Chapter Eleven
Kate went to the American Embassy the next morning, walking down Bulevardul Balcescu to the landmark of the Intercontinental Hotel, then up Strada Bastistei a block to Strada Tudor Arghezi. It was not yet nine A.M., but already there was a long line of Romanians crowding the narrow street. Feeling guilty but knowing that she did not have the hours or days to queue up with these people, she walked to the head of the line. The Romanian soldiers peered at her passport and waved her to the gate; the Marine inside nodded and spoke into a black telephone.
Kate looked across the street to where several protesters stood against a brick wall. The banner on the wall read: A.V.C. WE ARE WAITING FOR IMMIGRATION VISAS 19821987. The signs they carried said HUNGER STRIKE FOR IMMIGRATION VISA and WHERE IS THE FAIR PLAY and STOP THE INJUSTICE and WASHINGTON SAID YES WHY ROMA SAID NO WHAT DOES AMERICAN CONSULATE SAY?
The Marine returned, the Romanian soldier opened the black iron gate, and Kate walked into the embassy courtyard, nodding her apologies to the stoic people left in line.
Inside, she passed through an airportstyle metal detector, handed her purse over for a search, and then submitted to an inspection performed by a bored guard carrying a handheld metal detector. Her purse was returned and she was buzzed through a doorway into the first floor of the embassy.
The oncegrand hall here had been partitioned into a waiting room and a dozen office cubicles. People stood in lines everywhere: Romanians seeking visas standing in the longest line at the far end of the room, Americans in shorter lines at every cubicle window. There were eight rows of chairs in the main waiting room and most of these were filled with American women holding Romanian babies and toddlers. The cacophony was disturbing. As Kate waited in the first line to check in with the watch duty officer, she felt her heart sink with the hopelessness of it all.
Two and a half hours later, that hopelessness was confirmed. Kate had spoken to four people on the embassy staff and had threatened to scream unless she was allowed to speak to a higherranking official. Someone from the Ambassador's office had come downstairs, pulled a folding metal chair out and straddled it backward, smiled, and slowly explained exactly what the first four functionaries had explained.
“We simply cannot allow these AIDS children in the States,” the man said slowly. His teeth were perfect, his haircut perfect, the crease in his gray trousers perfect. He had introduced himself as Cully or Cawley or Crawley. “The United States has a serious enough AIDS problem of its own. Surely you can understand this, Mrs .... ah . . . Neuman.”
“Doctor Neuman', “ Kate corrected for the fifth time. “And this child does not have AIDS. I am a specialist in blood diseases. I can attest to this.”
The embassy man pursed his lips and nodded slowly, as if assessing some complicated data. “And has the Trojan Clinic verified this?”
Kate snorted. The Trojan Clinic was a knockoff, walkin docinthebox place that had won the lottery when the American Embassy chose it to do all of its previsa hepatitis B and AIDS testing. Kate would have as soon consulted an astrologer as trusted the Trojan Clinic's lab tests. “I have verified it,” she said. “We ran the HIV procedures at District Hospital One five weeks ago. And we eliminated the possibility of all the hepatitis strains at the same time. I have the tests . . . confirmed and verified in writing by Doctors Ragrevscu and Grigorescu, chief and assistant pathologists at District Hospital One.”
The embassy manCurly? Cally? Crawleypursed his lips, nodded again, and said, “But we would, of course, have to have Trojan Clinic's confirmation that the child is healthy. And,of course, written permission for adoption from one or both of the birth parents.”
“God damn it,” Kate said, leaning forward so quickly that Mr. Crawley almost fell backwards off his straddled chair. “First, I will repeat for the tenth time: the infant has no record of birth parents, neither father nor mother. No records whatsoever. He was abandoned. Deserted. Left to die. Even the orphanage in Tirgoviste has no records on who brought him in. Second, the child is not healthythat is one reason I'm bringing him to the States. I've explained this fifteen times. But he's also not contagious. No hepatitis B. No AIDS. No contagious disease of any sort. As far as we can tell, the infant has an immunedeficiency disorder that is almost certainly genetic and will be almost certainly fatal if you don't allow me to get him somewhere I can help him. “
The embassy man nodded, pursed his lips again, tapped a pencil against the desk, nodded toward the lowerechelon embassy man, folded his arms, and said, “Well, Mrs. Neuman, we'd certainly like to help you, but it would take at least a month to process the paperwork for a . . . ah . . . unusual child like this, and in all likelihood the visa application would be disallowed without written permission from the child's birth mother and a clean bill of health from the Trojan Clinic. Have you considered adopting a healthy child?”
Kate's scream could be heard on the street outside. If she allowed herself to scream.
A Marine security guard was escorting her to the door of the embassy when she saw the mutant ninja priest suit in the waiting room, a black silhouette amidst the riot of American summer pastels and Romanian grays.
“O'Rourke!”
The priest turned, started to smile, saw her face, and came quickly across the crowded room to her. He waved the security guard away, and the Marine hesitated only a second before releasing her arm. Father O'Rourke led her to a chair in the leastcrowded corner of the room and kicked a stack of papers off for her to sit. She almost cried out his name when he turned and left her, but he was back a few seconds later with a paper cone filled with cool water. Kate drank it gratefully.
“What's going on, Neuman?” His voice was soft. His gray eyes never left her face.
She told him everything, and even as she spoke a detached part of her mind was thinking, Is this what confession is like? Is this the feeling that religion brings . . . this turning over all your problems to someone else? She didn't think so.
When she was finished, O'Rourke nodded once. “And you're sure the Romanian officials will expedite the release of the child by your departure date, even if the Americans won't?”
Kate nodded vigorously. When she looked down she was surprised to see that she was still clutching the paper cone with both hands.
“And how much baksheesh?” he asked. “The Romanian official, I mean.”
Kate frowned. “None. I mean, I was expecting some . . . expecting to pay up to five or six thousand dollars, American . . . but, none. Mr. Stancu . . . the man at the Ministry . . . he never asked for any and I . . . none. “
Father O'Rourke paused a minute at this news. She could see the disbelief in his eyes.
Kate pulled a sheaf of documents from her purse. “They were ready this morning, O'Rourke. Look. Lucian says that they're official and complete. I tried to show them to the embassy people here . . . our people . . . but these stupid sons of bitches have their heads stuck so far up their asses that“
“All right, Neuman. All right.” The priest's hand was gentle but firm on her arm.
Kate stopped, took a breath, nodded.
“Just wait here a minute, would you?” he asked. He brought her another cone of water and touched the top of her head when she bent to drink from it.
Kate felt the anger surge in her like nausea. It had been years since she had been so out of control of a situation:
Father O'Rourke leaned into the nearest cubicle. “Donna, can I use your office for a moment? Yeah, just a few minutes, honest. I'll answer the phone if His Highness buzzes. Thanks, Donna, you're a sweetheart.”