It was raining harder the next day, a steady, persistent drizzle that never dried up or became heavier. His mood as low as the dark grey clouds, Caramarin couldn't face another day sitting on that hard chair drinking coffee while staring at the Kugulu Parki's door. As he stepped out of his lodging house, he looked up at the skies, scowled and wrapped his keffiyeh scarf tighter around his neck to stop the rain leaking into his jacket, soaking him. He shook his head.
Instead, he walked along Cheetham Hill Road, looking into the shop windows, numbed hands thrust deep into his jacket's pockets against the chill. The buildings had been built of some sort of shiny, red engineering brick he'd never seen before. Coated in moisture from the drizzle, the buildings glistened in the dull light. Rain water gurgled and spilled across the sidewalk and into the gutter from a broken down spout.
He glanced at the people walking along. Without exception, they all looked unhappy. Hunched over, heads down looking at the pavement. A real deep down unending misery written on their faces when they looked up. Many of them had headphones wedged into their ears, locking them into their own worlds as if hearing another human voice would be the thing that tipped them over the edge. Young and old, male or female, all looked fed up and resigned to their lot. Not surprising really, living in a place modelled on God's own dripping urinal.
The people all mostly wore black or dark coloured clothing, especially the groups of youths hanging about the street corners. The only colours he saw were robes or trousers of vivid hues, under their coats, of some Indian women. He smiled at the women but they totally blanked him.
He understood how they felt. He'd never felt so unhappy or alone in all his life. And he'd only been here two days. Caramarin seriously couldn't face the idea of living here long term. If he was faced with that prospect, he thought he'd head back to his lodgings and slit his wrists in the bathroom. Caramarin hoped he'd find this Engin Hasanov soon so he could return to beautiful – and sunny – Odessa.
As he walked along, he noticed one shop with a yellow 'Western Union' sign outside. He stepped over a puddle and figured the shop was also a pawn broker of some kind. A number of second hand electrical goods were listlessly displayed in the window together with a few musical instruments and golf clubs. The display looked as distressed and forlorn as the people.
Caramarin riffled through the money in his pocket and wondered about buying a small personal radio he saw in the window. He figured it would take the edge off the boredom when he had to face up to returning to his watch at the Kugulu Parki.
Making the decision, Caramarin pushed open the door and stepped into the overheated interior. After the damp chill, he enjoyed the blast of warmth. Inside, locked behind a glass cupboard, he saw several more small radios, MP3 players and CD players. He was comparing them and their prices when a young woman approached him.
"Are you Romanian?" she asked in his own language.
Although Caramarin had lived in the Ukrainian city of Odessa for several years, he was proud to call himself a Romanian national and that was his first language. "Why yes, how did you know?" It felt so good to talk to someone, anyone again.
"You were talking to yourself."
Caramarin hadn't realised just how lonely and unhappy he'd been the last couple of days.
"Sorry," he said with a little smile. "I don't usually make a habit of that."
The woman was younger than him; maybe late twenties. Certainly no older than thirty at the most. She was of medium height and build. Not slim but certainly not overweight. Her dark, brown hair was piled up in a loose pony-tail.
Under her dark, prominent brows, her eyes were a deep, dark brown – almost matching his own; set off with eye liner and bluish eye shadow on her eyelids. Sultry was the word that came to mind for them. Gold hoops in her ears. Not that it mattered but her nose was very slightly bent to the left. Seemed to suit her face somehow.
"I'm sure," the woman said, matching his smile. "Can I help you with anything?" she asked.
"Which one would you recommend?" Caramarin said, pointing to the little radios. This time of the morning, the shop was empty so they chatted about the radios for a while. He chose one; she unlocked the cupboard and took it over to the till. The woman knocked the price down by a third.
"You're supposed to haggle," she explained. She also threw in some batteries and cheap earphones for it.
Caramarin thanked her. What the hell, he had nothing to lose, he thought. He just couldn't stand the idea of being so lonely and knocking one out in his bedroom again later that evening.
"Are you doing anything tonight?" he asked. His words came out in a rush. "I mean, we've only just met but..."
"Why not? It's all right," the young woman said. "I finish at six tonight. It's really nice to speak to someone from back home."
He grinned. Still had the old magic.
A young man in a hooded sweatshirt and tracksuit pants was waiting to be served. The woman murmured a quick apology and then stepped around Caramarin.
Caramarin smiled and left. The encounter, brief though it was, had lifted his spirits like nothing else could. He felt able to get on with his mission now and the afternoon went more quickly at the Kugulu Parki. Sitting at the same table as yesterday, he fiddled with his radio. Ignoring the talk shows he found a hit music station he liked because there wasn't too much talk between the songs. Even with his lack of any English, he learned and was able to repeat the advertising jingles towards the end of the afternoon.
Another cup of coffee finished, Caramarin wiped condensation from the window and watched the sidewalk and door. But there was still no sign of Hasanov; just the same bunch of elderly men killing time. As was he and as five o'clock came and went, Caramarin was checking his Casio every few minutes, hoping that Hasanov wouldn't show now and disrupt his plans.
He was outside the pawn brokers at least ten minutes before six. The young woman came out wearing one of Manchester's nearly compulsory bulky dark coats, a large bag slung over her shoulder. She saw him standing in the doorway and slipped her arm into his.
"I'm sorry, I never even asked your name," he said. "I'm Nicolae Caramarin."
"Narcisa Ganea," she replied.
"That's a lovely name." The old compliments are still the best. "Where would you like to go? Would you like something to eat?" Anywhere other than the Kugulu Parki would be fine by him, he thought.
She nodded, and led him to a nearby wine bar further up the road. A small group of women were at one table with a collection of bottles on a marble table in front of them. A shriek of laughter rode over the background music. The song was one of those he'd already heard three times that day on his hits music station. He almost knew the words by now.
Narcisa sat down and looked up at Caramarin. He hesitated.
"Aren't you going get the drinks in? Mine's a vodka and coke..." Narcisa waited for Caramarin to respond. After a moment the silence became embarrassing. "You can't speak any English, can you?" she said with a slight frown.
Caramarin shook his head.
"Only 'yes' and 'no'," he said. He left out his third phrase and the advertising slogans he'd learned that afternoon.
"How do you expect to get work here if you can't speak English?" Narcisa asked. She put her bag on the floor beside her and unbuttoned her coat. Caramarin liked what he saw of her figure.
"I'm not really looking for work here," he admitted at last.
"Well, you're not here on holiday. No-one in their right minds would come to Manchester for a break. So, you're a millionaire? An oligarch? You don't need to work for a living?" Narcisa looked at his clothing. Caramarin wasn't exactly dressed like you'd expect a millionaire to look, standing there in his camouflage jacket and jeans. No tuxedo nor a cashmere pullover oh-so-casually slung over his shoulders.
"No, I'm looking for a friend of someone from back home," he said. Shit, he wasn't going to tell anyone. Bit too late now.
Narcisa looked intrigued. "You can tell me more after you get the drinks in."
"What do I ask for?"
"Think it's time I started your English lessons," she grinned.
She told Caramarin what to say. It took him a few attempts to get it nearly right. Satisfied, Narcisa sent him over to the bar, past the group of women who laughed loudly as he passed.
The girl behind the bar looked up.
"Vodka and coke and pint of lager," he said. What's a pint, anyway, he wondered?
The girl said something, he had no idea what. It could have been anything.
He said his phrase again.
The girl shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. That was a universal gesture he understood. Narcisa appeared at his shoulder and more forcefully repeated it. Scowling, the barmaid poured the drinks and Caramarin peeled off a couple of notes and paid.
"Thank you," he said. He drank the lager. If he hadn't been with a woman, he'd have spat it out and then smashed the glass on the tiled floor. He’d never been served anything so vile. Thin, gassy, tasteless yet with an unpleasant chemical undertone.
"People drink this?" he said, grimacing.
"It's a very popular brand here," Narcisa explained.
"Why? Can't they get anything better?"
"I suppose not," she said with a smile.
"So," she said, "It all sounds very exciting. Who are you looking for? Not your missing girlfriend is it?"
Caramarin told her the very edited details of his life and what had brought him from Odessa to Manchester. Much later, he was to regret this. She looked fascinated.
"You've led a very interesting life," she said when he'd finished.
"What about yourself?" enquired Caramarin.
Narcisa sent him up to the bar for another round. This time the girl understood what he wanted. Or maybe she just remembered as the place was not exactly packed. He managed to swallow the second pint. It went down easier than the first. But he'd have swapped it in an instant for a bottle of Ukrainian Zibert Lite lager.
* * *
Some of what Narcisa told him, he found out later on as he got to know her better.
However, Narcisa told him she had lived in Manchester for a few years now. She was born in a village about twenty kilometres out from Brasov, up in the southern arc of the Carpathian Mountains. She told him about her childhood, skiing on the slopes and helping her Mum clean chalets and ski lodges in the winter and in the summer going on long hikes through alpine meadows untouched by any trace of modern life. Picking flowers to make headbands for herself and her friends. It was obvious to Caramarin that Narcisa loved the high mountains.
Caramarin drew out of her that she even won some medals for skiing and was maybe being considered for entry to European competitions. Unfortunately, Narcisa had a bad fall when she was fourteen and broke her leg in several places which stopped her dreams in their tracks. An infection set in, the hospital didn't have enough modern antibiotics and by the time the illness cleared up, she had lost too much ground. She missed a lot of schooling, too, during the time she was laid up in hospital.
After she'd recovered, she'd missed way too much education to catch up. And she admitted it's not like she'd been the cleverest in class, anyway. So she found work in a garment factory in Brasov. Long hours sewing and pressing clothes. The clothes were then shipped to the west where designer labels were sewed in. The clothes then became unaffordable to nearly all Romanians. But even with working long hours, she still didn't earn anywhere enough to live on. So she carried on living with her Mum in her cramped little house set in its little orchard way out of town.
Then her Mum took another man. He worked for the police as a dispatcher. This worked out fine for a few months. Until one night, when Mum was working late, her fella came back home drunk. Drunk and horny. Narcisa was on the couch watching television, her leg stretched out on a footstool. The weather was damp and her leg had been hurting more than usual. The lecher sat next to her, offered her a glass and then poured half a bottle of tuica plum brandy down her. He told her the tuica would dull the pain. But then he shoved his tongue down her throat and his hand down her bra. She struggled but he was much too strong for her.
Narcisa started crying tears at the bad memory. Caramarin draped his arm over her shoulders.
"It's all right," he told her. "Don't tell me what you don't want to."
She'd pushed him off that time but the tension between them made life harder for everyone. She worked even longer hours at the factory to stay away and to try and earn enough to finally move out. But until then Narcisa had to come home every night and Mum wasn't always there. Then one evening, Mum was called out to see to a sick neighbour. That was all the opportunity the man needed – the bastard forced himself on her. She was no match for his brute strength. He hurt her inside.
That was the first time. Narcisa was so ashamed, she couldn't tell Mum, couldn't tell anyone. Maybe the man thought she'd sent out the wrong signals but Narcisa knew she hadn't. Her Mum's fella was always boasting about his mates on the Brasov County force. One night, he brought one of his friends round. They both raped her while the other held her down. Narcisa knew she couldn't go on any more. She plucked up courage and told the men she'd tell Mum.
But it didn’t go as Narcisa expected. Mum went wild and hit her with a saucepan. Her mother didn't believe her at first and then told her she was a slag and a whore. Luring her fella away. Narcisa fled, in tears.
So Narcisa had withdrawn her savings, borrowed some more off friends and having scraped together enough money she came over to Britain and lived with an aunt who'd left Romania shortly after the revolution in 1989. She stayed with her aunt a couple of years. However, the aunt had recently returned to Romania to look after her elderly mother but Narcisa had learned enough English by then and stayed on. She had a job and a life here. She shared a house nearby with a number of other girls, mostly Poles.
Narcisa looked down. She fiddled with the buttons on her blouse, twisting and turning one of them. Caramarin watched as the action tightened the material over her breasts. "I went a little wild after coming here. But I've calmed down now. I've got over what happened to me. I'm all right now."
Caramarin nodded. He could fill in the gaps for himself. Deadening the pain with booze, unsuitable men who just used her body for their pleasure, then tossed her aside like an empty vodka bottle.
"Do you miss Romania?" he asked at the end.
She blinked with surprise at his question. "Sometimes. Especially the weather," she replied.
Caramarin couldn't face another of these dismal British lagers. "Do you want to go for a meal?"
Narcisa glanced at her watch, a gesture making Caramarin's heart sink. She looked up with a smile.
"Yes, please," she said.
She made a call. "Just letting the girls at home know where I am. We look out for each other," she explained. Was that a warning? "Ever had an Indian?" Narcisa asked. "There's a good one down the road."
There were a few Indian restaurants in Odessa but Caramarin had been only the once. For the next two days after, his poor red hot arse had been welded to the toilet. Never again.
Despite his doubts, Narcisa persuaded him. The restaurant was busier than the wine bar, but on a week night evening there were more empty tables than full. Their waiter seated them towards the back; probably realising they wanted some privacy. Narcisa ordered for them both. The bottled Indian lager was better than the British draught he'd had earlier. Nowhere near as good as Ukrainian Zibert Lite but it went well with the food.
Caramarin chose stuffed mushrooms as an appetiser; a lamb shashlik naga, which was cooked in a clay oven with onions, capsicum and tomato, together with pilau rice and a peshwari naan bread with almonds and coconuts. Not what he was used to back home; but on a cold, wet evening it did the job and warmed his body.
Narcisa explained she had to be in work early tomorrow as the Manager was off. Caramarin nodded. Despite everything, he'd enjoyed the evening. It was good to meet someone friendly and uncomplicated who wasn't connected with the underworld he lived and moved in.
The rain had eased off and the air smelled clean and freshly washed as they waited at the stop. He took the bus with Narcisa up to the suburb of Crumpsall, memorising the route as the old vehicle rattled and swayed.
At the raised door to a tall three storey terrace, he waited outside while she let herself in. The hall light came on and he heard female voices calling from inside. Narcisa turned around in the door, the light silhouetting her figure. She ran down the few stairs to the sidewalk, stopped on the bottom step, stretched up and kissed him on the lips. Only a chaste peck. But it was a start. Then she ran back in, the front door shutting behind her, cutting him off from the warmth inside.
Caramarin turned around and walked back to his bed and breakfast. Halfway down Cheetham Hill Road, it started to rain again.