16 Romania

16

ROMANIA

MID-JUNE

COSMIN

The Ardelean Foundation children’s home, Vlasia House, is midway between Balotesti and Snagov. It’s a lovely, forested area near the water, with trails and small meadows.

The building is fifteen thousand square feet and sits on thirty acres. The ground floor has the kitchens, a massive dining room to fit sixty children and staff, and the administrative offices. The second floor has twenty bedrooms for the boys and girls, in addition to those for staff. The upper floor contains classrooms, a recreation room, and a library. The building is plain but surrounded by lavish gardens—both flowers and food crops—maintained by the children, which lends a softening effect.

When Viorica and I pull slowly up the driveway in her silver Dacia Duster, I see kids squeeze against the classroom windows upstairs. A head of white-blond hair bounces up and down in the crowd of children like a pogo stick—nine-year-old Crina, who made the bookmark Phaedra commented upon in Montréal.

A group of the first-year students stands in the south garden with their teacher Domnisoara Petrescu, gathering early vegetables. Warmth floods my chest at the sight of their faces, chattering and pointing at us.

“I am happiest here,” I say, almost to myself.

“As am I.” My sister shuts off the car, quietly watching the children with me.

After a minute, she reaches for my hand and squeezes it. The tension that has hovered throughout our half-hour drive, after an earlier quarrel, eases.

When Viorica told me I needn’t rent a car because she could pick me up in Bucharest, I was surprised—typically she’s far too busy to meet me at the airport. But she said she’d been in the city on business, about which she was evasive.

It was a further surprise to see her in a dress and heels, hair loose, wearing lipstick and jewelry. Working with children as she does, her attire tends toward sensible and stain resistant, without cosmetics to be smudged or accessories to be snagged by little hands.

I thought she’d had an afternoon date, the way she frowned self-consciously when I commented on her outfit. When I picked up a thick manila envelope on the passenger’s seat as I got into the car, she snatched it away and tossed it into the back seat. My anger coasted in on a wave of suspicion as I realized she’d been to see Grigore Lupu about the donation.

A heated argument in the parking lot followed, in which respective accusations of deception and selfishness were thrown with the merciless precision only siblings can wield. She threatened to walk away and leave me to drive to Vlasia House alone if I wouldn’t drop the issue, and a stiff silence rode north with us.

Viorica releases my hand now, giving it a pat.

“I can see Irini Petrescu’s blush all the way across the yard,” she murmurs with amusement. “She fancies you, Cosmin.”

“Rubbish.” But I return my sister’s smile, relieved to be back in her good graces.

“She’d make an ideal wife. Smart, pretty, devoted. An excellent seamstress and cook. Lovely singing voice.”

“These would be selling points in another era. Just how old are you, Rica?” I tease.

She jabs me in the ribs and I recoil, laughing.

“Imp!” she mock scolds. “You could do far worse than a good woman like Irini.”

“It would be unprofessional,” I protest, not having the heart to say the truth—that Irini Petrescu is sweet but timid and would be a poor match for me.

I watch her out the window and note the honest delight on the young teacher’s face as she allows little Nicu to place an earthworm on her palm.

“Relia and Spiridon are married,” Viorica points out, mentioning our head cook and mathematics teacher.

“Their positions are lateral. You and I employ Irini.”

I look over at ginger-haired Ursule, her fingers laced through the wire fence that keeps deer from the vegetables. She grins and sticks out her tongue when I catch her eye.

Popping the door open, I tell Viorica over my shoulder, “Also I am currently pursuing a relationship that might have potential.”

I close the car door and wave at the children, calling out a greeting. Irini offers a shy smile, then smooths the non-worm-holding hand through her dark hair to arrange it. Behind me I hear Viorica exit the car.

“Cosmin, wait.” She trots around to loop an arm through mine. “What’s this? ‘Relationship’? I’ve never heard you use the word. You must tell me more.”

“When there’s more to tell.”

Irini opens the gate and a dozen children flood out, tumbling toward us with laughter and questions. Curly-haired Radu launches himself at my legs and scales me, climbing to my shoulders for a ride into the house.

Hello to you too, young mountaineer! I tell him, draping my hands over his shoes to stabilize him. Twisting toward Viorica, I say in English, “We should install a climbing wall for the children.”

Raising her eyebrows significantly, she replies, “We can have that, and many other things, given enough money. That is all it takes, Cosmin— money .”

The little ones caper around us as we stroll to the wide front steps, and Irini joins us, Ursule riding on her hip. Walking like this—Irini and I both carrying children—I can imagine another fate where I might have had a gentle country wife with soft eyes and strong hands.

But in my mind the fierce green fire in Phaedra’s eyes yet burns, and echoing in my ears is the sound of her crying out I love you! as she fell apart in my arms.

?uic?—a plum brandy—is usually served before a meal, but there are strict rules at Vlasia House about alcohol consumption: only after the children are in bed, and a single glass for those who wish to partake.

Of the twenty-two staff members, a dozen including myself are gathered for a late toast, games, and conversation. Viorica is discussing a library expansion with our language and history instructors, a group of four are playing whist, Relia and Spiridon are bent over a game of backgammon, and Irini is seated with me on the balcony.

She’s wearing a summer dress, blue with flowers. Her legs are propped on the railing, and light shines through the fabric, outlining the contour of a pair of attractive legs. Her hair is gathered at one side of her neck, loosely tied with a ribbon, and pearl earrings she didn’t have on earlier sway from her ears.

Her profile is girlish, with a small, sloped nose and fringe of bangs cut short. She’s near my age, twenty-seven or twenty-eight, and I’ve noted an Orthodox cross on the wall of her room in passing.

During our conversation, she looks over her shoulder several times when she hears Viorica laugh. I wonder if she’s worried about being caught flirting. Though if that’s what she’s doing, it’s so subtle as to be imperceptible.

We finish our brandy, and the group inside begins to disperse. Through the open French doors I hear my sister bidding people good night. Viorica appears in the doorway, holding it with one hand. Her head is relaxed, tipped to one side, and her golden curls glow in the lamplight. It lifts my heart to see her happy.

I stand and offer my chair, going to lean against the balcony railing.

Viorica’s gaze shifts from Irini to me. You two should walk down to the lake , she suggests. The irises are in bloom, and it’s a full moon.

I give an easy smile to hide my annoyance at her matchmaking. That sounds enjoyable , I reply, hoping my words aren’t a disappointment to Irini, but I am very tired. I was moments from going to bed.

Irini’s eyes brighten, a reaction I don’t expect.

I could use a walk—I’m a bit restless. She meets Viorica’s eye. If you’d like to go see the lake…

Viorica swallows the last of her brandy. I am tired as well. It’s been a long day.

Irini nods, twisting the stem of her glass where it sits on the chair arm. I should sleep. There is much to do tomorrow. She stands, and in a faltering gesture extends a hand to shake with me. Always a pleasure to see you.

She turns to Viorica and offers her hand. Viorica opens her palm and Irini lays her own atop it for a moment, then pulls it back and hurries inside.

I settle into the chair she vacated. Viorica is resting her eyes, and takes a slow, contented breath. I tap the back of her hand with a fingertip. “I suspect I am not the Ardelean who makes Domnisoara Petrescu blush,” I say just above a whisper, switching to English.

Her eyes snap open and she pins me with a stunned look. “Don’t be absurd.”

“I can’t believe I never noticed.” I shake my head, smiling. “It’s obvious.”

“No such thing.”

“Rica?”

“Mmm?” She examines the interior of her empty glass.

“Look at me.”

She rolls her eyes. “What?”

“I think this is not news to you—Irini’s affection.”

“She’s lonely,” Rica mutters. “That’s all.”

“That doesn’t dictate one’s romantic preferences.”

“Truly, I thought her admiration was pointed at you, until moments ago.”

Throwing a glance over my shoulder into the vacant room, I ask, “Now that things are clear, how do you feel?”

She closes her eyes again. “I’m flattered.”

“Flattered and interested?”

“Cosmin,” she says with a sigh. “Even if I were to… what is the word?” She waves a finger back and forth between us.

“Reciprocate?”

“Yes. Reciprocate such feelings, she is too young for me. And you know I don’t date—I’ve no time for such nonsense.” She lifts her hands. “My life is Vlasia House.”

I recline in the chair, staring at the bright stars overhead. Summer breeze rustles the trees, and the crickets saw out their music.

“Viorica. If you might find love—”

“ Enough. ” Her voice is hard, final. “I have a foundation to run. I’m too short on time for a social life.” After a pause, she quietly adds, “Short on time, short on money.”

I open my mouth to speak, defensive, but intuition tells me Rica is about to say more. I silence myself, waiting.

“Do you think we have magic elves here like Saint Nicholas?” Her tone is bleak. “The investments, grants, your money from Emerald… it keeps the ship sailing. But we lack the capital to expand.” She pauses. “It’s the reason I spoke further with Grigore.”

I glare at her. “Ce pu?c? mea? I knew it! That fucking monster Lupu.”

“Calm yourself,” Viorica snaps.

“I thought we were in agreement that—”

“Yes, you thought ,” she cuts in. “And I let you think it.” Covering her eyes with one pale hand, she adds, “He is not quite the monster you see him as. Your perspective is uninformed. Not everything is black and white, little brother. You don’t know the whole story. That man saved me, and yes, it’s complicated. But I need you to stop pitying me because the real monster was our uncle. And you were the one who had to remain with him .”

She stands and goes inside, the click of the shoes she wore for Grigore Lupu fading as she walks away.