smile seemed genuine enough but when her gaze flickered across him he recognised the glazed look of a working girl. In their drab-coloured suits, the men resembled a swarm of locusts mobbing a flowering cherry.
Glancing around, Janusz saw that every group had been assigned its own hot girl, every one of them beautifully dressed and most of them toting the kind of breasts that kept silicon manufacturers in business.
At the heart of the throng, a close-cropped bullet head above a wide muscular back came into view.
‘Mr Romescu?’ said the flunky. ‘May I introduce Mr Lukas Rozak?’
Romescu turned to shake Janusz’s hand. ‘A very great pleasure to meet you, Lukas – if I can call you that?’ Without pausing to hear Janusz’s reply, he went on: ‘And of course you must call me Barbu.’ He clapped Janusz on the shoulder – a gesture that, although appearing friendly enough, managed to telegraph who was in charge of this encounter. ‘So you are the famous friend of Marek, yes?’
‘A friend of a friend, actually.’ Janusz smiled back, resisting the impulse to shake off Romescu’s hand. ‘But I have heard Marek is very impressed with the returns you’re making for him.’
Romescu sketched a modest wave. ‘There are lots of excellent business opportunities in the East, if you know where to find them.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘I am guessing, Lukas, that you were brought up in Poland?’
‘Yes, in Gdansk. I came here in the eighties.’
‘In Romania we envied you Poles and your freedom to travel. Our “Little Father” liked to keep his people close.’ A spasm of hatred twisted Romescu’s face as he named Romania’s Communist despot, Nikolai Ceausescu. ‘I managed to get out, but I wouldn’t have risked it if I’d had any family still alive.’
‘There would have been reprisals?’
The Romanian nodded. ‘My country is famous for two of its heads of state. But at least Vlad the Impaler didn’t delude himself that he had the people’s interests at heart.’
The exchange appeared to have exhausted Romescu’s supply of emotion, for the folds of his face settled back into what Janusz deduced to be its usual cold expression. Only his eyes, which were a fierce yet chilly blue, seemed alive: they seemed never to rest, darting over Janusz’s face, or over his shoulder – seeking out the next, potentially more profitable, encounter.
‘Let’s get you a drink,’ he said, waving over one of the waiters doing the rounds of the crowd. Janusz asked for tonic water – he’d have killed for a beer but he couldn’t risk it. If he should slip up and Romescu smelt a rat, he had a feeling it could seriously damage his health. He noticed that the Romanian ordered a soft drink, too, and remembered the unappetising contents of his fridge. The guy was a few years older than Janusz, late forties, maybe fifty, but the wide shoulders spoke of a regular workout regime and there was no hint of paunch under the soft material of his shirt.
‘It’s hard work staying in shape, when you get past forty,’ sighed Janusz patting his stomach. ‘I barely drink alcohol any more’ – a vision of his beer and
bigos
lunch flashed before him – ‘and I’ve given up red meat and processed carbs altogether. But it’s a price I’m happy to pay, if it keeps me alive till I’m a hundred.’
‘I am glad to hear you say it,’ said Romescu, his rapacious gaze taking an inventory of Janusz’s face. ‘People don’t understand that the body is a gift, something to be cherished and nurtured. And it can be snatched away from you –’ he snapped his fingers, ‘– like that.’
Sensing he’d chanced upon some deeply held belief, Janusz let his gaze linger on the strange scar down the side of the older man’s face, which he’d so far avoided looking at. ‘Please tell me if it’s none of my business, Barbu,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you speak from personal experience?’
Romescu gazed at him for a long
Glancing around, Janusz saw that every group had been assigned its own hot girl, every one of them beautifully dressed and most of them toting the kind of breasts that kept silicon manufacturers in business.
At the heart of the throng, a close-cropped bullet head above a wide muscular back came into view.
‘Mr Romescu?’ said the flunky. ‘May I introduce Mr Lukas Rozak?’
Romescu turned to shake Janusz’s hand. ‘A very great pleasure to meet you, Lukas – if I can call you that?’ Without pausing to hear Janusz’s reply, he went on: ‘And of course you must call me Barbu.’ He clapped Janusz on the shoulder – a gesture that, although appearing friendly enough, managed to telegraph who was in charge of this encounter. ‘So you are the famous friend of Marek, yes?’
‘A friend of a friend, actually.’ Janusz smiled back, resisting the impulse to shake off Romescu’s hand. ‘But I have heard Marek is very impressed with the returns you’re making for him.’
Romescu sketched a modest wave. ‘There are lots of excellent business opportunities in the East, if you know where to find them.’ He cocked his head on one side. ‘I am guessing, Lukas, that you were brought up in Poland?’
‘Yes, in Gdansk. I came here in the eighties.’
‘In Romania we envied you Poles and your freedom to travel. Our “Little Father” liked to keep his people close.’ A spasm of hatred twisted Romescu’s face as he named Romania’s Communist despot, Nikolai Ceausescu. ‘I managed to get out, but I wouldn’t have risked it if I’d had any family still alive.’
‘There would have been reprisals?’
The Romanian nodded. ‘My country is famous for two of its heads of state. But at least Vlad the Impaler didn’t delude himself that he had the people’s interests at heart.’
The exchange appeared to have exhausted Romescu’s supply of emotion, for the folds of his face settled back into what Janusz deduced to be its usual cold expression. Only his eyes, which were a fierce yet chilly blue, seemed alive: they seemed never to rest, darting over Janusz’s face, or over his shoulder – seeking out the next, potentially more profitable, encounter.
‘Let’s get you a drink,’ he said, waving over one of the waiters doing the rounds of the crowd. Janusz asked for tonic water – he’d have killed for a beer but he couldn’t risk it. If he should slip up and Romescu smelt a rat, he had a feeling it could seriously damage his health. He noticed that the Romanian ordered a soft drink, too, and remembered the unappetising contents of his fridge. The guy was a few years older than Janusz, late forties, maybe fifty, but the wide shoulders spoke of a regular workout regime and there was no hint of paunch under the soft material of his shirt.
‘It’s hard work staying in shape, when you get past forty,’ sighed Janusz patting his stomach. ‘I barely drink alcohol any more’ – a vision of his beer and
bigos
lunch flashed before him – ‘and I’ve given up red meat and processed carbs altogether. But it’s a price I’m happy to pay, if it keeps me alive till I’m a hundred.’
‘I am glad to hear you say it,’ said Romescu, his rapacious gaze taking an inventory of Janusz’s face. ‘People don’t understand that the body is a gift, something to be cherished and nurtured. And it can be snatched away from you –’ he snapped his fingers, ‘– like that.’
Sensing he’d chanced upon some deeply held belief, Janusz let his gaze linger on the strange scar down the side of the older man’s face, which he’d so far avoided looking at. ‘Please tell me if it’s none of my business, Barbu,’ he said. ‘But perhaps you speak from personal experience?’
Romescu gazed at him for a long
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