The Roma Plot. Mario Bolduc
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taxi companies had put in place a few years earlier. Even the buses, the trains — barely anything made its way into the neighbourhood. There was less public transportation in Ferentari than in the rest of the city, but more police stations. Ferentari, the Bronx of Bucharest. The whole place had been left to rot, while the Roma, chased out of the countryside, scrabbled for a living in its ruined streets.
Much worse than the Bronx.
Only the walls of buildings remained, all lined up in Soviet fashion. Between them, trash heaps and dozens of wild, famished dogs. It was hard to even figure out which building it was that had burned. The Roma — the vast majority of the neighbourhood’s population — had already settled back into their apartments, moving their worthless knick-knacks back into soot-darkened rooms never to be repainted.
Probably the most unusual part of this whole story was that fire trucks had actually come to the neighbourhood that night. And that an investigation had been opened. It was a rare thing indeed for anybody to do anything to help the Roma’s lot. They were left to fend for themselves, to deal with their own problems and catastrophes. And yet, on Zăbrăuţi Street, an exception had been made. More signs of a setup.
Max tried to put together the pieces he’d found so far. Kevin had reached Bucharest a week earlier and met a Rom in a coffee shop. He’d then gotten into an argument on Zăbrăuţi Street with another Rom. There he’d allegedly killed the man and lit a fire to hide his tracks. But why, then, had he left personal belongings in the building, making himself easy to identify? Whomever had set him up hadn’t known about Kevin’s training. The first thing Duvall had taught Kevin was how to cover his tracks — unless he was leaving them purposely to confuse whoever was looking for him. Why was Kevin in Bucharest? A job gone bad? Which one?
“Do you want to see inside?” Boerescu asked.
The two men were leaning against a taxi, staring up at the building. The cab driver was nervously glancing this way and that. Max turned toward their driver, who, he noticed, had pulled out a handgun and was very visibly holding it aloft as a warning to whoever might be looking. It was clear now why he’d agreed to bring them to this neighbourhood: he was prepared.
“Let’s get out of here,” Max said. “I’ve seen enough.”
After taking his leave from his fixer and paying for a cab back to wherever the man wanted to go, Max thought of returning to the hotel but couldn’t resolve to end the day between the four walls of a poorly soundproofed room — despite the five very optimistic stars on the establishment’s brochure. Lost in thought, he wandered up Nicolae Bălcescu Boulevard and opened the door to a bar near Traian Vuia Street. Max ignored the conversation between the men at the counter dissecting the last World Cup results for — Max was certain — the hundredth time. Instead, he walked to the back of the room and sat down beneath a very old air-conditioning unit that probably hadn’t worked since King Michael’s abdication.
The television was playing on low volume. Max could see flashing images reflected in the large mirror placed behind another row of seats. On the news, tears, lamentation, and anger. Roma demonstrating in front of Parliament, begging for compassion for their brothers and sisters. And a speech by Victor Marineci. The Romani MP was demanding justice for his brethren. Pleading for a more just and fair Romania, even for the travelling people, as they were sometimes known. The patrons sitting at the bar clearly couldn’t care less. Another small tragedy of life.
“Let them all burn!” the barman shouted in English before approaching his new customer. “What can I get you?”
“Peace and quiet. And a pint.”
Max sank deeper into his seat. Those who were trying to hang Kevin Dandurand out to dry clearly lacked imagination. According to Pavlenco, in the past six months, there had been four other fires in derelict buildings inhabited by Roma.
After the first beer, another. And a third. The server’s animosity had turned into indifference. Max had almost forgotten the man’s existence when he approached the table again. “Someone on the phone for you.”
Max raised his head. He wasn’t sure he’d understood. But the bartender was pointing to a phone booth on the other side of the room. Max got up and squeezed himself into the cramped, dusty phone box, closing the door behind him. He picked up the phone.
“As cold as in New York, right? Nice weather to sell Christmas trees on a street corner.”
Kevin.
“What’s going on? Where are you?”
Close by, clearly, since he’d seen Max walk into the bar.
“I’m in a bind, Max. I need your help.”
Kevin’s specialty. Calling Max to the rescue. After Astoria, Bucharest.
“Tell me where you are. I’ll be right there.”
“It’s more complicated than that, Max. Too complicated.”
Silence on the other end of the line. Max was waiting for the rest.
“I didn’t set the fire. Didn’t kill the Roma.”
“I know that. Just tell me what happened.”
“All in good time. For now I’ve got more urgent matters. I need to ask you a favour.”
“Nothing is more urgent than getting you out of here. I’m bringing you back to Montreal and —”
“Listen, Max, I don’t have much time.”
Max fell silent.
“Tonight you’ll get a phone call from a friend of mine. Cosmin Micula.”
“Kevin, this isn’t the time to —”
“Let me finish.” Kevin’s voice was firm, bordering on hard. “Just do what he says, okay? Go with him. You can trust him.”
“Kevin, please, this isn’t the time to play games.”
“Don’t tell anyone anything, Max.” He added, “And be careful. The people who are after me, well, suffice it to say they’re powerful. Very powerful.”
“Who?”
Kevin ignored the question. After a long silence, he continued. “I knew you’d come. I knew I could count on you.” Then, “Be careful, Max.”
“Kevin …”
But he’d hung up already.
9
Auschwitz-Birkenau, September 28, 1943
Emil Rosca glanced through the crack in the drapes. That was when he saw it for the first time: a gigantic birthday cake, transported by three camp aides assigned to the Stammlager’s kitchens. A celestial vision for Emil, who still went hungry every day. The men had transported the cake through the camp right before the eyes of famished detainees.
The young Rom let the curtain fall back. Behind him the other musicians hadn’t noticed a thing. Emaciated faces, half-dead men and women barely able to hold up their instruments, much less play them. An hour ago they’d been ordered to wait in this large room, a former office, perhaps. There was no furniture here now, and the floors were covered in dust.
Upon reaching the house of SS-Obersturmbann-führer Rudolf Höss, they’d been forced to remove their rags and put on fresh clothes. Real clothes. This did nothing at all to improve their looks — quite the contrary. One knew what to expect when everyone was wearing stripes. Prisoners looked like prisoners. Man and costume were one. But now, floating in a dark jacket and white shirt two sizes too big for him, Emil felt as if he were participating in a sinister masquerade.
The sight of the cake reminded him he hadn’t eaten anything yet that day. Being in the orchestra was no picnic. Every morning at dawn the musicians played military airs to accompany the kommandos as they left for the work sites. At night, more music, this time for the return of the detainees. Between the two, the musicians also