Uncle Rudolf

—I thank you for your advice. My father was being (I understand now) sarcastic.

—Is this handsome young fellow yours? The man smiled at me. I think I tried to smile back.

—He is, yes. His name is Andrei.

—He is the image of his father. He has something of your fine nose already. Good day to you, Andrei.

—Good day, sir.

The man gave his name, which was Constantin Florescu. It has lodged in my memory for sixty-three years.

My father introduced himself, accepting a cigarette from the gold case Constantin Florescu opened with a flick.

—And is Andrei destined for the law?

—It is too early to say. He is a bright child. Shut your ears, Andrei, while I pay you compliments. He has curiosity and imagination. Perhaps a little too much imagination.

—That will pass. Childhood is the time to be imaginative. After which, sense prevails. In some cases, he added with a sneer. You will learn, Andrei Petrescu, that some men are more sensible than others. As for women, they are divinely blessed. They have no need of sense. Do not make too much money when you grow up. Women will spend it for you.

—I trust my son will not involve himself with such women. I hope he will find a woman with his mother’s character.

—And where is that good lady? At home?

My father hesitated.

—At home. Of course.

—I shall marry one day, Constantin Florescu announced. He stroked his thick moustache. I shall pick my wife with care. If it is God’s wish, as it is mine, she will give me sons.

—Ah, yes, said my father. God’s wish. Andrei is going to England. For a month or so.

—England? Why not Germany?

—We have a relative in England.

—A Romanian relative?

—Naturally.

—The English are not good to us. The English are playing games with us. They were our allies a few years ago. But now they are suspicious of our plans to build a greater, stronger country, said Constantin Florescu, undoing the buttons on his overcoat, revealing a green shirt.

—You are a Guardist, my father remarked, calmly.

—Indeed I am.

—So you put your faith in the prophet Codreanu, with his vision of a pure Romania.

—I do. As do all true patriots.

The train was nearing Bucharest. There were no more igloos. I saw tall buildings and tramcars and men and women walking along the pavements. The town of my birth dwindled as I stared out at the bustling city.

We said goodbye to our companion when we reached the ticket barrier.

—I am fighting on your behalf, Andrei Petrescu. Remind your father of that. What a very small suitcase you are taking with you to England.

I am writing in one of the leather-bound ledgers in which – like Teddy Grubb before me – I used to enter my uncle’s earnings. I think I am writing to reclaim my own life – my sheltered protected life – as much as his, Uncle Rudolf’s, because the compulsion to bring the past into the present will not be stilled. I can barely sleep, so urgent is the task I have set myself. Healthy as I am, ridiculously young as I might appear, I am nevertheless conscious that death could forestall me.

The benevolent Saint Nicholas is above the desk, smiling a just-detectable half-smile. The wonder-worker is blessing me with his right hand.

—If anything bad ever happens to God, we have always got Saint Nicholas. My uncle was fond of the old Russian saying, and often quoted it whenever he stopped to look at his beloved icon.

—Nobody knows who painted him, Andrew. The artist was without worldly ambition. He had his gift and his faith, and the two came together when he picked up his brush. You will care for my precious icon when I am dead, won’t you?

—Yes, Uncle, I answered, not wanting to imagine a life beyond his.

—You promise me?

—Yes, Uncle. I promise.

He embraced me then, and ruffled my hair, and said that the impossible country of Moldania beckoned. He would be exiled for three silly hours, during which distracted time he would inspire the peasants to revolt in a friendly manner – No bloodshed, I implore you! – before discovering he was their long-lost king.

—Oh, Andrew, will I never be freed from this nonsense?

Muraturi was the old word on my lips this morning. Why was I thinking of pickled vegetables – of cauliflower and carrots; of green and red peppers; of radishes and red cabbage? I hadn’t eaten the dish in a lifetime, not since…and then, with an involuntary cry of anguish, I pictured a lake, and clear blue sky, and saw my mother and me tickling my father, who is pretending to be asleep on the grass. The vegetables are glistening on little plates on that summer afternoon in 1936.

Why has this scene – of the kind so many English poets call sylvan – never come to me in dreams?

—I will have my revenge, you scamp, says my father, waking with a start, as if from a nightmare.

His revenge, his sweet revenge, is to tickle his son’s tummy, until the happy boy is weak with giggling.

I did not know you could kill hours until that afternoon in Bucharest.

—We have hours to kill, Andrei. We must think of something to do. Are you hungry?

—A little bit. How do you kill hours, Tata?

—By keeping busy. You kill time by forgetting about it. You pretend it doesn’t exist. Let’s see if Cina is open.

I have a memory of crossing a huge square in order to reach my uncle’s favourite restaurant. I see again a fat, bald waiter greeting my father as we enter Cina, stamping the snow from our boots. The waiter knows my father’s brother from the time he broke the hearts of every woman in the city. There was never a Danilo more wickedly handsome.

—How is the great Rudolf?

—He is well, Sandu. This young man is his nephew. Andrei is going to London to live with him for a while.

Sandu brings us the dishes the great Rudolf Peterson most enjoys and we eat as much as we can. My father drinks the red wine his brother loves and soon the hours we needed to kill have gone by, only to recur in vivid snatches, a whole lifetime later, in the dreams that beset an Englishman named Andrew Peters. The beaming Sandu is shaking my hand and saying:

—Tell your uncle, the moment you meet him, that he must come back to his country. Tell him that is Sandu’s command. We do not have many heroes, Andrei, but Rudolf Peterson is one of them. Remind him that he is a national hero.