Peter Robinson: Not Dark Yet

It was an easy drive to Suruceni, and after the outskirts of Chișinău — more ruined buildings and half-built tower blocks — she drove through pleasant, rolling countryside on E581, encountering very little traffic.

It was early evening when she pulled up in front of William Buckley’s house in the southwest of the village, not too far from the lake. It was a small, detached bungalow of beige stucco with a matching pantile roof and white mouldings around the arched windows. The house was slightly raised, and there were four steps up to the side porch and door. The small garden was untended, with not much but stones, dirt, and a few blades of parched grass. Even the weeds were struggling against the heat. Two fat crows sat on the pantiles. They didn’t move as Zelda walked up the steps and knocked on the door.

At first, she thought there was no one home. The silence was resounding. But she knocked again and heard a slow shuffling sound from behind the door. Eventually, it opened, and a white-haired old man with what could only be called a ‘lived-in’ face peered out at her in some surprise. A book-jacket photo she had seen of W.H. Auden came to mind. His face was a road map of a life hard lived, but his eyes were a startling childlike blue, and by far his liveliest feature. They could have been the eyes of someone her own age, Zelda found herself thinking.

‘Yes?’ he said, speaking Moldovan. ‘Can I help you?’

Zelda spoke English. ‘Perhaps. Are you William Buckley?’

‘Ah, a compatriot,’ Buckley said. ‘Yes. I am he. And call me Bill. Please, charming lady, do come in. Don’t be afraid. I’m a harmless, toothless old man.’

Zelda smiled and followed him inside, taking in the framed Japanese-style paintings and drawings on the wall and the sunlight through the arched windows. Buckley shuffled ahead of her, a hunched figure, walking stick in his right hand. The bungalow was small inside, just a living room, one bedroom, and kitchen/dining area, Zelda guessed, but it was cosy. Bookcases lined two of the living-room walls, and each was so stuffed with books they lay on their sides on top of other books. All in English.

‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Buckley asked, indicating that she should sit in a damask armchair at right angles to the matching sofa which, judging by the little table holding a tea mug and a copy of Phineas Finn , was his spot. ‘May I fetch you a cup of tea?’

‘I don’t want to trouble you.’

‘It’s no trouble. As a matter of fact, I just made some. It should still be hot. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just a little milk, please, then.’

Buckley shuffled off and Zelda glanced around at the books. They covered all subjects — fiction, history, poetry, music, art, literary criticism, theatre, architecture — and were of all shapes and sizes, from dog-eared paperbacks that looked as if they had been bought in used bookshops, to recent hardcovers in shiny dust jackets and oversized coffee table volumes.

She was still reading titles, her head slightly tilted, when Buckley came back with the tea. ‘A keen reader, are you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Zelda.

Buckley nodded slowly and handed her the tea, his wrinkled hand shaking slightly.

Zelda smiled. The room was stifling, and there was a slightly unpleasant smell of neglected hygiene and spoiled food, but she could put up with it. If Buckley lived here alone, it would be hard for him to deal with the myriad daily matters of simply keeping things ticking over.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, ‘I do have a local lady who comes in once a week and cleans for me, but I’m afraid she’s not due next until tomorrow. I do apologise for the air of neglect.’

‘It’s nothing,’ said Zelda.

Buckley half reclined on the sofa and grimaced, as if the movement caused him pain. ‘You wanted to see me for some specific reason? Do I know you?’

Now that she was here facing him, Zelda wasn’t sure how to get things started. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I mean, no, you don’t know me, but I do want to see you. It’s about the orphanage.’

‘St. George’s?’

‘That’s the one.’

Buckley narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me you were there.’

‘I was.’

‘You poor thing.’

‘Oh, no!’ Zelda cried. ‘Don’t think that. I had a wonderful life there. Everyone was so kind. The books and...’ She found herself on the verge of tears. Was this man truly her benefactor? Or could he have been her destroyer?

‘I meant to lose your parents at such an early age. But I’m glad St. George’s was good to you. That was certainly the idea behind it. Yes, I do believe it was a place where much good was done in a time when such things were the exception rather than the rule. But how did you find out about me? I did my best to remain an anonymous donor.’

‘I’ve been back there,’ Zelda said. ‘Just now. It’s in ruins, but there was a box of books in a storeroom, and your name and address were on them.’

‘Yes. I’m afraid St. George’s closed its doors in 2009. A real tragedy. In Moldova, as I’m sure you know, everything no longer used is simply left to decay at its own rate.’ A mischievous smile crossed his features, giving Zelda a glimpse of what he might have been like as a young man. And while he wasn’t exactly toothless, he wasn’t far off. ‘Even many things which are still in use are falling apart. We are great believers in entropy. We have a very cavalier attitude towards progress and development.’

‘You say “we,” ’ Zelda said, ‘but you’re English, aren’t you?’

‘If you want to be accurate, I’m Welsh, but as I’ve been here nearly thirty years now, the matter of my origins is quite academic. I have certainly retained my interest in British culture, if that’s of any interest to you.’

‘Thirty years? B-but, how? I mean... what...?’

‘What have I been doing all that time? Why am I here?’

‘Yes. All that.’

‘It’s a very dull story. I was what’s called a cultural attaché to the Romanian embassy in Bucharest. A diplomat and cheerleader for the British Council. I moved here to Moldova during the civil war, after the Soviets left in the early nineties. I suppose the long and the short of it is, I fell in love.’

‘With?’

‘With the country, and with a woman. Cherchez la femme . It was a second chance for me, you see. My first wife had died some years earlier, and I had never expected to fall in love again. I was fifty four years old. She became my wife. Sadly, she, too, died, five years ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He waved his hand. ‘Not for you to be sorry, my dear. Though I know what you mean, and I thank you for the sentiment. I’m surprised you don’t ask me why I fell in love with the most undesirable country in Europe.’

Zelda laughed. ‘Love is blind?’

Buckley smiled his approval. ‘Yes. That would be the easiest response, and perhaps the most accurate. But there’s a simplicity to the place, to life here, once you know the ins and outs. I’m happy to end my days here in Suruceni. There’s still corruption everywhere, I know, but the people have a spirit and a strong sense of stoicism. We always managed to get by. We lived in Chișinău then, my wife and I, and our house was always full of artists, writers, musicians. I taught English whenever I was allowed to do so. I also supplemented my income by writing books and reviews.’

‘Would I know your work?’

Buckley laughed. ‘I hope not. No. I wrote under many pseudonyms. Potboilers in every genre you could imagine. Novelisations of movies or TV series, romance, crime, horror, science-fiction. You name it. I seem to have a talent for ventriloquism but no real voice of my own. But you’re not here to talk about me.’