Rémy Martin and Dom Pérignon. After an hour,
the sleepless nights of revolution began to have their effect on most of the guests. The first sleep-deprived ones had already started dragging themselves off to bed when the head of the reception
desk entered the bar. Although he hadn’t heard it, he congratulated Stephanescu on his magnificent speech and handed him a note, then pointed in Fritz Hofmann’s direction.

Stephanescu rose and buttoned his sport coat. Then he lit a Carpati, cradled his brandy snifter between index and middle finger, and approached our table.

“Allow me to introduce myself. Stefan Stephanescu.” As he held out his hand to Fritz, Buba took off her head scarf and tossed back her locks with a gentle sweep of her hand.
“Oh, please pardon me. A cavalier greets the lady first.” The soon-to-be head of state offered her his hand. “May I join you?”

Buba shifted her behind to one side. “It would be a pleasure.”

“And you are the American journalist from
Time
magazine?” Stephanescu turned to Fritz. “I must say, it’s a prestigious publication. It’ll be available
again here in our country as soon as we clear the bookstores of the Conducator’s unspeakable magazines. But I think we know each other, don’t we? Not personally, of course. But you took
my picture day before yesterday at the press conference of the Front for National Salvation, Mr. . . .”

“Fritz Hawfmen,” Fritz introduced himself in the broadest possible American accent.

“Hoffman? Like the famous actor? Dustin? The legendary Marathon Man?”

“Exactly. And as things look now, you’re going to achieve not inconsiderable fame yourself. I must have had a good nose. As of today, my photos of you have historic significance.
I’ve already sold two dozen of them. And your train has hardly left the station yet. The swan song of the Conducator has ushered in a new era. Your face will appear on the cover of the next
edition of
Time
magazine, just in time for New Year’s. Not bad, right? The title story is already in the pipeline. Headline: ‘Light in the Realm of Shadows’ or something
like that. My colleagues have already faxed the first copy to Washington. Perhaps I should introduce you to my Italian colleague. Angelique Gabo from Milan. Next to her is the indispensable and
indefatigable Herr Paul, our interpreter.”

I twirled my finger at my forehead and gave a bored yawn. “Indefatigable, always on call, and all for a handful of dollars. But in view of the late hour, we don’t want to take up too
much of your time. In a word, we hope to interview you, Dr. Stephanes—how soon may we address you as Mr. Prime Minister?”