June Create: Olympic Dreams with Dracula

2 Conversations

The 20th Century…I remember it well…sort of…

Olympic Dreams with Dracula

Cluj-Napoca, when it was Hungarian.

The past is another country, they say, they do things differently there. They certainly did things differently in the 20th Century. And for me, the 1970s and 1980s did take place in another country. Several of them. There was Ireland, and England, Germany, Belgium, Greece…and Romania. And thereby hangs a tale of Olympic proportions. How much of it you choose to believe depends on you.

1980 was an Olympic year. The Summer Games were being held in the USSR – for those of you who don't know, that was a large, Communist country somewhere east of Poland. Its capital, Moscow, was playing host to the Games. We didn't expect to see any of it, because the US President, Mr Jimmy Carter, was way miffed at the Soviets. Nobody remembers this much anymore, but Mr Carter took umbrage at the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan. Yes, in those long-ago days, Americans were mad at somebody else for invading Afghanistan. Mr Carter decided to punish the Soviets by ignoring the Olympics. That would teach them.

A lot of western countries – again, for those of you who don't remember the politics back then, that means 'non-Communist' – decided not to attend, and not to show events on the TV. We didn't expect to be Olympically involved, due to the participation in the boycott of West Germany, which is where we lived at the time. The considerable amount of Olympic footage I personally managed to see, and the Mischa-Bear keychain I snagged, were entirely due to my Romanian professor, whom I'll call Dr Ionescu, because that was not his name. You never know who might be listening.

Dr Ionescu had secured for me a one-month stay in Cluj-Napoca, Romania, there to improve my Romanian skills and learn about culture at the Universitate Babes-Bolyai. I duly made a 30-hour journey on a couple of trains – including the woefully overrated Orient Express – it didn't even have a dining car – into the land of my dreams.

Romania, please note, was also a Communist country. With a picturesque dictator, one Nicolai Ceausecu, whose retouched photo adorned practically every available wall space. He had an active spy network, and people got followed around. Either I was really unobservant (possible), or appeared so totally innocuous as to be beneath the notice of the Securitate, but nobody seemed to be tailing me. Ever. I felt vaguely dissed.

Socialist Romania was a fascinating place. The first lovely frisson of alienation hit me at the border. I was occupying a railway compartment, in a train first used, I swear, by Archduke Ferdinand's least favourite footmen, that was also occupied by seven chatty and delightful Romanian girls, all lookers. Their attractiveness and cheery persuasion had already led me to participate in an Illegal Act. To wit, I let them stash their contraband, acquired in nearby Budapest, in my baggage. They assured me that nobody would search my luggage.

They were right. My guitar, however, was subjected to scrutiny, and I had to have a Receipt. Something about the Law Concerning Import and Export of Musical Instruments. I also had to exchange currency. The currency lady turned out to be beyond my wildest fantasies. I took one look at her, and fell instantly in love with Communism.

Have you ever seen the 1979 film Love at First Bite? Do you remember the Party Official who throws Dracula (George Hamilton) out of Transylvania? This woman was dressed EXACTLY like that. I almost expected her to say, 'Tomorrow, Comrade Count, we come with trampolines and Nadja Comeneci!' But she didn't. She wished me a pleasant stay, and I thanked her, clutching my lei in wonder.

The Cluj train station was another culture-shock miracle. If I wanted to get settled, I had to phone Dr Ionescu. I had his number. I had a coin, courtesy of the Party Dignitary. I located a phone…and there my luck ran out. No matter how many times I threw that coin into the slot, and with what force, it just slipped out the return slot again. I began to worry.

Rescue appeared in the form of a hotel doorman. Actually, he was probably a field marshal in the Romanian cavalry. He had enough gold braid and fancy uniform to fulfill either function. Either way, this good Samaritan in Commie guise had spotted a hapless foreigner, and he took pity. With a smile, he held out his hand, into which I placed the offending coin. This amazing person then flung the coin into the slot, as I had, but…quick as a flash, before it could fall through, the Field Marshal banged his fist against this telephone, which appeared to be made of recycled tin cans. Then he listened for the satisfactory dial tone, which obediently sounded. He handed me the receiver and, with a smile, a bow, and a military heel-click, went on his way. He'd shown that machine.

I managed to get settled into my room without further incident, bar the fact that the idiot American girl across the hall had regifted me with some lilies, called crîn. She was taking off for a couple of days with some nice fellows she'd just met, and I should get the blessing of these flowers. Which reminded me of a funeral. Little did I know…

When Dr Ionescu surveyed the room, he warned me. In German. In an accent that would have made Bela Lugosi proud.

'Those are beautiful flowers, my friend, but they are dangerous. They cause bad dreams. Do not leave them in your room at night.' I promised – and promptly forgot.

The next morning, I experienced a horrible nightmare, probably staged by John Carpenter to a script by Stephen King. In it, the irritatingly athletic Serb from my dorm floor in Germany turned out to be an evil revenant in disguise. I was frantically striking him repeatedly with a poker, but he refused to die (again)…when I awoke to the overpowering scent of floral perfume. Aha, crîn was indeed deadly. I aired the place out.

Now, nobody will believe this part, but I was convinced it was true. After that, I swear my nose grew. It used to be really short, and now it isn't. I can't prove it, of course – I don't have the before-and-after photos, and I have facial agnosia – but I didn't use to be able to see so much of it when I closed one eye. And I know it was those Romanian lilies…strange place, Transylvania.

Which was the friendliest Communist country you could imagine. In spite of the Securitate, who persisted in ignoring me. Unfortunately, the CIA didn't. I had a long, hostile conversation with a fellow 'student', who I realised later was trying to pump me for information and feel me out, and who obviously had the same political attitudes as, say, J Edgar Hoover and George HW Bush…on the other hand, the real Communists were charming. I didn't even mind when I awoke to the sound of cannon fire. No, we weren't being invaded. It was just the ladies' auxiliary on summer drill.

There was a lot to be said for coed armies in the 20th Century. For example, since it was the women's turn to practice, they got to shoot the guns. But they also walked around Cluj in uniform, but with exquisite make-up and accessories. I even saw one carrying a large bouquet of flowers (not crîn, thankfully). And they were visible through the windows of the beauty shop, having their nails done. No sense in going to war unprepared. They cheered me enormously. I suspected the world wasn't going to end that summer, not with the Romanian Army around.

The Russians gave me tchotchkes from their Olympics. We watched the Games together on the dorm TV. We discussed dialectical materialism and Dallas. The most outgoing of them, Ivan, was an ebullient fellow who wore a pinstriped suit in the Carpathian summer heat. He was a hugging type of tovarich. He was also, apparently, the official KGB spy. I'm sure he collected a lot of valuable intel about our doings.

There was a bit of political unpleasantness over the Olympics. It seems that the Russian judges were unfair to one of the Romanian contestants. Feelings were hurt, and expressions were painful. But a good dinner smoothed it over. And then we all rode the ramshackle bus down to Sighisoara – to visit Dracula's birthplace. Where the twin of the woman on the train announced, 'This national castle has been turned into a home for gymnasts…'

The 20th Century was another country. I visit it often in my memory. They did things differently there…and you know what? I miss it. Thank you, Dr Ionescu, for these wonderful memories. Long live the People's Republic of the Mind.

Fact and Fiction by Dmitri Gheorgheni Archive

Dmitri Gheorgheni

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