This is a continuation of the book "Un leu, un leu...", which was written in Romania by my late godfather and uncle Bill Edwards, and published by Evenimentul, a now defunct Romanian publishing company. The book is being released for the first time in English exclusively online here on Steemit, as a serial. I hope you enjoy his writings as much as I do!
- Rob
The Cultural Attache during the last two years of my stay in Bucharest was a very cultivated and highly educated gentleman by the name of Ernest Latham. He arrived in Romania in September of 1983, and lo and behold, he was accompanied by his highly intelligent and sweet, four year old daughter, Charlotte. Ernest and I soon became very close friends and remain so to this day, having vastly dissimilar, yet in many ways extremely similar backgrounds.
In the course of our many long and rambling conversations during our overlapping tours in Bucharest, we learned that we were born within eleven days of each other in the same year, graduated from college the same year, were commissioned as reserve officers the same year — he in the U.S. Coast Guard, and I in the U.S. Air Force. Many of our interests were the same and we held similar political and philosophical views. He was from the North of the U.S. — New England — and I from the Deep South — Florida.
After I left Romania, Ernest even earned a Ph.D. at Bucharest University. Our interests in and liking, nay, love of Romania, its people, and things Romanian, manifest themselves in many ways. We love Romanian food and drink (at any time in both of our homes in the Washington, DC area, one can find the odd bottle of tuica or the wonderful wines of Romania which are exported to the U.S. under the Premiate label), and we both have passions for Romanian history and art. Many of the Romanian artifacts and memorabilia which decorate our homes were acquired from consignatiaii in Romania — mainly the consignatia in the Hanul Cu Tai area of Bucharest.
On many days during our lunch hours at the embassy we would make mad dashes to the consignatia to see what was there available for sale to us. And often on Saturdays, which passed as one of our days off, after a round of the inevitable official receptions Friday evenings (usually two or three), we would attempt a more leisurely amble through the consignatia, inevitably with Charlotte between the two of us.
What a sight it was, winter, spring, summer or fall, these two American diplomats, one white the other block, each holding a hand of this angelic child, who in due course, learned to speak exceptional Romanian. We later learned that many Romanians all around town, the consignatia, and and the Lipscani would remark on this unique "troika" including the beautiful little blond child who spoke such wonderful Romanian. On most occasions when her father and I shopped with Charlotte along, the storekeepers, with that wonderful and special, tender way Romanians and other people in Eastern Europe seem to have in dealing with children, would talk with her and give her little favors while her father and I browsed interminably.
One of these Saturdays, I recall it was a typical Bucharestian winter day, Ernest and the young Charlotte came by my apartment. Her father and I had intentions of visiting the consignatia after lunch, staying there until it closed around 3 o'clock in the afternoon. Charlotte, precocious child, having gone through this drill many times, sat with us through lunch, and when we finished and were preparing to leave, she quite innocently and curiously asked as only a child can, "Daddy, where are we going?" ernest began with, "Your Uncle Bill and I want to look at a few things down at the con..." and before he could finish the statement, she said very loudly, "Oh, no, not the consignatia again," stating emphatically "enough was enough." We both were so shocked by this statement, that we sat there and drank the remnants of several bottles of champagne from the night before rationalizing that champagne that has gone flat from the night before is, after all, only still wine. And it goes without saying, that day we didn't go to the consignatia.
When Ernest now visits me with her beautiful adolescent daughter, and we speak wistfully of our days together in Bucharest, invariably we say at a point, "Champagne from the night before is only still wine," and we embarass and cause Charlotte to blush when we yell together,
"Oh, no! Not the consignatia!!"
Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this story, please tell me what you thought of it in the comments below. Also, be sure to read the rest of Bill's works that are being published exclusively here on Steemit:
- Chapter I: Four Corners
- Chapter II: The Man of a Thousand Faces: Domnul Lefter, The Painter
- Chapter III: Cat Food in Romania
- Chapter IV: My Story About the First American in my Family
- Chapter V: A Pot of Rice
- Chapter VI: Same time, Same place, next Christmas
- Chapter XII: A Tale of Two Rings
