Page 54 of London
As much as he would like to do the same, according to the GPS, they would reach Cluj in less than two hours. His eyes were sore and tired. Linda had offered to drive several times, but he wanted to let her rest. The flight had been stressful for her. She needed to recharge her batteries more than he did. Busying himself with the road, his thoughts, and humming along with the radio, he managed to stay alert. By the time he saw signs indicating the city, Linda was awake once more, her eyes wide, taking in the sights.
They drove through the industrial sector at the periphery of the city. Once passed the factories and warehouses, they were free to admire Cluj in all of its splendor. The buildings were magnificent. Most of them were old, each with a unique personality. Even those that looked ready to fall apart had a charming quality to them. The city’s history was imprinted on every block, brick, and board.
Gerard drove past houses, churches, apartment buildings, and shops until they reached their destination: CLINICA BATTISTE. He parked the car.
“This is it. Let’s go inside,” Gerard said, ignoring the wave of emotion that flooded him. Meeting his father’s friend refreshed his own memories of the man he’d loved and lost.
The white two-story building had a small fenced in front yard. Light shone from most of the windows.
After getting out of the car, they stretched and yawned, looking around before climbing the few steps that led to a massive wooden door. It opened silently when Gerard pushed on it. Someone kept the hinges oiled.
Inside, a brightly illuminated corridor ended at a spiral stairway. On each side of the corridor were doors. The second door on the right bore a small sign in black letters indicating the office belonged to Dr. Jean-Paul Battiste. Gerard knocked before opening the door. He stepped back to let Linda enter first. The room was stuffy with clouds of cigarette smoke.
Although he hadn’t seen the man in years, he recognized Jean-Paul immediately. When he stood to greet them in French, Gerard saw that he was just as tall, but thinner than he remembered, dressed in the usual white medical jacket, his hair now completely gray.
“Jean-Paul, mon ami!It’s so good to see you again.”
He hugged his old friend tightly, happy to see that Jean’s grasp was still strong enough to knock the wind out of him.
“Good to see you too,copain.”
The old Frenchman’s voice was rough and raspy, but still friendly. For Linda’s benefit he spoke in English, his accent similar to Gerard’s.
“Welcome,Mademoiselle.” He took her hand in his and kissed it gallantly. “You are beauty personified. My friend is a lucky man.”
“Merci, monsieur,” she replied, smiling, her cheeks flushed. “You’re very kind.”
“I see you haven’t quit smoking,” Gerard said dryly. “It’s a wonder you can breathe in here. Tobacco will be the end of you,mon vieux.” He turned to Linda and shook his head. “Hard to believe a doctor who fights so hard to cure other people is so careless about his own health.”
“I’m not at all careless,mon ami. Why do you think we fight to cure the most terrible diseases? Why so that we can live a hundred and fifty years while enjoying all the vices we love,” Jean-Paul said, laughing heartily. “How was your trip?”
“Long,” Linda said, rolling her shoulders.
“I’m sorry,chérie,but I’ll make sure you two get plenty of sleep tonight. Let me show you to our humble home. We live right next to the clinic. No more driving tonight. Mariana will help you get settled. She speaks French and a bit of English. We’ll get along,” he said smiling broadly. He opened the door and ushered them out in a fatherly fashion.
Chapter Fourteen
The Battiste’s house was a small, gray brick building, with copper-colored trim that matched the roof and front door. Inside the yard, colorful rose bushes, still visible in the waning light, added a touch of the rainbow.
Jean-Paul opened the front door where Mariana Battiste waited for them. She was a tall, slender woman, whose beauty hadn’t dimmed with age. The pink apron she wore over her blue dress outlined her narrow waist. Her thick, black hair was pulled back into a bun, and her expressive, brown eyes welcomed them.
“Mon amour, these are my friends, Linda and Gerard,” Jean-Paul said, closing the door behind him. “Why don’t you show them to their room first? Let them clean up and change before we start getting reacquainted.”
“Welcome to our home,” Mariana said in English, a trace of Romanian accent in her voice. “It’s so nice to meet you.” She smiled warmly. “Please, follow me.”
Gerard, his hand at the small of Linda’s back, guided her down the hallway following their hostess, with Jean-Paul trailing behind him.
“Your home is beautifully decorated,” Linda said, indicating the paintings and the traditional Romanian art adorning the walls and shelves.
“Thank you. Here,” Mariana opened the door to the last room on the left and motioned them inside. “S'il vous plaît assurez-vous à l'aise,” she said.
“Make yourselves comfortable. Leave your luggage here, change, and then we’ll have dinner,” Jean-Paul translated for Linda’s benefit. “The bathroom is right next door.”
Gerard looked around the room. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was small and yet the perfect size. It was furnished with a double bed flanked by nightstands, a dresser, an armchair, and an armoire.
“It’s beautiful,” Linda exclaimed, admiring the knick-knacks and decorations scattered around the room, giving it a unique appeal. “What do you call that?” She pointed to a colorful knitted bedspread displaying a gorgeous and quite complicated floral pattern.
Jean-Paul beamed. “That’s called amacat. The handwoven pastoral scene above the bed is acarpeta,and over there, next to the armoire, is agoblen. My wife is proud of her Romanian roots.”
