The next couple of visits went smoothly. No problems. Money in the bank – or in Stanga's pocket. He pulled up outside a small terraced house with a satellite dish almost as large as the roof. Knocking on the door, Caramarin was surprised when it opened immediately. A large woman with huge breasts flopping onto her larger stomach stood in the hallway. She wore an outsize t-shirt over green leggings. There was a hole over one thigh showing an expanse of pallid flesh. She was holding a chocolate bar.
Everyone else so far had been hostile but this woman pulled him inside. Caramarin was startled. A horrible idea that this woman wanted to pay him off 'in kind' filled his mind. No! No way! The woman dragged him into the lounge. It was filled with children of all ages from a cute eight year old down to a baby with a chocolate covered face. They couldn't all be hers? Surely? A nightmare image of this woman getting down and dirty entered his mind. He thrust the picture away and turned to her with a smile.
The woman pointed to the radiator which took up much of one wall. From what he could see under the clothes draped over it, the thing looked old and rusty. She said something but Caramarin shrugged. The woman grabbed his hand and placed it on the heater. He snatched his hand away, expecting to be burned, but the radiator was stone cold. He touched it again. Yeah still cold.
Caramarin's heart sank as he understood what this woman wanted. He was no plumber. Ransacking his memories of how to bleed a radiator he fetched his tool box from out the van. He was going to have to speak to Stanga about this side of things. For a moment he was tempted to just abandon the van, leave Stanga's money in the glove locker and walk away.
No. He could at least have a go and, like Stanga said, if he couldn't fix it then Stanga would send out his workmen. No dramas. Caramarin was a man, after all. He had to walk tall and he couldn't let the whole male sex down by running away from a radiator. Completing small tasks was part of his male heritage. Showing more confidence than he felt, Caramarin re-entered the house.
Setting the tool box down in front of the radiator, Caramarin found what he was looking for. A brass radiator key. He wasn't sure how to mime 'bowl' without it looking suggestive so he walked into the woman's kitchen and found one under the sink. The whole tribe followed him into and out of the kitchen. The younger members with wide, staring eyes wondering what was going to happen.
Caramarin set the bowl beneath the radiator and turned the key. Nothing happened. Used a bit more force but still nothing happened. He peered at the valve. It was rusted shut. Thinking back to some of the old cars he used to drive, Caramarin smiled up at the eyes surrounding him and sprayed oil at the valve. He hoped that would work.
Unable to take any more of the tribe's stares or nudges – or the sound of the woman chomping chocolate – Caramarin tried the key again. The key turned. Just a little but that was enough. A rusty brown drop of water leaked from the valve. Feeling like he was on top of things, Caramarin gave it another squirt of oil and then turned the key a little more. More dirty water dribbled down the side of the radiator joining older streaks. The oldest child moved the bowl to catch the water. Caramarin smiled and nodded at her.
With a smile, Caramarin turned the key all the way. He rocked backwards with the shock, losing his balance as a jet of ice-cold, filthy water sprayed out of the valve, catching him full in the face. The brass key fell to the floor and disappeared beneath a mound of toys. The room erupted with children's laughter. The woman swore – he needed no translation for that – snatched the bowl from her daughter and lifted it up to the torrent. Water bounced into and out of the basin, spraying over the laminate floor and all over the woodchip. More cascaded over her breasts making her look as if she'd decided to enter a 'Miss Wet T-shirt contest' for ugly people.
The children howled with mirth. This was much better than the cartoons on the wide screen. Even the baby had joined in and was waving its chocolate bar around and kicking its legs in the air. The woman turned to Caramarin and said something. Her tone was angry.
Despite himself, he started to smile. This was the most fun he'd had since coming to this rain-soaked country. And now it seemed to be raining on the inside of this house. More water cascaded out of the open valve spraying all over the place. A tan puddle formed beneath the heater, spreading out. Instinctively, the children backed away from the foul liquid. Still clutching her bowl, the woman screamed abuse at him. Caramarin suppressed his own laughter.
Only the cute eight year old seemed to retain her presence of mind. She ran to the kitchen and found some towels which she laid out. The woman dropped her useless bowl and grabbed Caramarin's arm, pointing at the Niagara cascading everywhere.
Rubbing rust smelling water out of his face, Caramarin turned to the valve. Where was the key? Where was the fuckin' key? It wasn't sticking out of the valve any more. He recalled a brass shape tumbling to the floor. Crouching, he knocked the water soaked toys to one side. One of the little boys howled – with tears now – not laughter and dived on a wet looking stuffed panda. The boy slipped on the wet towel and crashed into Caramarin who in turn caught another jet of water straight in the face and then it poured down his front, soaking him. Some trickled into his mouth leaving a foul, stale taste.
Under his breath as there were children present, Caramarin swore. The woman screamed down his ear and a blast of her chocolatey breath filled his nostrils. He gagged with the taste and smell filling his senses. He turned to face her when she pushed at him. The woman probably weighed more than him and his foot skidded out from under slipping on the wet laminate. Unbalanced now, Caramarin snatched at the radiator for support. He crashed to the floor, his feet splayed out and his bottom ended up in the dirty wet puddle. A sudden jolt of pain shot up his arm from his wrist. This was getting out of control now. He'd been in fire fights that were better organised than this clusterfuck. He was only here to collect money and bleed an old radiator. How hard could that be? Too much for him apparently.
Time to take a firm grip on this clusterfuck. Caramarin struggled to his feet, gently shaking his wrist and bent over, searching for the missing key. There were more howls of laughter from the assembled youngsters as they caught sight of the wet seat of his jeans. Some of them pointed at his bottom and he heard the word 'poo' used several times. Craning his neck, trying to see Caramarin spotted the edge of a brown stain soaked into the seat of his jeans. He looked like a man with bad diarrhoea who didn't make it fast enough to the rest rooms. His lips curled upwards.
The only one not seeing the funny side was the woman herself. She gripped his wrist and another flare of pain sped up his arm. Caramarin stopped laughing and turned to face her. More water jetted out of the valve, some splattering up the wall, more joining the rapidly expanding puddle. The cute girl scooped up the towels, ran into the kitchen and wrung them out. She trotted back in and relaid the damp towels over the small pool. But by now the towels didn't even cover all the spilled water.
The woman shrieked with anger and Caramarin watched her breasts wobble with her fury. He blinked water out of his eyes. The soaked t-shirt made it clear that, no, she wasn't even wearing a bra. She should. Dropping his eyes, he scanned the floor desperate for a hint, a gleam of brass among the toys and clutter. Anything to stop the torrent. There was no sign. It was as if the key had vanished. Still more water poured out of the valve, flooding out onto the waterlogged toys and spreading over the laminate towards the overstuffed couch and easy chairs. This was a disaster.
The little ones, sensing that this was no longer funny, stopped laughing and edged away wanting to put some distance between themselves and this chaos. The little boy clutched the damp panda to his chest while another pulled the baby away.
It was the cute, bright-eyed little girl who saved them all. She looked through the tool box and pressed a spare key into Caramarin's hand. A moment later, the flood turned to a stream, then a trickle and then nothing. At least he had successfully bled that radiator but he didn't think he'd be asked to check the others in the house any time soon. Packing his toolbox, collecting the rent book, Caramarin let himself out. Through the open window he heard more shouting.
Two young women both pushing prams took one look at the state of his jeans and laughed.
"I should be on danger money for this," Caramarin muttered to himself as he unlocked the van.
* * *
Glancing at his watch, Caramarin scratched off the next two addresses. He could always say they were out. Instead he drove the van up Cheetham Hill Road and parked outside his bed and breakfast. On an impulse, he dialled Narcisa. She answered on the third ring.
"Can you slip away this lunchtime? I'm missing you," he said simply. After this morning's work he felt in need of some rest and relaxation. There was a pause at the other end. Caramarin held his breath, willing Narcisa to say yes.
It sounded like her hand was covering her mouthpiece as he heard a brief muffled conversation with another girl in the background.
"Yes. Where are you?"
Caramarin gave the address and then grabbed a quick shower and change of clothes before running around to a nearby fast food takeaway. He pointed to the picture of a bucket of chicken and chips, threw money on the counter and then raced back to the guest house before the food cooled. He paused for a moment on the doorstep and quietly turned the key. From the pamphlet his landlady had given him he vaguely remembered some regulation about no food in the rooms and no guests.
Easing the door open, he stepped into the hallway. The chemical sweetness of air freshener hit him first. He took another step towards the stairs. From the dining room, he heard his landlady moving about with a vacuum cleaner. Excellent. She wouldn't hear anything. Caramarin trotted upstairs, laid out the food and then crept down to the hall.
Trying to look as if he belonged there, Caramarin stood by the rack of tourist leaflets in sight of both the front door and dining room. The landlady was still vacuuming up any stray crumbs that might have escaped her earlier attempts to round them all up. The sound of the cleaner going up and down, up and down felt soothing and Caramarin relaxed knowing that while the woman was doing that, she wasn't about to go hunting for illegal guests.
A moment later, Caramarin saw a shape through the stained glass in the front door's panel. Dropping the leaflet, immediately, he sprang into action. He turned the latch and opened the door as quietly as possible, at the same time pressing his fingertip to his mouth for silence. He jerked his head in the direction of the dining room.
Then horror. The rhythmic sound of the vacuum stopped. Caramarin looked wide eyed and Narcisa was about to start giggling. Caramarin clutched her hand. "Ssh," he whispered as he led her to the stairs. Fortunately the deep red carpet muffled their footsteps and they were half way up before the landlady came out of the dining room.
Caramarin froze. He hoped the old woman wouldn't look up as she crossed to another socket and plugged in her cleaner. An instant later, the sounds started up and the woman bent to her work. Even over the noise of the cleaner, Caramarin heard her cluck with annoyance as she picked up the dropped leaflet and replace it in the rack.
Not wanting to push his luck any further by lingering on the stairs Caramarin dragged Narcisa up and into his room. With a sigh of relief, Caramarin closed the door behind them.
"Dinner is served," he said, pointing to the breaded chicken nuggets and fries and cans of cola covering the bedside table.
"Five star, Nicu. Some men take their girls to a posh hotel – like the Lombardia. Treat them to a meal in a restaurant." But Narcisa was smiling as she said this, taking the sting out of her words. She took off her coat and Caramarin shook it and hung it over the back of the door
"Hope you're hungry – there seems a lot," he said.
"Starving. I could eat for two," she said. Narcisa saw Caramarin's expression of alarm. "Only joking – I hope!"
Caramarin offered Narcisa the only chair and sat on the lumpy bed. They ate the food and wiped the grease onto the little paper tissues which came with the meal. Caramarin sat back.
"What about dessert?" Narcisa asked. Caramarin thought for a moment. There had been pictures of gateaux at the chicken 'n' chips takeaway but he hadn't thought to order any.
"I'm sorry – I guess I..."
"That's all right, Nicu. I know what you want for dessert." Narcisa stood and sat on his lap. She lifted Caramarin's hand to her breast. Beneath, he felt her heart beating strong and firm. Narcisa looked up, her chocolate eyes meeting his deep brown ones. Her mouth drew closer, he smelled the food on her breath and then they kissed. Caramarin pulled her closer and then, before either knew it, they were lying on the bed together.
Later, quite a bit later, they both lay snug under the covers listening to the wind and rain gusting against the window panes.
"Haven't you got to back to work sometime?" Caramarin asked, his voice a low murmur.
Narcisa raised herself onto one elbow. "No it's okay. I told my manager that I had really bad cramps – the time of the month. He went bright red and let me take the afternoon off."
"You haven't – I mean..." said Caramarin.
Narcisa laughed. "Don't be silly. Men! You're all pushovers. I'd never get away with that with a woman in charge."
As if summoned by her laughter, there was a knock on the door. Caramarin sat up. The knock came again, louder and heavier. Wondering if it was Pompiliu Stanga who had tracked him down and was looking for today's rent money, Caramarin stood and pulled on his jeans before opening the door.
It was worse. Far worse than an angry Stanga. His landlady barged past him into the room. She took in the scene at a glance.
The older woman turned to Caramarin and launched into a tirade he had no hope of understanding. He only caught one English word which she repeated several times as she shook her head with anger.
Waiting for his landlady to draw breath, he said, "no, no prostituata." That was the limit of his English. He shrugged and glanced at the woman next to him. But that wasn't enough for Narcisa. She sat up in the bed, drawing the covers up over her breasts. If the landlady's speech had been fierce, that was nothing compared with what Narcisa said in return. Caramarin understood none of it but was impressed with her command of the English language. Caramarin watched the older woman wilt like a week old flower, her aggression melting out of her under the force of Narcisa's red hot fury.
Her face downcast, baulked of an easy victory the landlady slammed the door behind her. Caramarin leaped up and turned the key in the lock and shot the bolt. "I'm in trouble now," he said with a grin.
His laughter died as he turned around to face Narcisa. Now her rage had left her, tears were streaming down her cheekbones. He turned to cuddle her, to console her but Narcisa pushed him away.
"She thought I was some cheap whore you'd brought back for an hour. It's no good, Nicu. I can't take this. You and your dodgy painting; now you're telling me you're working as some kind of debt collector and then your landlady mistakes me for some whore you've picked up. I'm leaving..."
Caramarin took Narcisa in his arms. She struggled against his greater strength for a moment before burying her face in his neck. He leaned forward slightly and buried his face in her dark chocolate brown hair. He breathed in deeply, inhaling her heat as well as the scent of her shampoo. As he did so, he felt her tears leak out and wet his collar-bone.
"It's all right," Caramarin murmured. "Things will pick up, just you see..." Gently he calmed Narcisa but the mood was broken and soon after the woman dressed and hurried out. She did not meet his eye.
Soon after, Caramarin threw on his clothes and let himself out. He heard his landlady rattling pans in the kitchen. From the clatter, she still sounded angry. Picking up one of the guest house's leaflets in the hall he scanned its text. There was something there about guests but, well, that was written in bad Russian so he could always pretend he didn't understand. He dropped the leaflet back in the rack.