Stoker's Manuscript (9 page)

He made a sound like thunder and motioned with fluttering hands that it was going to rain. He pointed to the north sky—thunderstorm approaching. I apologized for my lack of fluent Romanian, and his grunt conveyed that was just as well. I settled in for the ride on a folded woolen blanket and slipped a leg through my backpack straps.

The two horses needed no reins, as they knew their path home. As the cart climbed the first foothill, I looked back over
and its organized row of red-tile roofs, and again was taken by how their cities end at a certain street, then turn to tree-lined fields. Such a sight might disarm an American developer, but it made sense there, for if a town is not growing, why force it at the seams?

Soon as we reached the top of the first foothill, the magnificent white Carpathian peaks came into full view to the north and east, and with it the chilled wind of refrigerated air. Farther northwest, dark clouds obscured the horizon. The horses led the cart off the two-lane road north and onto a smaller path, leaving the numbered road toward the mountain pass that the original Saxons had migrated over. Beyond was the Ukraine.

Within a quarter mile a small valley took shape with the heavy tree lining that accompanies a river, much as willows mark the path of water in a rural setting. We traveled a single-lane path now with no signs of life ahead. Within the hour we reached the valley floor, crossed a creaky wooden plank bridge, and assumed a parallel trek with the river. Overhead hundreds of birds followed the river as it slowly churned at little more than paddling speed. I had never experienced life at this pace, and was tempted to offer to exchange jobs with my driver.

Two hours of quietude passed, and we approached a small village, outskirted by the usual small family farm plots and weathered fencing and a cemetery in a clearing. Ahead smoke rose from several chimneys in the chilly air, and I smelled the wood burning.

“Dumitra?” I asked.

The driver nodded. Before reaching the village, he halted the cart to turn into his residence, a small fenced farm with a smithing shop out back. I dismounted and reached for my bags. He lifted a small horseshoe out of his pocket and passed it over a metal box at the top of a fence post and the gate slowly swung open. Several children—I counted five, ranging from small to teenage—ran to greet him. I wondered about the rest. They had the dark features and long chins of Gypsy lineage. There really is no such race as Gypsy, for it is a catchall category for the amalgam of Latin lineage around the Mediterranean and Asia Minor. The term is meant more to caste the people, and not out of respect.

Again I thanked him.
“
foarte
.”

“Cu
.” You’re welcome.

I asked about accommodations, and he pointed to a large isolated house across the river and up a steep hill with a vantage overlooking the entire village. Considering the climb, I hoped vacancy was no issue, especially with weather approaching. One of his young sons began carrying my bags that direction, and I figured porter’s wages were the least I could do.

It was a two-story house with porches both upstairs and down on a plat of land terraced into the rocky hillside. One of the windows upstairs advertised a room for rent with a sign in both Romanian and German:
and
Zimmer frei
. Surrounded by black wrought iron fencing in a fleur-de-lis pattern, the gate had no lock, and the boy led me to the door and knocked, then stepped behind me. I paid him while an older woman answered. She quickly picked up on the situation,
“Cîte
?” How many nights?

“O zi.” One day.

She showed me upstairs to the end of a hall, a simple room decorated in the traditional colorful geometric patterns with a single bed, washbasin, and a screen door to the porch. I nodded my approval. It was more than I had hoped for. Then she showed me the communal bathroom. Echoes down the hall suggested I might have it to myself.

“I bring food.” She was a middle-aged round lady of Germanic features and thick hands, more manners than smiles, and rolled her
r
’s in the Eastern Euro fashion.

I washed and sat on a rocking chair on the porch and smelled the imminent rain. A lightning storm approached from the northwest, and while the wind suddenly blew the storm’s introduction, my hostess’s husband busied himself below with the farm animals in the side yard, gathering them to the barn for shelter. She returned to my room with a generous sandwich and a hot coffee, which I gratefully consumed while watching the coming storm.

Across the valley dark clouds quickly smothered the town as rain began to pelt the house. Close by lightning cracked and instant thunder boomed. I must admit that I flinched at the storm’s intensity. Only after the half-hour tempest passed did I realize the price to pay for free irrigation was mud, washing a treacherous path down the hill and over the wooden plank bridge. It also left the air chilled.

From the porch I could see the village layout. In the Middle Ages, armies followed the worn paths and marched down main streets. So, unlike the States with our large front lawns and porches, residences in the corridor of war have no setbacks from the clay or cobblestone roads. Instead, long rows of houses connect with zero lot lines, homes with shuttered windows and no porches, as uninviting as any back-alley stroll. Yard entrance is gained via large double-arched wooden gates that open to a family’s courtyard. Gardens are planted in the back behind wooden fences. What distinguishes houses along the row are the faded colors from one to the next, or perhaps the levels of disrepair, such as plaster, which peels from the ground up. Every roof appears to need some form of tile work.

My host joined me on the porch, his animals secured in the barn, bringing a coffee refill. He had a long nose and bushy eyebrows, a hint of hospitality in his hazel eyes.

“So you are American,” he said in a heavy German accent.

“Yes, I live in Chicago.”

He looked down the hall to check for his wife. “Oprah,” he said, pointing a thumb in her direction.

“Her studio is down the street from my place.”

“Here’s to her last show.” He smiled and lifted his coffee in a toast. “So, where you go from here?”

Lifting my GPS, I said, “I’m looking for Dreptu.”

The hospitality left his eyes. A moment passed before he asked, “The river?”

“The town. My device says it’s Dumitra-Dreptu.”

“That is the Dreptu River.” He pointed toward the water I had crossed to his property. “But there is no . . . place. Not anymore.”

“Was there ever such a place?”

“Mister . . . ?”

“Barkeley, Joseph Barkeley.”

“Herr Barkeley.” He turned to see if anyone else was on the porch. “Who sent you to this place?”

“No one. I just . . . chose it on a map.” I hoped he didn’t know I was lying.

He spoke slowly, carefully forming his words. “This Dreptu River, it flows down from the
, and then to the Danube, this way.”
Zees way.
He pointed south and west. “There is . . .”

Pausing, he rubbed his chin.

“What?”

“There is . . .
was
a place called Dreptu upriver.” He pointed toward the mountains to the east. “But is now only ruins.”
Eez now only rueenz.

“What was it?”

“An old monastery. Hundreds of years
nicht arbeit
.”
Not in service.