He hitched a ride that took him far, far out east.
He'd thought he owed it to Catherine, at least, doing it the lawful way rather than jumping into an unattended car and hot-wiring it into his possession. The driver was an old Romanian woman who was on her way to visiting her grandson, and took him as far as her grandson's doorstep.
He didn't particularly care that she'd crossed him to the other end of the continent.
She had been kind, and eager for company- he'd done some of the driving tothank her; and she'd in turn called him Trei (although he had explained that his name was not Trois, but Trowa) and asked little questions that probably no one else had ever asked him. Like his favorite season, and whether he had ever tried genuine amandine, which he believed he hadn't. And when she told him that her family was from the region called Transylvania; she asked him whether he believed vampires were real. Because, she swore she did.
In the end, he had been invited to stay for her grandson's birthday party. It felt as if the whole town had gathered for the occasion, although the boy was barely turning seven. There was dancing and drinking and cake, lots of it (amandine, even); and he felt loose enough to show them a couple of juggling feats with apples. Maybe, he noted, it was because he was unable to refuse shot after shot of home-brewed tzuica- but then again, maybe not. He also noted that most of the people around him had forest-green eyes.
It was a happy place; and he was happy there. He was happy for many hours.
And then the night was old and the guests were leaving; and the woman showed him to his room (a guest room prepared just for him), kindly allowing him to lean against her shoulder to save him from swaying from the drinking. And she saw him to bed and wished him a noapte buna- and he idly (not drunkenly) wondered if it was okay, to find himself glad so soon after having felt so distraught.
He didn't particularly care much. He easily fell asleep.
.
.
He was not allowed to leave until he'd been given food for a day and a half; and a whole bottle of tzuica.
The woman, who had become easily dear to Trowa, drove him to the nearest train station and suggested he went down to the Danube Delta. Her family owned a little cottage in a town right by the river, which they all tried to hog in the summer months, but was empy and, dare she say, desolate, at that particular moment of the year.
The key, she confided, was under the ugly alligator statue by the dahlias, which they kept only for the purposes of hiding the key.
'Do not laugh at this, Trei', she had said, with fake seriousness, 'He guards the house against the Romanians that give the rest of us a bad reputation.'
He had laughed, nonetheless.
He seemed to be on a rather successful track, just letting his emotions take him anywhere.
He bought a one-way ticket to the coast, and a bouquet of wild flowers for the woman.
In return, he got a kiss; a telephone number and an email address.
'Write to me anytime,' she told him, 'We know each other so little; and still you're family to me, Trei'.
'I like that,' he said, gently, 'You know by now I'll even keep the name- if you let me keep it.'
She ruffled his hair, called him a charmer.
The train slowly separated him from the platform, where the woman waved at him with collected content, as one who knows that things are well. And he waved back at her, with a smile, surprised that he would be fighting back emotion so soon.
And he pictured, with his mind's eye, that next to the serene outline of the dear woman stood an old lion, seeing him off as well, letting him know that, indeed, things were well.
.
.
.
I wouldn't boast my knowledge of Romanian, however:
amandine: chocolate cakes
tzuica: local liquor, presumably of the strong variety
noapte buna: good night.
I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I don't mean to write angst, but this story goes where it pleases. It has a plot, though. Reviews are greatly appreciated! :)