Chapter Thirty-two
THE day was like a return to early autumn; the blue skies emphasized each remaining leaf in the forests along Highway 71 to Brasov. Kate thought that “highway” was a generous term for the narrow strip of patched and potted asphalt that ran north and east from Tirgoviste, wound its tortured way through passes in the Carpathian Mountains, and then dropped dramatically again before connecting with Highway I south of Brasov.
Rejuvenated by last night's bath, several hours' sleep, and the clean new clothes that O'Rourke had foundat least one of the monks at Tirgoviste Monastery had been small enough that Kate could wear his dark sweater over her last clean, black skirt and look moderately presentableshe was tempted to take off her scarf, tilt her head back, and enjoy the sunlight as she bounced along in the sidecar.
It was not possible. The sense of urgency to find Joshua was too great, the terror at making the wrong decision too deep.
They had not flipped a coin to decide the direction. After looking at the map in the morning light, both of them had lifted their heads and said, “Sighisoara.” On Kate's part it was nothing but intuition. Something about traveling in Transylvania makes one superstitious, she thought.
“If we're wrong about where the ceremony is tonight, we have a final crack at tomorrow night,” said O'Rourke.
“Yes,” said Kate, “if Lucian was telling the. truth. Our information is shaky, based on hearsay, and generally halfassed. If this plan was a medical diagnosis, I'd sue the physician for malpractice.”
There were few cars this morning but traffic was heavy: heavy semis belching pollution behind them in blue and brown clouds, tractors that looked like they came out of a Henry Ford turnofthecentury museum, their iron wheels chewing up more of the wellchewed asphalt road, rubber wheeled horse carts, woodenwheeled horse carts, painted wheel pony carts, the occasional Gypsy wagon, herds of sheep standing stupidly in the road looking lost while their herders lagged behind with the same expression, cattle being flicked along by children no more than eight or nine years old who did not even look up at the heavy trucks as they roared past or at the motorcycle as it weaved to avoid hitting cows, bicycles wobbling their way to what appeared to be nowhere in particular, the occasional German car breezing past at 180 kph with a blast of its arrogant German horn, the driver not even glancing at the motorcycle and its occupants, a few Dacias limping along or sitting broken down in the middle of the road, army vehicles evidently trying to race the German cars as they roared and smoked their way down the center of the highway, and pedestrians.
There were many pedestrians: Gypsies with their swarthy skins and loose clothes, old men with whitestubbled cheeks and soft hats that had lost all form, flocks of schoolgirls near the two tiny villages and one small town they had passed throughPucioasa, Fieni, and Matoeinithe girls' much mended but stiffly starched blue skirts and white blouses seeming very bright in the sunlight, the unschooled children tending cattle, both boys and bovine wearing expressions of infinite boredom, old peasant women waddling down the side of the roadthere was no shoulder to the highway, only a three-foot ditch filled with foulsmelling water most of the wayand older peasant women being led by tiny children much as the cows were being led, and the occasional ofiter de politilie standing outside his village police headquarters.
The police did not even look up as the motorcycle rumbled through Fieni, a thoroughly sootsoaked industrial town. O'Rourke was careful to obey the speed limits.
“We'll need gas in Brasov!” he shouted.
Kate nodded and kept her eyes on the weaving bicycle just visible beyond the horse cart that had pulled out in front of them.
This was no time to close her eyes and enjoy the sunlight.
Once past the mountain village of Moroeni the traffic mysteriously dwindled to nothing, the winding road was empty, the air grew cooler, and few of the trees had retained their leaves. Kate asked if she could drive the motorcycle for a while.
“You've done it before?”
“Tom used to let me drive his Yamaha 360,” Kate said confidently. Once. A little distance. Slowly. She was good with machines though, and had been watching O'Rourke closely.
O'Rourke pulled onto the gravel shoulder where the road began its switchback, parked, and stepped off. He left the engine idling. “Watch the clutch,” he said. “It's a mess. No second gear to speak of.” He limped around to the sidecar while Kate stood stretching.
He's hurting, she thought. Driving that thing with the clutch pedal and everything has been an ordeal. She mounted the bank, waited while O'Rourke settled in, grinned at him, and started off with a little too much throttle.
The ancient motorcycle and sidecar tried to do a wheelie, O'Rourke let out a single, very strange sound, Kate compensated a bit too fast by squeezing the brake handle hard enough to send O'Rourke's head into the plastic wind visor and almost toss her off the saddle, she decided to go straight to third gear, missed it a couple of times, got them going again vigorously in first gear, looked up just in time to avoid driving off the cliff edge, took most of the width of the asphalt to recover, then got the machine on the right side, going the right speed, with the right smoothness. Almost.
“I've got it now,” she said, ticking up through gears with her foot and leaning forward into the wind.
O'Rourke nodded and rubbed his head.
The highway crossed a high pass above Sinaia, and by the time Kate reached the summit she had worked things out between her and the machine.
“Stop here!” yelled O'Rourke, pointing to a narrow gravel shoulder on the other side of the road.
Kate nodded, swerved, realized that she hadn't really practiced with the brake yet . . . where was it? . . . but found it and applied it hard enough that their skid did not take them over the edge. Quite. The bike had spun around during their deceleration phase, and when the dust and flying gravel dissipated, they were facing back downhill and O'Rourke and the sidecar were hanging out over treetops and rocks.
He, took his goggles off slowly and rubbed grit out of his eyes. “I just wanted to admire the view,” he said softly over the idling engine.
Kate had to admit that the view was worth stopping for. To the north and west the Bucegi Range of the Carpathians blended into the snowpeaked Faragas Range which curved south just where the horizon became murky. The highest foothills below the snowfields were spotted with sturdy juniper and dwarf firs, the middle regions glowed green with pine and fir, the lower hills were mottled white with birch, and the valleys miles below were dappled with the dying leaf colors of oak, elder, elm, and sumac. Clouds were boiling in from the north and the west, but the sun was still bright enough to send their shadows sliding down limestone ridges to the treefilled valleys below. Except for a glimpse of the briefest stretch of road behind them, there was no sight of man. None. Not smokestack or rooftop or smog or aircraft or microwave antenna for as far as Kate could see to the west and south. In a country contemptuous of all environmental standards, this was the first time she had seen the real beauty of the earth.
“It's beautiful,” she said, hating herself for mouthing the cliché but not knowing what else to say. “What's that bright green plant up high? Near the juniper trees below the snow?”
“I think it's called zimbru,” said O'Rourke. He leaned over the edge of the sidecar and looked down. “Say, could you engage the brake, let the clutch out just a little, and ease us a bit forward . . . toward the road?”
Kate did so. She liked the percolating of the oversized engine and the feel of the motorcycle between her legs. Sunlight glinted off the tarnished chrome of the handlebars.