Chapter 67: The Erinyes

I FOUND the Bohemian Flat the next afternoon and followed the instructions for entering through the door with a dog flap and climbing the three stories to the top floor. Tassa greeted me there and welcomed me into her apartment.

“Just drop your bag there and let me fix you a cup of coffee. We’ll sit and talk. I want to know all about you,” she said.

“This is a lovely flat,” I said, joining her in the kitchen.

“You have the run of the living room, kitchen, bathroom, and your own room, which I’ll show you shortly. Please don’t enter any other rooms as I have a couple of boarders and, of course, my own room.”

“That is quite a little business,” I said.

“Oh, it isn’t really a business. This was my mother’s flat and when she died it was just me here and was very lonely. I started letting out rooms just so there would be company occasionally. Now what brings you to our lovely city?”

Speaking of lovely, I will say that Tassa was a young woman under thirty—I’d have to look at the application to get her exact age—and was elegant in a way that I learned to expect of most women in Romania. She wore a skirt and a blouse with a large bow at the collar. Her hair was just less than shoulder length and beautifully styled. Her fingers were nicely manicured and painted red, a color I noticed on her toes as they peeked out from her open-toed high heels. Her makeup was perfectly done. As I observed her, I noticed my camerawoman of the day scanning her as well.

“I am in your lovely city on business, but came to spend the weekend first. I thought that taking a Rent-a-Bed would give me an opportunity to see the city without being fed a false image,” I said.

“That’s very good of you. So many people come to Bucharest, to see the Parliamentary Palace and to see the grave of Eugene Ionesco, who is actually buried in Paris, or to attempt to meet Nadia Comaneci, who actually lives in Oklahoma in America. People have so many misconceptions.”

“Where would you recommend that I go to see the real Bucharest, eat good food, and meet people?” I asked.

“There are many places. I have a little map here with various walks that you might take, with sights that are worth seeing marked on it.”

She proceeded to unfold a map that she had obviously drawn on and annotated. She highlighted routes as we talked and I assured her my preferred transportation was by foot. We sat there drinking coffee for over an hour before she showed me my room.

“Keep your head down. The ceilings are low on this end of the apartment.”

They were, indeed. I could stand up straight in the center of my room, but the ceiling soon sloped down under the eaves. My feet in the bed would be only a few inches from the ceiling. Fortunately, the head of the bed had a ceiling high enough that I could sit up.

“Tassa, I’m wondering if I could hire you.” She caught her breath. “Hire you to guide me on some of these routes. Show me your favorite places and let me see Bucharest through your eyes.”

She tilted her head quizzically.

“I have often been propositioned, but never hired as a guide. Please do not think my service would include anything else. If we can agree to that, I would have no difficulty accompanying you on some of these walks. They are my favorites.”

“Would one hundred leu per day plus meals and treats along the way be adequate?” I offered twice what I’d rented the room for. She smiled.

“That would be excellent. How soon would you like to leave?”

We agreed to head out immediately and had a wonderful time as she described to me a city that she certainly loved. We walked for miles and I was concerned about her feet in her high heels. She seemed to be impervious to strain, though, much like Peninnah.

It was a lovely day. We had dinner and wine in a local restaurant and when we returned to the apartment, she bid me goodnight and went to her own room. I retired to the Bohemian flat.

In the morning Tassa took me to the Orthodox church she attended—an historic building that had been one of the few left in the hands of the church during the communist regime. We dined at out-of-the way bistros, listened to very Bohemian music, and drank vodka. We were a little tipsy when we returned to her flat that evening. She paused at my door and gave me a little light kiss on the lips. I was ready for much more.

“Bob, I think you are a wonderful man and would probably be a good lover for the right woman. And I thank you for the opportunity to show you my fair city. But I must tell you that sex doesn’t interest me. I don’t mean sex with you doesn’t interest me. Sex at all doesn’t interest me. With anyone—male or female. I’ve tried, but it isn’t that I can’t get turned on, it’s that I’m just not interested in it. I hope you will understand and not attempt to pressure me. You would make a very good friend.”