Bucharest, somewhere on Queen Elisabeth Boulevard
Wearing a shiny black suit, a young man descends from bus 91. It’s a cold Saturday night, and the streets are swarming with people searching for a club to spend the night. During the day, he never wore a hat, but right now, he couldn’t risk being seen by any of his college buddies. Perfectly matched shoes, hair dyed black, grey scarf around his neck and dark glasses hiding his blue eyes, the young man crosses the street and begins his stroll along the boulevard. He’s also heading towards a club. A very special club.
Winter’s last breath is fading fast. Only a few patches of snow left on the sidewalk. Our young man is happy he can once again hear the sound of his shoes against the asphalt. He stops to check his watch and fix his Bailey sweatband hat. He’s five minutes late, so he speeds up his strut. Breathing heavy, he finally reaches his destination. The special club doesn’t seem special at all. Directly facing the boulevard, wide transparent windows, it looks just like any other club in Bucharest. But the secrets it hides lay behind its massive glass doors. Without any second thoughts, the young man firmly grasps the door handle and steps inside.
The room is empty, as usual. A couple of unpalatable red lights coming down from the ceiling shatter the darkness. The fellow behind the bar politely greets him, and then continues wiping some empty glasses.
“Welcome, Mr. A!”
“Are they here?” A. asks without looking at him.
“Yes. You’re expected”
A. takes off his coat and carelessly throws it on an empty chair.
“Would you like me to help you with that, sir?” the bartender asks, but A. lifts up his left hand to let him know he’s fine.
He takes a moment to get used to the poor lighting, and he heads towards a door at the other side of the room. The man behind the bar follows his every move, but turns his head quickly as soon as the door opens. It’s none of his business what happens behind that door. A. steps into a long but narrow corridor and he’s glad to notice there’s a lot of light coming from the walls and ceiling. At the end of the corridor, another door awaits for him. He opens it, and steps into the darkness. From now on, he can only trust his senses.
While keeping his hands in front of him to avoid obstacles, he turns left and stops to take a small, rusty key out of his pocket. For a minute or two, he searches for a lock, and he opens another door, turning the key two times to the right and one time to the left. The unpleasant creak of the door welcomes him into the subterranean galleries beneath the city. One hundred stairs lay in front of his eyes, separating him from the world below. He knows these stairs by heart, so descending is just a matter of routine. At the end of the stairs, there’s an empty corridor. The line of electric lights crossing the stone ceiling from one head to another flickers, leaving the corridor in darkness for a couple of seconds. The construction of the tunnels, dating back to the 1400s and the moisture sometimes render the electric system unstable.
He knows it’s a long walk, so he prepares by fixing his black tie and checking his watch one more time. The echo of his steps breaks the silence and covers the sound of the water infiltrating through the walls. He must be somewhere underneath Victoria Boulevard right now, because he can hear the underground section of Dâmbovița making its way through the columns holding the streets above. A little over two million souls in this city, yet only a few know about the tunnels and corridors dug in the underground. They see Dâmbovița entering the city through the west side and coming out through the east side, but they never wonder what happened to the middle section. A. feels privileged to have had the opportunity to see this hidden side of Bucharest.
But his self-confidence quickly fades away when he sees that final door carved in stone. Behind that door, they are waiting for him. Desperately trying to hide his emotions, he steps inside, his heart throbbing and his blood rushing through his veins. There they are, wearing impeccable suits, sitting at the same oak table.
“We’ve been waiting for you” said the older guy, leaning his hand on his cane. “We knew you’d come back to us, sooner or later”
A. takes off his hat and leather gloves and throws them on the table, right in front of them.
“Have a seat” the older guy continued, and A. followed his command.
He was used to all three of them. G. was the oldest and most hostile of them all. He was bossy, but his roughness didn’t seem to hide any cruel intentions. To his right, there was D., unrelenting as usual, and to his left stood P., a tough guy on the outside, but friendly and well-intentioned on the inside. The four of them remained in silence for a few seconds, right until G. decided to speak.
“Amsterdam” interrupted A. “He’s taking a break”
“How convenient! Leaving you here, all alone, when you need him the most”
“I don’t need him!” A. raised his voice to make sure he’s made himself clear.
“Right…” said G., laughing. “Gentlemen, I say it’s time for a drink, don’t you think?”
D. and P. agreed, while A. stood still on his chair, trying to act normal. G. clapped his hands once, and an old butler appeared out of nowhere, holding a silver plate. He placed four half-empty glasses of wine on the table, a wooden box in the center, and right on top of it, a small knife with a dragon carved up on it. Then, he left the room quietly, disappearing as mysteriously as he appeared.
G. took the small knife and made a tiny incision in the palm of his hand, allowing the blood to drip into his glass of wine. D. and P. repeated the process. Now, it was A’s turn to do it. Hesitating at first, he allowed the blade to pierce through his skin. Blood quickly rushed out and filled the glass of wine. And then, they drank. As they always did… The wooden box contained fine Cuban cigars, preserved at the right temperature. The dampness of the room would have spoiled their unique aroma. Each one of them took a cigar and lit it. A. didn’t enjoy smoking cigar too much, but he tried not to show it while he was around them.
“You’re a very interesting case, Mr. A. To me, at least” said G., smoking on his cigar.
“Why?! Because your sense of intuition is outstanding, that’s why! It’s amazing how you follow the path of your destiny without even knowing!”
“Oh, please… Destiny, intuition, these things are NOT REAL. They DO NOT EXIST!” A. was visibly annoyed by G’s words.
“So they say about secret societies. And yet, here we are”
After a short moment of silence, G. gets up from the table and begins walking through the room, using his cane to maintain his balance.
G.: “Let’s suppose a few weeks later after starting college, you see someone in the crowd, at the sixth floor of that building of yours on Iuliu Maniu. There are many people around you, but you only notice that particular person. You know that at some point, your path will cross with theirs, but you ignore that thought. You don’t trust your intuition, although it never proved you wrong. One or maybe two years later, your paths do cross, the evidence is there for you to see, but you still take it as a coincidence. You’re filled with doubt, you start dying on the inside, because you ignore the path that’s been chosen for you. That, my friend, is destiny.”
A., panting: “You’re crazy!” (short break) “No! Not crazy! You’re insane!”
G.: “Why? Because I’m right?” (hitting the floor with his cane): “Look around you, A. How many clues do you need in order to believe in destiny? Do you think that coming here to Bucharest was just a coincidence? Did you just wake up one morning and said <<I want to go to Bucharest and study journalism>>? No! We do not choose our path. It chooses us. And you felt it. You were always aware of it, but you chose to ignore it. You could have made a different choice, but you didn’t! And now it’s time to start listening to that inner voice of yours and do things according to your intuition”
A., going insane: “Leave me alone! All of you, leave me alone!” He decides to leave, but G. takes a hold of his arm and stops him. He then grabs his cheeks with both hands and caresses his lips with his thumbs. A. gives in and calms down.
G., in a soft voice: “I was once like you, silly boy. I doubted myself. I didn’t trust my intuition. I paid with my leg for it. But you… If you don’t leave this state of denial, you could be condemned to a solitary existence or to a life next to someone that’s not good for you. Wake up while you still can! Accept your destiny and trust your intuition!”
A. was unable to articulate any word. He stood there, on the verge of crying, gazing into G’s eyes. He knew the old man wasn’t crazy. He knew everything he said was right and he couldn’t bear being stared at. A. took his hat and his gloves and left the room. He rushed back down the corridor and stopped when he heard steps behind him. He turned around, surprised to see P. following him.
P.: “How does he know about…?”
A.: “I don’t know. Maybe R. told him”
P.: “No! He’d never do that!”
A.: “Look, P… I’ve had enough for tonight. I couldn’t stand you lecturing me”
P.: “Oh, I’m not here to lecture you. I just wanted to say you have all my support, no matter what decision you make. And don’t worry about G. He only wants your best. One day, you’ll take his place and he must be sure you’re the right one for the job”
A.: “Thanks, P. I must go now. I have to decide whether to trust my intuition or not”
A. continued his walk along the corridor, leaving P. behind. Before he left the room where he and G. argued, he had a feeling P. would follow him and try to make an excuse for the whole situation. Could that be a sign his intuition was indeed real? He didn’t know the answer to that question, or at least that’s what he thought. Back on the street, the young man fixed his hat and got on the last bus home. G. had guessed his secret and that tormented him. All he could do now is wait. If G. was right and destiny is real, everything will go according to it. The question that remains is: Will destiny work according to his intuition, or will it turn against him?