Now he took the bundle from his briefcase and started calling to them softly. The ducks ignored him until one of them, more curious or hungrier than the rest, left the pond and, quacking loudly, waddled up to the old man, who opened the cloth bundle and fed the duck some bits of bread. The duck ate them hungrily and quacked for more.
The old man raised his heavy walking stick and quickly beat the duck to death. Then he stuffed it into his briefcase, snapped that shut, and looked around furtively. When he saw Ploscaru, he stiffened; looked as if he were about to explain, or at least try to; apparently thought better of it; turned; and limped quickly away.
Enjoy your duck dinner, old man, Ploscaru thought, and looked at his watch. For once he was early, or nearly so. Had he not been early, he would have missed the duck’s execution. He wondered how long the old man had gone without eating anything but bread before hunger had driven him to do what he had just done. A day? Two days? Three? Ploscaru settled on three, because the old man had looked very neat and respectable. He wondered what he had been before he had turned duck killer. A teacher? A minor bureaucrat, perhaps? Something stiff and proper, anyway. Something with a handle to it, a title of sorts, so that the old man could be called Herr This or Herr That. Now he can be called Herr Duck Killer.
The dwarf grinned a little and took out an Old Gold. Just as he was lighting it, a hoarse voice from behind him whispered, “Nicolae, is that you?”
Without turning, Ploscaru said, “Who else would it be, Mircea?”
“I had to be sure,” the hoarse voice said.
“For God’s sake, man, come out from behind the bushes.”
The big, shambling figure that emerged from behind the clump of evergreens belonged to Mircea Ulescu, not quite a giant, but well over six feet tall, who swooped down on the dwarf, lifted him by his armpits, stood him on the bench, bent down, and kissed him wetly on both cheeks.
“Nicolae, Nicolae, Nicolae! It’s really you.”
“Of course it’s I, you lummox,” the dwarf snapped, but grinned as he wiped the wet from his cheeks.
“Yesterday at the camp, I knew it was you, but I said nothing. One never knows, these days. But then when I got the note and it said to be here at the zoo—”
“I know all that, Mircea,” the dwarf said, interrupting.
“Still as crazy for zoos as ever,” the big man said, gazing fondly down at Ploscaru, who still stood on the bench. “Little Nicolae.” Two tears formed in the inside corners of the big man’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. The eyes were an impossibly soft gray, a romantic’s eyes, and they didn’t at all seem to go with the thrusting nose or the wide slash of mouth that could have belonged to someone who, early in life, had been taught never to smile. Except for the eyes it could have been a soldier’s face. Or an unhappy policeman’s.
“Little Nicolae,” Mircea Ulescu said again, and patted the dwarf on the head. “My oldest friend.”
“Stop it, you fool,” Ploscaru said gruffly, although unable to disguise his pleasure. “Can we sit down now like two adults?”
“Sit,” Ulescu said, quickly producing a dirty handkerchief, which he used to dust off the bench. “Sit, Nicolae; sit, and we shall talk in our own language of the old days. How weary I grow of speaking German. It’s a barbarian’s language.”
“You were speaking it eagerly enough when I last saw you.”
The big man nodded gloomily. “Once again I picked the wrong horse. First the Iron Guards, then the Germans.”
“You didn’t wait for the Russians, I see.”
“They would have hanged me. The Germans made me promises, none of which they kept. I came back with them. What else could I do? Oh, God, Nicolae, how I miss Bucharest and the old days.” Two more tears rolled down the big man’s cheeks. He used the dirty handkerchief to mop them up.
“So now you’re a DP?”
“I’m not even that legally. Romania was a belligerent nation. A citizen of a belligerent nation can’t be a DP — not legally. Now I’m an Estonian.”
“You can’t speak Estonian.”
“But I speak French like a native. So I claim that I was born in Estonia, but reared in Paris. I have the authorities very confused.”
Ploscaru brought out his Old Golds and offered them to Ulescu, who smiled, shook his head, and produced a package of Camels. “I prefer these Nicolae,” he said, and lit both cigarettes with an American Zippo.
The dwarf eyed the big man more carefully. “Even as a DP Mircea, you don’t appear to have been missing many meals.”
The big man shrugged. “Because of the terrible suffering that we DP’s have undergone, the authorities feed us two thousand calories a day. It’s mostly stew, but still quite nourishing.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Did you see that old fellow kill the duck. Nicolae? Wasn’t that something? I don’t think it was his first time, do you? No, I think he comes here regularly, perhaps once a week, and goes home with a nice duck dinner.
“You’re prospering, Mircea.” The dwarf made it a flat accusation.
The big man bridled a bit. “And look at you with your nice little suit.” He fingered its material. “Tailored, of course, but then your clothes were always tailored. It couldn’t be that you’re still with British intelligence, could it, Nicolae? No, of course not. The British would never pay enough for you to be able to afford such a nice little gray suit. Possibly the Americans, eh? Someone told me that there at the end, just before the Russians came, you and the American fliers became very thick. Where have you come from Nicolae — America?”
“California.”
“Really?”
The dwarf nodded.
“Hollywood? Have you seen Hollywood?”
“I lived there for a while.”
“And the women, Nicolae. Tell me about the women. You would know them all. You always did have luck with women.”
“Beautiful.”
“Ahh.”
“But not as beautiful as in Bucharest in the old days.”
“No, of course not.”
There was a silence as the two men seemed to lapse into reverie. Mircea Ulescu stole a look at the dwarf.
“Nicolae,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I have become a thief.” The confession came out as a hoarse whisper.
“So.”
“Can you imagine it? I, Mircea Ulescu, have turned common thief.”
“Not so common, I’m sure.”
“But still a thief, even though a good one.”
“Well, one must do what one must these days. Tell me, are there many thieves at the camp?”
“It’s a den of them.”
“And what do you steal, Mircea?”
The big man shrugged. “We’re organized into gangs.” He brightened a bit “I’m the leader of mine, of course.”
“Of course.”
“We steal only from the Americans. Cigarettes, gasoline, coffee, Tootsie Rolls.” He frowned. “Can you imagine a conquering nation with a sweet called Tootsie Rolls?”
“The Americans are a strange but wonderful people, Mircea.”
“Yes, I know. Others in the camp steal from the Germans. The Poles especially. The Poles like to beat the Germans up, steal their pigs, and rape their women. But Poles are like that. They think they are justified. We, naturally — my bunch — we steal only from the Americans. And sometimes we do business with them, too.”
“Do you do business mostly with officers or with other ranks?”
“Mostly with officers.”
“I am looking for a certain officer, Mircea. At one time you were a very good policeman. Tell me, are you still?”