Trouble in Transylvania by Barbara Wilson

Author:Barbara Wilson [Wilson, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths
ISBN: 9781480455184
Google: ieSbAQAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00G3WL5M6
Barnesnoble: B00G3WL5M6
Goodreads: 18722721
Publisher: Seal Pr
Published: 1993-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

DURING ALL THIS time I had not stopped dreaming of Eva. Not in the urban core of my desire, more in the suburbs. I had thought of her quite intensely, for instance, in the mud-packing salon, at the moment when the fiery-hot thick black mud had been smeared on my belly and loins. Seeing Jack and Bree together was a reminder of what I lacked at the moment. There certainly couldn’t be any harm in going to look for Eva.

Besides, if I wanted to find out more about Dr. Pustulescu, it would be useful to have someone with me who spoke Hungarian. Almost everyone spoke Romanian, but I wasn’t confident enough in my own ability to understand every nuance of it.

I finally located Eva in the physical therapy section of the treatment center, in the “medical exercise room.” Wearing only a one-piece bathing suit, she was on the mat doing handsprings, much to the admiration of a couple of creaky codgers on exercycles. Her blond hair was tightly pulled back from her heart-shaped face, and her forehead was beaded with moisture. The scent of sweat off her body mingled with the stale, old-socks smell of the room.

“Eva,” I said. “I need you.”

She sprang, literally, to my side.

“I mean I need your help with the women who work in the treatment center. I want to question a few of them, and I think Hungarian would be best. Can you translate?”

“Of course, Cassandra,” she said. “You know, I’m beginning to like it here. If it weren’t for worrying about my car and the business, I would be quite happy. Except for Nadia and her brother, everyone is Hungarian.”

She swung up to the vault and sat there.

“I’m curious, Eva. How much of your dislike for the Romanian people as a whole is based on Nadia Comaneçi and her three gold medals in Montreal?”

“What do you think it’s like to kill yourself from the time you’re six years old and then lose to some Romanian? I wouldn’t have minded losing to the Russians—that, we expected. Olga Korbut, she was marvelous, but Nadia Comaneçi! Every time she walked by with her head in the air, holding one of her dolls, I wanted to kill her. The judges were in love with her. Seven perfect tens! Three gold medals! The Hungarian team was sunk before we started,” she said, swinging her body on strong arms. “Imagine, and I had spent my whole life preparing for that moment. I went to a gymnasts’ school where I practiced six hours a day and squeezed in my other studies when I could. I was six when I started; everyone always said that was almost too old. Some of the girls in my class had started at four years old, can you imagine? Our coach drove us like horses. Once I had a bad fall and dislocated my ankle; he said, You’re not to cry and make a scene. It happens to everyone. We’ll tape it and you’ll go ahead with the program.

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