Vacations From Hell (18 page)

Uncle Radu, who was about one hundred and two if he was a day, started playing then. I use the word
playing
lightly. It was more like he was skinning the accordion, because the sound it made was the sound of an instrument in pain. Mariana and Vasul lost it, hands over their mouths, their eyes watering. Mariana’s mother flashed her a disgusted look. But Uncle Radu kept playing. Another man picked up his violin, and one of the women started singing. The tavern keeper walked around the tables clapping his hands, but the kids joined only half-heartedly, and when that song was over and the next one
started, they lost interest and went back to drinking, playing quarters, and having arguments about alternative bands and indie films.

“I’ll hear about this later,” Mariana whined.

“When my grandmother saw my clothes, she clucked her tongue and walked away,” one of the girls at the end of the table said.

The guy next to her stubbed out his cigarette. “There are moments when my parents stare like they don’t know what to make of me. Like they’re a little disgusted, a little afraid.”

Mariana cut in. “Every generation fears the one that comes after. Our music, our clothes, our aspirations. Our youth. It’s like they know we will do what they can’t anymore.”

“Sometimes my aunties will speak in Creole when they don’t want us to know what they’re talking about. It’s like they’re messing with us on purpose,” Isabel said. “Makes me mad crazy.”

Vasul laughed. “Mad crazy,” he imitated, and Isabel broke into her most smitten grin. John knotted his fingers with hers and gave them a kiss to make his claim clear.

“I’ve been home just a few hours and already my parents are asking when I’m going to settle down and give them grandchildren,” a girl named Dovka complained. “I’m twenty-one! I have a DJ gig at a club in Bucharest!” She turned to John. “Don’t you hate it when they do that?”

“My parents don’t really give a shit as long as my grades are good and I don’t get arrested. They just give me money so I’ll go away and stop interfering with their golf games and Pilates sessions,” John said with a bitter laugh, and I felt kind of bad for him. It was like his parents woke up one day totally surprised to discover they had kids, so they just hired a fleet of people to take care of them.

“What about you, Poe?” Mariana asked.

I shrugged. “My parents are okay. Annoying but good-hearted. I don’t think they’re afraid of me. The state of my room, maybe,” I joked. “Mom’s from Wisconsin. She talks funny and loves the Green Bay Packers. My dad’s a professor, plays too much Tetris when he should be grading papers, collects vintage Stax LPs. My grandmother still holds on to the old ways some.”

When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me about being in the internment camps during World War II. And when it was too much for her to talk about, she’d just end the conversation with, “Fear leads to foolishness.” Then she’d teach me Japanese calligraphy, guiding my brush gracefully over the paper. Later we’d go to McDonald’s. She loved their fries.

Dovka propped her head up with her hand. Her eyes were glassy. “Traditions are nice, though. They bind you together, remind you where you’re from.”

“Or keep you back.” I don’t know why I said it. I think I just wanted to take the opposing view.

“Exactly,” Baz slurred. His eyes were at half-mast. “Like last year, when I was dating Chloe? My parents got all bunged. And they’re, like, total liberals and everything, but they were freaked that she wasn’t Jewish. Like all of a sudden the menorah came out and my dad started asking if I wanted to go to temple Friday night.” He grinned. “I told him Friday was a different religious occasion:
Doctor Who
. Hey, it’s not my fault they don’t have TiVo yet.”

Mariana gave a thumbs-up. “TiVo!”

“TiVo.” Vasul nodded.

Everybody clinked glasses, shouting “TiVo!” till the old-timers shushed us.

“Still,” Vasul said when we’d quieted down again. “There are times when I think maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to come back here. It’s peaceful. It’s safe. No STDs, processed foods, pollution.” He paused. “No bombs.”

Mariana put her hand on his arm. “Vasul survived the terrorism in London. He was at Russell Square. He saw what happened,” Mariana explained.

“It could have been me on that bus,” Vasul said softly. “Feels like the world’s going to hell sometimes. Like nowhere is safe anymore. Except Necuratul.”

Everyone raised their glasses in a respectful, quiet toast. “Necuratul.”

Mariana said something to Vasul in their language. “Anyway,” she said with a sigh, “it’s a moot point. These people—our parents and grandparents, great-
grandparents—they’re getting old now. When they die off, the village will die with them. All this culture will be lost. Especially if they’re relocated because of the power plant. I’ve seen it happen before. Diaspora.”

“That’s sad,” Isabel said softly, and I knew she was thinking about her own family forced out of Haiti and transplanted in American suburbs where they never quite got past the polite smiles of their white neighbors.

“Shit happens.” Dovka grunted. “Get over it. On with the new.”

Mariana rolled her eyes. “You’re right. This is getting morbid. I don’t want to get morbid. I want more wine.” She poured us all another round and raised her glass for the third time. “An offering to the future.”

“An offering to the future,” we all seconded, well on our way to getting completely plastered.

In the corner the older villagers eyed us warily, like we were something to be watched, something that might explode and take them out with us. They continued with their music, singing and playing in controlled measures. But our table started up with The Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go,” giggling over the implications. We were younger and louder, and soon our voices drowned out the haunting folk song altogether.

The next day it rained like crazy. I’d never seen the sky throw down like that ever. It was a good thing Necuratul was on a mountain because I was sure we’d be flooded
otherwise. Mariana, Vasul, Dovka, and the other people our age had left before dawn to get supplies for the festival. That was their job and they did it, hungover or not. Now, with the rain, it looked like they’d have trouble getting back.

“Bridge,” the tavern keeper explained in broken English. He made a whistling sound and gestured with his hands:
gone
. Without the others around the villagers weren’t overly friendly to us. Actually, I got the feeling they wanted us as gone as the bridge. Mariana’s mother ran the bakery. I popped in to buy some bread, which mostly consisted of my pointing and smiling and then laying down money for her to figure out. While she poked through my coins, I looked around the cozy shop. Two burly men sat at a heavy wooden table by the front window drinking steaming mugs of something dark. They stared outright. One guy said something to the other, and they both laughed.

“Just like the seventh grade cafeteria,” I muttered to myself, feeling my face grow warm. I kept my eyes forward, taking in the shelves of fresh bread, the plaster walls decorated with evil eyes and garlic, the arched doorway giving a glimpse of the ovens. Something pricked at me. I thought I saw a patch of red inside a partially closed closet. I squinted and suddenly Mariana’s mother was closing the door securely. She gave me a tense smile and flicked her gaze at my change. With mumbled thanks I was out the door with my
bread, wondering if I’d really seen the forbidden color or not.

I was hustling back to the inn through the downpour when I saw the girl in the forest again. This time she stood, palms out. She was pale, with deep shadows around her eyes, and slime all over her long skirts, like she’d skidded down a hill or something.

“Hello?” I called. “Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer, so I moved closer. I was right against the edge of the stone circle. “Do you need help?” I asked slowly, like an idiot, thinking that would help with the language barrier.

She pointed to my loaf of bread.

“You want…this? Are you hungry?”

She opened her mouth like a scream, and the trees shook with a thousand whispers that made my neck hair rise. I felt a hand gripping my arm. It was the old woman who had let us in at the gate. Her expression was angry, and she unleashed a torrent of language, all guttural vowels and unfamiliar consonants that made me dizzy.

“I don’t understand!” I shouted over the rain.

“Devil,” she said, using her only other English word. She flicked her glance toward the forest. No one was there. But I knew I’d seen that girl.

The church bell tolled loudly. In a few seconds many of the villagers, including the tavern keeper, Mariana’s mother, and the two men who had been sitting in the bakery, bustled up the hill to the church. They gave me
wary glances on the way. None of the children were with them.

“Where did she go?” I asked the old woman. “The girl. Did you see her?”

“Devil,” she said again, and hurried to the church with the others. She opened the door, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw that flash of red again.
Red robe
, my brain said. But it was fast, and I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t be sure of anything except that I wished Mariana, Vasul, and the rest would hurry back. The old-timers gave me the creeps.

When I got back to the room, I was soaked to the skin, the loaf of bread was inedible, and the others were lying around on the beds and chairs staring off into space. None of our cell phones could get reception here, and it’s not like there was an Internet café within a hundred miles. After a full day trapped in our room without so much as a YouTube video to break things up, we were approaching lethal boredom.

“I’m having Internet withdrawal,” John said. He was splayed out on the bed balancing the evil-eye pendant he’d bought at the train station on his nose. “Like, seriously, if I can’t log on and IM someone—anyone—I’ll go insane.”

Isabel took out her phone and pretended to text him. “J, OMG, where T F R U?” she chirped in text-speak.

“N hell,” John answered back, his thumbs moving in the air. “U?”

“Hell 4 sure. Want BK fries. No garlic.”

John laughed, then stopped. “I mean, ROTFLMAO.”

I told them about my weird encounter with the girl in the forest and how I’d seen her twice now. I told them about how the old woman who guarded the gate had referred to the forest as “devil.”

“I think we should do a creepy field trip to the forest,” John said.

The others were on it immediately.

“You guys, what if there are, like, bear traps and poisonous snakes or malevolent, human-flesh-eating reindeer in the forest? Or worse? We could stumble onto a Jonas Brothers appreciation festival.” I shuddered for effect.

“Or Beelzebub,” Baz said. “The dark lord having a kegger.”

“I think we should stay put,” I answered.

With a sigh Isabel picked up her phone and pretended to text John. “OMG, J. So f’ing bored. BTW, Poe sux.” She glanced at me.

John moved his fingers very deliberately. “Word.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I was as pent up and fourteenth-century cabin-crazed as the rest of them. “All right. Creepy field trip. Tomorrow we go to the forest.”

The three of them threw their arms around me, and we collapsed on one of the beds, chanting, “Cree-py field trip! Cree-py field trip! Cree-py field trip!”

There was a loud crack, and I was afraid we’d broken the ugly bed. “Dude,” John said, holding the shards of his now broken evil-eye pendant. “I’m a marked man.” Then he laughed.

The next morning, when the rain had died down to a light patter, we grabbed our flashlights and some fresh bread in case we got hungry.

“Should we take this?” Isabel asked. “I thought that was forbidden.”

“You don’t go on a trip without food. Didn’t you read about the Donner Party?” Baz joked.

Isabel looked uncomfortable. “Still…”

“You actually believe that shit?” John kissed her cheek. “Superstition.”

“Right. Superstition.” Isabel brightened, and we set off for the forest. In one of the narrow lanes between the houses a bunch of kids were playing some kind of game. Five of the kids stood in the center, and the other kids surrounded them. The kids in the outer circle joined hands and went around and around, singing. When they saw us, they stopped and stared.

“Hi.” Isabel waved as we passed. They fell in behind us. When we’d turn around, they’d duck behind whatever was available. We could hear them giggling, like following us was the most fun they’d had in a long time. It probably was, but it was making our escape into the forest pretty tricky.

“We’re just going for a walk,” I explained nervously. “Okay. Bye now. Have fun.”

“They’re still following us,” Baz whispered.

“Stop and do something boring.” We stood and gazed at the church. Isabel snapped a few pictures. We talked about architecture, totally making it up. A few minutes later the kids lost interest and ducked down another lane to play something else.

“They’re gone,” John said. “Let’s go for it.”

We hurried to the church, creeping around the side. I couldn’t see through the stained-glass windows, but I could hear sounds—not quite singing, not quite praying. More like chanting, maybe. Or maybe it
was
praying. It was hard to tell. Isabel motioned for me to hurry up, and I ran to the wall.

John stepped right over the wall and the salt ring. He was on the forest side now. “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for evolution.”

“Here goes,” Baz said. He and Isabel followed John.

When I got ready to go, I heard those whispering voices on the wind again. “Do you hear that?” I asked.

“Hear what?” Baz asked.

I could almost make out words. One sounded like “avenge,” but I couldn’t be sure.

“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s go.”

As a joke Baz dropped the bread crumbs behind us, Hansel and Gretel style. “So we can find our way back—
if
we come back. Mwahahaha!”

Isabel rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

The forest itself was pretty amazing: lush and green with the most fantastic black-spotted mushrooms growing wild everywhere. The only weird thing was there were no animals. No deer. No birds. Nothing with a pulse except us.