Bound & Bound – the Curse and the Captives – - 9. Chapter 9: Strained Circumstances

Chapter 9: Strained Circumstances

I didn’t sleep well for the remainder of the night. I left the windows closed and sat like a sentinel facing them; in fact, I dragged one of the armchairs to sit myself square in front of them. I mentally dared the shadow intruder to try and violate my personal space again.

Consequently, now as I stroll through this history museum, I'm feeling dull, confused and stressed. But my father's letter is tucked safely in the inner pocket of my sports coat.

All about me swirls the madding mass of a hundred small school children in various groups and in diverse uniforms. They reluctantly follow teachers and museum guides from spot to spot.

I feel I have to be here. I need some historic clues as to what the 'problem' that I need to solve is, and right now, I'm just drifting along and waiting for something to jump out at me.

This gallery space is a little serpentine, for after having gotten beyond the glass entrance and lobby, a darkened maze begins.

I have ducked behind and waited, ostensibly perusing postcards in the lobby, while the clots of kids move away from the exhibits before I dive into them myself. They herd themselves off into the second gallery, so I can start my self-guided tour. I enter a low-ceilinged area with display cases built into the wall. The colours are dark and sombre to let the displays seem bright. This first room is about 'Dacia' and the Romans coming to Romania. They came to steal their gold – that's the long and short of it – but Latin culture stuck. The next gallery is about Attila the Hun, and how the Romanized city and town folk ran for the hills for a while, only to reemerge once the barbarian coast was clear. That's why modern Romanian is as much a Latin-based Romance language as Spanish, Italian or Portuguese.

I wait patiently to get to the next historical phase, but even from here I can see that this adjoining room is covered in a very green carpet. It climbs the walls up to a black ceiling, and it even flares out in a gentle curve to seamlessly become the flooring material as well. It lends a sobering atmosphere to the period of history soon to be presented to my wandering eyes.

Last night has left me thinking I wimped out. I cannot help but feel violated by the break-in; it's all so odd and unnerving. Maybe I should follow the advice Daj gave me as I left her place. Her parting words were about how to put my gift into greater practice. She taught me to clear my mind and stay open to input from my environment. So, I relax and slow down my thoughts right now. Maybe doing that and tamping down my numbing anxiety will help with my search for what to do or where to go next – it certainly won't hurt, that's for sure. If I have the opportunity to apprehend one of my assailants, I do not want to be caught again unawares.

A tour guide raises her hand, and moves the group of kids away in the adjoining gallery. They giggle, trip over untied shoelaces, and bob heads at one another to show how bored they are, or how much they are enjoying their time out of the classroom; I can't tell which.

I go to where they had been gathered, and on the wall is a portrait of a man. He looks rather exotic to my eyes. On top of his head is a red velvet cap trimmed in row upon row of pearls along the bottom edge. Over the centre of his forehead, a gold star rides just above the concentric rings of pearls and houses a honking great square-cut ruby. Above this eight-pointed star rise five massive pearls the size of eyeballs. Above them are sprays of white feathers – not the droopy kind either, but tall, erect and proud.

The man is not old, maybe in his late twenties, and has long dark hair curled in to neat rolls the size of medium cigars. These curls go down well past his shoulders. His eyes glance to the side, and are large, brown, and brooding; his nose is straight and projecting; and he sports a horizontally rolled moustache. This 'stache' is striking. For one thing, it goes basically in a straight line, hiding his upper lip completely, and extends far out onto his cheeks on both sides of his face. There the ends are circled inwards into a fine swirl of hair that does not stray one follicle up or down. I know several guys my age back in Toronto who would love to rock this heavy-duty face fur. I can see them now in my mind's eye, striding confidently into the clubs and sporting this old guy's bristle baton like they own the mo-f'en world. Maybe that's exactly how dead guy felt way back when.

Still chuckling, and feeling 'sharp' in my wit, I bend over to read the placard:

Vlad Ţepeş, 1431~14?? As prince of Walachia he valiantly fought off the invading armies of the Ottoman Sultan. Known for his ruthless means, he earned his moniker for impaling 20,000 captured Turks on the road as he retreated back to his castle at Tâgovişte. The sultan's army, witnessing the moans and pleadings for death of their comrades for mile upon mile, became disenfranchised with conquering Walachia, and fled.

I pull back from the portrait a little, and feel a chill that human life could be so little valued.

Staring into the depths of his brown eyes, I have to blink for a second and feel pulled down into a vision.

Some flash in that momentary darkness startles me. It's accompanied by a searing moment of anguish.

I blink again. A person contorts their lower jaw like an unhinging snake, and through it the bloody and brutally sharpened pike of a wooden stake pierces it. The person gasps for air, winds up choking, and forces blood to exit the mouth. It dribbles in a gory line down the chin, and coats the neck in a blackening red streak.

Internally I recognize that I am not watching this as myself, but as the person who is seeing this; he is overcome with emotions. He feels a battle raging of sadness that it had to come to this, but also a vast wave of relief that this person is about to die.

I shake my head. I snap myself out of it.

The residual creepy feeling from my vision morphs into one of current dread. With goose bumps rising on my arms and the back of my neck, I grit my resolve not to panic, but I'm sure you know what that 'feeling of being watched' is like. I feel it's someone who knows about last night…

As I scan the room slowly to my right, I catch one man turning his head away from me. While he pretends to be suddenly interested in a glass case, bending slight to see into it, he raises his grey hoodie. He turns casually and strolls back into the Roman gallery. As nonchalantly as I can, I skirt around the room to follow his retraced path.

This hooded figure is my only tangible link to figuring out what is going on.

He pauses near a group of green plaid uniformed schoolgirls, and I step into the exhibit area on the other side of him. Now the trailed is doing the tracking, and I don’t want to lose him.

All of a sudden he bolts out of the Roman gallery. I try to follow without breaking into a trot, or tackling a herd of children.

By the time I get to the museum lobby, I see his form dash out the front door. Through the glass, I watch almost in stunned disbelief as he starts hoofing it down the sidewalk at an uncomfortable speed; he suddenly draws the side flaps of his hood to better shield his profile, and then jams his hands into his pockets.

Instinctually, like a predator animal triggered by flight, I break into a run. My sneakers bite the white marble floor of the lobby with angry-sounding squeals. A security guard shouts at me in Romanian. I don’t need a translator to tell me what his tone says all by itself: 'Hey, no running!'

I hit the panic bar of the exterior door hard, and hold onto it to spin myself towards the direction the cowled figure was last seen moving.

I take off. The sidewalks are not crowded, and up ahead I catch the movement of someone running. He dashes across the street, and springs to the right.

I rush out into the crosswalk, and a car horn sounds; then there is the terrible squeal of brakes locking up and tires sliding along the pavement. I don’t look, for all l want to do is keep my eye scanning for the figure, but I do feel the heat of the car's bumper stopping only millimetres from my leg.

On the sidewalk again, I head right and look up ahead for the guy. I notice an alleyway to my left. At first I run past it, and then, slowly I stop. I circle back, catching my breath, and walk to the entrance of this darkly narrow passage.

I pat my pounding heart from between my blazer and polo shirt, lightly feeling the edge of my father's letter. There is no sound, there is no movement from what I can see, and this passageway ends in a solid wall of brick about twenty metres ahead of me.

'Steady now,' I think. 'There's no way out.'

I begin to walk down the alley.

Rubbish bins line the sides and make perfect shadowy places for an assailant to crouch between.

I get to the edge of the first dumpster. Slowly I advance my step until I can peer into the gloom between it and its neighbouring trash receptacle.

Nothing.

I practically tiptoe to the next void. I don’t want my Converse sneakers to betray me now.

I peek into the second gap.

Nothing.

What was that?

From slightly up ahead, a metallic sound clatters.

I inhale, straighten up and step onwards.

Suddenly, the hooded figure dashes out and towards me; towards his only means of escape behind me. My incensed feelings of powerlessness heighten my reflexes. My hands go out automatically and latch onto the sides of his sweatshirt at the chest.

I spin him and slam him against a tall garbage bin. A huge loss of air from his lungs tells me I have startled him and thrown him with some force. His hands fly up helplessly in a gesture of 'I surrender.'

I knock the hood off of his head with a decisive movement so I can see his face.

I stumble back a half-step in total shock.

My hands loosen but do not release him as I say in amazed disbelief, "Jesus Fucking Murphy! …You...?!"

˚˚˚˚˚

I sit across a café table from that Gypsy guy. His grey hood is down, and I have no idea how or why this son of a Seeing Fox is here.

I also wouldn't expect a big, burly guy to order a frothy cappuccino, but there it sits in front of him, cooling and being ignored. His hands come out and cup it for apparent warmth, and I can take stock of the fact that he really likes big and chunky silver bands. One specifically around the lower half of his right thumb taps nervously against the white porcelain in his grip.

After the accosting in the alleyway, we walked a ways until we found this sidewalk coffee shop and sat down. The roped-off area of tables and chairs is basically empty this time of day, but many people are busy passing our little corner of silence.

He's still wearing too much spray-on 'scent.'

I sip my espresso and inspect him. His sweatshirt is elaborate with a big print of something that looks like a faded phoenix, and it has machine embroidery in black thread on top of it. He sits in another fancy pair of Euro jeans, and does so on the edge of his seat. After he sets his cup down he spreads his legs far apart, and leans forward to put his elbows on the table. His hair is just as spiked up as when I saw it in Toronto, but now a bit deflated from him having to use his hoodie; somehow I know that the compromised condition of his hair bothers him a great deal.

To be sure, his arrogant attitude is not helping my mood a'tall. I slip my cup into its saucer with a loud clatter. His blue eyes drift up to mine.

"What was your name again?" I ask.

He inhales and sits upright, or rather, 'slouches' upright.

"Silviu Vasile." Lupasc's brother acts he can't believe I'd be so rude as to not remember it.

I remind him, "Well, I did only barely make your acquaintance, and it was only once, under strained circumstances.

He sneers like a total bully. "I remember your name, Emeric Corvin."

His demeanour adds a sour streak to my own face. "As far as I can remember, I did not tell you my name."

"My mother. It's all her."

"Ah, she told you who I am."

"Yeah," Silviu says with a burst of disbelieving air through his nostrils. "She's also the one who sent me over here to watch out for you."

"So why did you run from me at the museum? That's kinda suspicious behaviour."

"My Daj sent me here to protect you and not be detected, so today I tried to casually walk out of that place, but you followed. So, I had to run."

I drain my coffee. "Protection, huh? I don’t need anybody's help."

"Don’t tell me you're as dumb as you look. Truth is, you need all the help you can get."

In stunned silence, I realize I'm still holding the cup halfway between my lips and the tabletop, so I calmly set it down.

As I open my mouth to vent my anger, he interrupts.

"And, I'm moving into your hotel room."

"What..? Why!" I can't believe the balls on this…

Silviu Vasile distracts my thoughts by slicking on an oily leer and reclining fully back on his chair. The wicker and bentwood protests at his shifting weight with loud creaks, but all he does is fold his arms and kick his legs completely out in front of him; he slowly lifts his left ankle to cross over the top of his right boot. He eyes me like he has no concerns in the world.

I swallow, getting it: the connection of 'protection' and his moving into my Bucharest lodgings. I must make a funny face, because he shrugs in response.

"So," I admit. "You know about last night?"

"Know..?" He makes fun of me in a mocking tone. "You don’t want a repeat of what happened, do you?"

"And how do you happen to be so well informed about it, anyway?"

He ignores that. "I'm moving in with you."

"Um…"

"I can't exactly watch over you from outside your room. I'm the one who caught that creep and saved your sorry, pathetic ass."

"You…ah…" I stammer.

"Look, I'm not trying to deke you out."[1] And then he scowls deeply, and decides to shoves down my throat, "And by the way, you're welcome."

"Look, Mr. Personality, you're tellin' me it was you who caught that guy last night?" My unsaid question of 'Or, was it you that broke into my room,' stings him nonetheless. A wave of little-boy hurt washes over his aquiline features and puts a slight tremble to his full and rosy lips.

He glances angrily at the people walking near us on the sidewalk. "You think I want to be here? With you?"

"Silviu." I force him to look at me with a paused breath. "Okay, tell me this. What did you do after you caught him?"

His brows scrunch together for a moment. "I went up to your room and slid your letter under the door. You did get it back, didn’t you?"

"Yes, I did. And you didn't open it, or read it?"

"No. I would never do that."

"And what happened to 'the guy?'"

"He socked me pretty good, and ran away. I had your property back, so I didn’t chase after him."

I had to admit, it all sounded pretty plausible. "But, I don’t know about you moving in with me."

He finally relaxes enough to pick up his coffee cup. "I don’t see what the big deal is."

"We're strangers for one thing. Look, so you move in with me, then later freak the fuck out when you learn that I've had nothing but boyfriends my entire adult life. Will you then proceed to beat me up?"

Silviu Vasile flickers mirthful eyes at me from over the rim of his cappuccino. He sets it down and shows me his newly grown, frothy moustache. And then unaccountably, he raises his arms to cross hands behind his head.

He licks the foam off of his mouth, saying, "No, I won't. That is, unless you 'freak the fuck out' once you've learned I've had nothing but boyfriends too."

For the first time ever, I see a radiant smile from him, and he looks the spitting image of his sweet and innocent little brother back in the shop.

"Oh. Well…" I stumble over my own thoughts for a moment. "I suppose that takes care of one issue, then."

He suddenly asks rather sweetly, "You're a college kid aren’t you?"

This throws me back a little, but I tell him, "Yeah. I go to uni at Ryerson."

"So, seeing how close it is, do you go to the clubs on Church Street?"

I smile. "In 'the village,' eh?"

"Yep."

"Yeah, I hang out occasionally at Woody's, Boutique, and Zippers."

"Cool. I prefer the Black Eagle, Sailor and Remington's.

The three places he named fit his persona, as they are all a little rough around the edges, and the last one is a strip club!

A wavering moment of 'Ah!' shades Silviu's face; he's never looked more the boy as his ring-laden finger comes slowly up and points across the table at my face.

"I figured it out," he says halfway amazed.

"Figured what out?"

"Who you look like! You look like a young Sean Penn, not like the clueless dork Sean Penn when he was – how old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

"Not like the dorky Sean Penn when he was twenty-three, but what he'd look like playing the twenty-three-year-old him in a movie."

I can feel my lips part. I shake my head slightly – what does that mean?

"I mean," he explains with both hands folding on the table like a peace offering. "The emotionally mature man playing himself at your age. You have his eyes – although yours are green – you have his pouty mouth, although your lips are full, and I even think I've seen him wear his hair all retro like that…in that…movie – " He snaps his fingers a few time, trying to conjure the name out of the Romanian air. "The Thin Red Line!" he exclaims and grins in self-satisfaction.

"Big movie fan?" I ask.

"Yep," he says with raised eyebrow. "You have the same arrogant smirk too," he adds gratuitously.

"You, calling me arrogant…" I almost can't believe it.

"Don’t you think if anyone could pull off 'arrogance,' it would be a foxy, bad-boy version of Mr. Penn?"

I slowly shake my head; is this guy for real? I clear my throat and try to change the subject. "You think there's much of a scene in Romania?"

"I checked Spartacus before I came,[2] and there are quite a few clubs in Bucharest. As for the rest of the country, I suppose it's hit or miss." He suddenly blinks like a new level of clarity has just come to him. "Well, the truth is, that since we're everywhere, there's bound to be 'a scene' anywhere you travel in the world, as long as you can be open to seeing it."

"Yeah," I chuckle a little bit. "I suppose that's right."

He leans elbows on the table again and nearly tips it over. "Speaking of travel, I don’t think you want to spend the rest of your life in this country tracking down a curse, so do you have any place to start?"

"So, you know about the curse too..?"

"Daj didn't send me here 'unarmed' – I know what you're facing."

"Well, okay. But, a funny thing – as in freaky weird – happened to me in the history museum."

"What?"

"I had, and don’t laugh, a vision when I was looking at Vlad the Impaler's picture."

"Vlad Tepes, eh?"

"Yes."

"Ok. Let's follow it to its source. Sighisoara is where he was born, so I suggest we start planning how to get there."

"Sigi-shar-wa? I repeat mindlessly as I'm standing up. I head for the coffee shop door, but I pause when I get near his side. "By the way, did you mean what you said earlier?"

"Which 'what I said' earlier?"

"About…well, you know – Sean Penn." I can look straight down into his blue-eyed gaze.

Silviu smiles at me like he's three-quarters of the way to out and out laughing in my face. "In my opinion you have similar qualities to him. What? Are you not used to getting compliments, or something? Jeezsh. Most people would have said 'Thank you,' and moved on."

"It's cool; I was just kidding around, wondering if you were doing the same."

He folds his arms defensively across his chest. "Yeah, we're good. Whatever."

"Hey man, how old are you?"

"I'm twenty-eight." He laughs like his statement is funny. "See, a bit older, but a lot more mature!"

If he was trying to annoy me, it was working. Who wants to be told they're 'a kid,' no matter what the form, or how sparkling the grin of the man saying it?

He gestures in a puzzled way. "Anyhow, where you going?"

"I've gotta pee."

I continue to walk to the café's front door, but turn as a wicked idea pops into my head. I call back to Silviu from the open portal, "You don't need to protect me in the john too, do ya?"

I saunter into the building smiling and thinking, 'Who knew a tough Gypsy guy could blush like that?'

This coffee shop is one of those highly polished and exquisite Milan-designed chain stores.

I tread carefully over the mini white floor tiles thinking I might leave a mark. There are several mirrored panels, and only a few moms with little ones inside.

I find the men's room, and go in.

The light level is lower, which is good, because there are just as many reflective surfaces in here as out there.

The urinal is trough-style, with a continuous flow of water over the angled stainless steel back.

As I stroll towards it, and my hand goes to my fly, caution makes me peek under the toilet stall doors: no feet. I guess I'm alone.

I saddle up to the piss station, and manoeuvre myself out and into position.

I sigh. I suppose I'm feeling a little freaked out about this whole thing. It seems weird that this Gypsy guy would trail me across the Atlantic, and how did he know my itinerary anyway? Are 'their people' supposed to be good at hacking cell phone transmissions too? Nah, I guess not. Fuck, I realize I am starting to act paranoid, and it reminds me of my dad.

The wall above the urinal is a solid piece of highly polished stainless steel. It's not as bright as a mirror, but it's certainly good enough to admire oneself in.

I jostle my neck and force my head to dip to the right. I purse my lips, and tilt my noggin forward a bit. My hair looks good, my Elvis cut is holding, but as I lower it and tilt the other direction, I am caught by my eyes. They look…they look, worried.

I suddenly can't pee. I feel exposed and self-conscious.

What do I know about this guy – this Silviu Vasile? I know he can act like an ass; I know he can act like a charmer; I know he thinks he's sexy, and that his notion of body spray is something to douse himself in. But, then again, there is something in this man who is maybe five years older than I am that he has lived out loud, and done it at a time while I was still trapped at home with Father.

The point of fact is, Silviu is handsome. He's also funny, smart, and that particular combination I like very much. But then again, who doesn't? There is also something intriguing is in his scent, which is earthy, but with a sweet note wavering above it.

Like a bolt, I catch my reflection again. My own not-insubstantial arrogant look is gone. In the brief moment I was honest with myself about Silviu, I had unleashed a radiant and unguarded smile.

I relax and feel comfort as the urine is allowed to flow.

But through my sigh of relief I still have no mortal idea what is going to happen to me.

˚˚˚˚˚

I approach Silviu at our table all smiles. He does not see, as he's busy with his phone.

I slap a postcard down on top of his screen.

"There!" I proclaim. "There's where we're going tonight."

Without looking at it or me, he says, "What brought this on? Our talk about the scene in Bucharest?"

"It's not a Gay club that I want to go to – it's a hip place with a mixed crowd, and I'm sure there will plenty of guys there looking to meet others guys."

He picks it up, and in a moment reads it aloud with disdain: "Club Nosferatu..?" He dumps the card on the table. "Where'd you get that, anyway?"

I hurriedly say, as I pick up the postcard to brush it off, "There's a bunch of club notices by the sink in the crapper. This one seemed the most interesting. I'm fed to the teeth, Silviu, of being stressed and sad – now that you can look out for me, maybe I wanna let my hair down."

He was back fussing with his phone, so I chime louder as I take my seat, "Here, listen. 'Club Nosferatu is Bucharest's Hottest Vampire Disco Club and Bar. Come get your psych on – '"

"But, why not a nice place where we can chill with other out guys – I mean, you want to go to a vamp club?" The Gypsy guy looks genuinely concerned.

I put on my best 'poor little rich boy look.' "Call it a…premonition..? I wanna go." I shrug for added effect.

Silviu puts up his hand. "You don’t know what you're getting into. Some of those vamp kids are just plain nuts. They actually think they can drain people's energy."

"Why? Have you ever been there, or to any vamp club?"

"No, Emeric. I haven’t, but you forget what I do for a living. I know a ton of vamp kids, and I know how they think."

"It's just a bit of fun. What harm can come of it? And besides, if you don't want to go, then I can just…"

"Oh no. You are not sneaking out in the middle of the night to go to a vampire club in the heart of Romania!" He kicks his legs out in front of him again to show me just how resolved he is on the matter.

He pretends to go back to his phone, but I can tell by his huffy breaths what he's thinking about.

I lick my lips for a moment.

"If you come with me to the club tonight, I'll not only let you move in, but I'll let you take the bed, and I'll sleep on the sofa."

Silviu Vasile looks up from his mobile. He slowly places it face down on the table like a carefully laid royal flush.

"Really?" His little-boy smile is back.

"I don’t go back on my word, so yes."

He is suddenly all seriousness. "Emeric, we will find another, but it is not a good idea to go to that club."

I joke with him. "I don’t want to sing Romanian karaoke, or sip lime-green appletinis in some former Communist air raid shelter."

He cocks his head and scoffs cruelly at me – cruelly because he uses his considerable good looks to shut me down.

In a flash of ill will, I say, "And why not go? You don’t want to go because Daj wouldn't approve?" Instantly I regret saying that. His puppy-dog peepers tell me that I can hurt Silviu's 'manhood' by talking about his mom.

"Emeric, you don’t know who you are – "

"Never mind, eh!" I cut him off and brighten the mood. "She's not here, and nothing's going to happen to me, because I have you to protect me."

Into that jollity, he shakes an already regretful head. "You just don’t know what you're getting into." He taps his chunky silver band nervously against his empty coffee cup. "But…"

"But, it's all settled." I feel an impious smile cracking my cheeks.

Silviu sighs, re-laces his fingers behind his head and leans back on his chair. Amid a chorus of protesting creaks, he beams at me with full-on cockiness. "Besides, you never know. I might meet someone interesting there tonight."