Natalia’s Game. Крейг Т. Бушар

      One Night in Bucharest

      2014

      I don’t like to dress up at this stage of life. Hardly ever do. But tonight, I’ve got on a dark blue pin-stripe suit, a white shirt with a red tie, and a black onyx ring. My destination is the Epoque, a six-story boutique hotel in Bucharest. It’s just a few years old, not rundown like some of the older hotels in town. So whenever I come to Bucharest, I stay here. The entrance to the hotel is a nicely paved circle designed for cars and without a sidewalk for pedestrians. Security is tight, and nobody walks in.

      I walk around the circle and into the hotel. The guests tend to be wealthy Romanians or foreign expatriates. It’s fancy, a place to see and be seen. Plenty of beautiful young Romanian women hang out at the bar, hoping to meet their escape to the western world. Social media seems to create high expectations in this part of the world.

      I’m staying only one night: no luggage, no briefcase, no gun. My only meeting is tomorrow at 9:00 AM, which will last precisely twenty minutes. That’s a generous amount of time, considering I’m meeting the President of Romania. That’s why I’m wearing a suit. After that meeting, I’ll fly home – in a manner of speaking.

      The hotel manager shows me to a private suite on the 3rd floor. It’s a lovely couple of rooms with a king-size bed. A colorful piece of modern art hangs above the headboard, revealing the best parts of a naked woman in front of a mirror. I don’t like contemporary art, but I like this painting. I’m comfortable here.

      On the balcony, there is a small table with two chairs. I sit down and see a quiet, tree-lined park a few blocks away as – a potential escape route.

      Dusk is my favorite. The setting sun is a blur, and the sounds of the city are like music – Bucharest at its finest.

      My thoughts are of an old friend, the brand new President of Romania. He’s a cuddly teddy bear of a man – tall, handsome, fun, smart, with great instincts. We were college kids when we met at a bar in Berlin late in the 1980s before the wall fell. Our common denominator was quantum physics, and we sat at that bar debating my ideas about astral projection and teleporting. It got hot; he thought I was defying the sacred laws of energy and physics. That was so not true. I remember the moment that he got it. His eyes lit up; he realized I was holding the winning hand, conceding defeat; he picked up the tab. I’d won, and that was before quantum physics was cool.

      We became close friends and spent many late nights drinking German beer, exploring topics like the possibility of parallel universes. Eventually, life took us in difef rent directions. I became a spy, and he became a politician. Some say that we are lucky to have five friends we can genuinely trust in our entire life. He is one of those.

      Tomorrow, after I submit to a body search, we will be allowed to hug each other, and I’ll congratulate him on running an entire country. Who would have thought? More importantly, I’ll ask him about his health and beautiful wife. He won’t ask me the same because he knows I lost someone I loved. Someone he knew well.

      Instead, he’ll ask me how I arrived, knowing there is no record of me entering his country. I’ll say, “I walked.” Then, with an eyebrow up, he will smile, shake his head and ask me again to teach him teleporting techniques. I’ll remind him that he owes me the favor, and we will hug again. My twenty minutes will be up, and the trip will have been worth it.

      I take off my coat and the damn tie and head downstairs to have a beer and check out the in-crowd. The room is full of beautiful people oozing energy. I plunk myself out of the action at the end of the bar. I don’t do small talk unless I need information. It’s a discipline that helps keep me alive.

      A few minutes later, I realize there should be an exception to my rule.

      In struts, a tall brunette wearing a black jacket, her spectacular body brimming and highlighted by a white silk blouse sans bra, and long legs are not well hidden underneath a black mini-skirt. Designer heels and a hint of red lipstick top it off. She’s a 10. The girl floats in on a cloud of sex appeal, everyone eyeing her. I want to say something, but I’m too shy, even when she sits beside me. But, of course, she doesn’t notice me. I’m at least a couple of decades older.

      Some Russian guy in a designer suit orders her a drink; he boldly walks up and starts a conversation. Yuck. Her back is to me, but I can see his eyes; they are ravenous.

      He asks her what she does, and she replies in perfect Russian, “I’m a physicist.” Darn! The Russian guy ofef rs her his room key. She politely gives it back to him and hands him her key. What? It can’t be that easy. Something is off. The way-too-beautiful girl walks out of the bar like a supermodel going back up the runway, and I say to myself: Now, she was worth watching. It’s almost 10:00 pm. I’m jet-lagged, so I finish my Timisoreana, pay the tab, and head back to the room. Opportunity lost.

      Minutes turn into an hour, and I can’t sleep thinking about the girl and the Russian. In my underwear, I go out on the balcony and open the bottle of red the concierge left on my dresser. I like being alone, under the stars, thinking, and listening to what’s out there. In the dark distance, I see a maze of headlights and vaguely make out people doing whatever they want to do in the park. Then a tiny red dot catches my eye. I tilt my head and follow the line. I’m staring at a laser beam above me emanating from a rifle 300 meters away. I hope I’m not the target! That’s not very far.

      It doesn’t take long. The bullet disturbs air density as it flies in my direction, allowing me to see it coming. There isn’t any wind, so there is not much drift to its path. When a bullet travels fast, its arc isn’t dramatic, and the drop is predictable. The shell disappears above my balcony’s ceiling. I hear a sound like a knife plunging into a watermelon just before it’s carved.

      As it turns out, the shooter knew what he was doing, and I wasn’t the target. Someone one floor above me bought it. So I quickly go back into my room, shut the door, close the curtains, turn off the lights, and finish the bottle of Babeasca Neagra.

      Amazingly, nothing happens. Nothing at all. Bucharest is like our old wild west. Anything goes.

      A couple of hours later, adrenaline still coursing through my system, I take a sleeping pill. 9:00 am is coming quickly, and I need to sleep. So how do I describe the most unusual event that happens next?

      Well, I have a dream.

      Why is that unusual,