“Purpose of visit?”
Petra hesitated.
“The reason for your visit. Why are you here?” the passport officer asked again.
Petra had been asking herself the same question for the past 24 hours. She’d left home the previous afternoon, still unsure whether she would have the courage to go through with her plan. Even while changing planes in Paris that morning, she could still have backed out. She could have spent a couple of days wandering through the art galleries, visiting the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame, and then returned to college before anyone noticed her absence. It was only after she boarded her final connection that she was truly committed. It was by far the bravest, and probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done.
That last leg, on an airline she’d never heard of, was bumpy, making her even more anxious. After one jolt, the young man in the next seat took off his headphones, leaned over, flashed a brilliant smile and said something European. Her confusion must have shown because he instantly switched to almost perfectly accented American.
“Don’t worry, the turbulence is pretty normal as we fly over the mountains.”
“I’m not worried.” Not about that.
“And our national airline has an excellent safety record.”
“Good to know.”
“So what brings you to my country?” He was wearing a black T-shirt emblazoned with the words “Spawn of Dracula” in large silver letters. Petra had been aware of him from the minute he sat down, carefully stowing a violin case under the seat.
“Studies,” she muttered, looking away, twisting a lock of lank brown hair around her index finger. Petra figured he was maybe 22 or 23, five or six years older than her, with pale blue eyes and curly black hair. Guys like that – hunky, self-confident ones – always rendered her tongue-tied if they deigned to notice her at all. Her own red and black T-shirt read, “Marblehead High School Mathletes, 2004.” Underneath in smaller letters it declared, “Math Rocks The World.”
“I’m Mihai,” he said, zapping her with another dazzling smile. “I know, it sounds strange to Americans. Call me Mike if it’s easier.”
“Petra,” she said, reluctantly taking his outstretched hand.
“So what do you do?”
“Student.” Petra tried to reclaim her hand; he was hanging on to it way too long, his fingers long and brown and strong. Perhaps this was a custom in his country. Still, it made her edgy.
“Wonderful. Me, I’m a graduate of musicology. Where do you study?”
“Brown University in Providence.” He looked blank so she felt obliged to add, “It’s in Rhode Island, south of Boston.”
His face cleared. “Fantastic! I did a year at Indiana in Bloomington. So already we have something in common. What’s your major?” He’d finally released her hand but now he was leaning even closer, giving her a close-up of his stubble. She could smell aftershave even though he certainly hadn’t shaved for a day or two. She squashed herself back against the window.
“Literature, maybe creative writing. I’m not sure yet.”
“Not mathematics?” he said, looking at her sweatshirt.
“No.”
“And this is what – a semester abroad? Will you learn Romanian?”
What did he want from her? She was way too strung out to talk, too busy wondering what she’d do once they landed. How would she get to the city? Where would she sleep? She’d need to find a cheap hotel, hopefully not too skanky. She figured she had enough in her bank account for three or four weeks, but that should be ample time.
“Call me Mike” was still talking. “My country is very beautiful; you’ll love it. And Romanian is what linguists call a Romance language, derived from Latin. The grammar is just like Latin, totally logical.”
“Really?” Petra said, interested against her will. This wasn’t among the half dozen random historical and geographical facts about Romania she’d memorized for high school general knowledge competitions.
“So where will you be staying?”
Petra was silent.
He laughed. “I know, I know. I’m asking too many questions. Bad habit.”
She offered a flimsy smile. “I have a lot on my mind.” Like, how long before they realize at college that I’m gone? And what’s Mom going to do once she finds out? For a second, Petra felt a stab of guilt. Her mother would be frantic. Then she suppressed the feeling. If she’d only told the truth, none of this would have happened.
He shrugged his shoulders, clearly hurt by her lack of response. “I can see you’re wrapped up in your own thoughts. I’ll let you rest. Sorry for the interruption.”
“OK.”
Petra closed her eyes. Now the conversation was over, she found herself half hoping he would talk to her again. But when she sneaked a peek, he’d put his earphones back on and was absorbed in his iPod. She felt really dorky. Why had she come off so rude and hostile? She could definitely have used a friend in Bucharest, someone who knew his way around, someone with a gorgeous smile. He ignored her until they landed, only offering a curt nod as they filed off the plane.
And now she was at passport control. The official looked up, comparing the pale, nervous creature before him to the mugshot taken three years ago when she still had braces and wore those horrible, thick glasses that made her look like she was about to go snorkeling.
“Purpose of visit?” the passport official asked again. “Business? Vacation? Study?”
What should she answer? That she was here to find her father? That she was here to find herself? Or perhaps, that she was just running away. The official’s pen tapped impatiently on his desk.
“It’s a family visit,” she said at last.
“You have family here?”
“Yes.”
“How long will you stay?”
“Two weeks, maybe three.”
“Your relatives, they are Romanian?”
“He’s a poet.”
“What is his name? We are a nation of poets.”
“Stefan Petrescu.”
The officer looked surprised for a second; then he smiled broadly and declaimed a few lines in his language. Goodness, Petra hadn’t realized her father was famous. The officer finished his recitation, stamped the passport and handed it to her with a flourish.
“Welcome to Romania.”