Chapter 1 In which Mrs Milica gains ingress to the Colonel's house ...

out, with their ears glued to Free Europe, that a consignment of Bibles from the West
had been pulped and thence the trouble. Anyway, his wife said it was out of the
question, God forgive me, to wipe her botty using holy writ, even if they were only
fragments. She didn’t even bother to ask the priest whether it was a sin or not. She put
some old issues of The Spark, the Party newspaper, in the privy, including the one with
the decree against abortions, with the Comrade’s speech about increasing the number of
children per capita. I’m telling you, marrer, only the Devil himself could have made her
do such a thing. Precisely nine months after she used the newspaper, she gave birth to a
strapping lad, who looked identical to uncle Nicu. This friend of mine hadn’t even been
at home during that period so that you could say one thing led to another. They were
both left stunned but they raised the little darling, and they couldn’t even claim a food
allowance. That’s how the decrees were born…
But let me get back to my visit. He picks at the die a bit more and then he looks
to the left, he looks to the right, and he fetches from the cupboard some wine and soda
and a box of cigars, I thought it was a box of chocolates at first. But you could see from
his face that he was scared in case Lena caught him with the booze and gave him a
tongue-lashing. I can’t complain though, it was a good wine; the old codger had taste.
“Take a cigar,” he urges me, “Fidel Castro sent them to me for the 23 August workers’
holiday.” If only my wife could have seen me, you’d have thought I was Kojak, she
really used to like that serial. “Here, Moldavian, have you heard of a certain Goma?”
asks The-One-They-Shot. Me, so as not to look really stupid, I says: “I’ve heard the
name, comrade Secretary…” I was thinking that he must some Party bigwig or
something. “Well then, tell me, tell me everything. Where did you hear about him?”
What could I say? I couldn’t get the words out. I didn’t have a clue who he was and I
still don’t know, but I remembered the name, because it wasn’t a common one. “There
was this bloke at our lathe shop…” I ventured. “No, man, this one I’m asking you
about is a rotter.” “Well, the one at our place isn’t much better,” says I, playing along
with him. “But have you heard of Iliescu?” “Haven’t heard of him, comrade secretary
General…” “Better for you! That one, he’s another rotter, but more dangerous than the
other one.” Look, I swear, that’s what he really said. Because during the revolution,
when I saw him on the telly, I remembered this discussion eggzactly. “Look here, listen
to me, if I die and you fall into the hands of that gypsy Iliescu, your happiness is at an
end!” “How could you die, comrade Secretary General… How could it be possible?”
“It’s possible, Moldavian, because for me everything is possible!” “A-ha,” says I, like