Fortuna Road

At the intersection I could go right and head home - but turning left would take me anywhere I wanted to go. By that I don’t mean a fixed or international destination, like slipping through a strange portal and winding up on the Champs Elysees. Or trekking a dirt road on 4-wheel drive, only to find myself blocked by Old Faithful.

Rather, the mysterious left turn (I knew nothing of the name, the street sign having been stolen long ago) saw to every urgent need. If I needed pastries, I’d ‘find a family run bakery within minutes of turning left. An authentic taco truck with lengua tacos, my favorite: there it was, at a parking lot I swore I hadn’t seen the last time. If I needed an alcohol store that happened to stock the Moldavian muscat made in the year of my choosing, voila! My catering needs as a professional host were taken care of.

My job especially made the magic of the left turn a blessing. Situated by a river and overlooking the most peaceful, verdant valley in the state, I’d converted it into a catering business. Weddings, funeral receptions, bar mitzvahs, quinceañeras, first communion parties from the local Polish community, you name it: I was their huckleberry with a house. The Caterescu Manor, I called it; a corruptive play on words that cited the purpose of my business while shouting out my Romanian heritage.

Preparations were, at times, a hassle in the beginning. How often had I hated looking after my younger self, not to mention hundreds of strangers who, though kind and polite, saw me as nothing more than a temporary business partner. On top of that, none of my guests ever wanted to try the Moldavian wine I advertised. One guest (a sozzled uncle from a wedding, if I remember correctly, who wore a Loden hat and had a secret habit of sipping from each bottle before choosing his preferred wine, a habit I alone appeared to notice) even left an angry review, suggesting I’d insulted him for daring to offer “Untermensch swill.”

But the job had one nice perk, if you could call it that: every event I arranged demanded I find something new, distinct, unique as per the client’s requirements. Recently, a first communion family presented me with an extremely complicated list of pastries and bread. “They sure are taking this first communion theme a bit far,” I remember thinking at the time; not only did I have to obtain several exotic kinds of bread (and I scarcely need remind you of the difficulty of finding good bread in this country); some of them unleavened, others being hard-to-find from Poland. “Remember the kremówka, the John Paul II cake!” they had stressed like maniacs at the time. What, I wondered with a chuckle, did the eucharist actually mean for these people?

What a hassle that had been! But every time, the left lane didn’t fail me; it even brought me to an immigrant bakery that exclusively specialized in the aforementioned papal kremówka. The family was so happy they “invited” me as an official guest and invited me to eat my fill. I’d be fibbing if I said I didn’t accept; I spent the rest of the night filled to the gullet with gluten, getting compliment after compliment on the success of my country’s current pope.

Or take the creole family that demanded authentic New Orleans cuisine to the dot for their family reunion. Me, who had never even been! Whose manor, like Dracula’s Castle in beautiful Braşov, was far from the sea and equally far from fresh seafood. (And why, I asked, did they not have their reunion in New Orleans?)

This time, I tried a different strategy. Instead of having the left lane present me with lacking commodities, I desired that it present me with services. After acquiring the requisite ingredients – a Pan-Asian seafood supermarket, in my town? – I turned left, anticipating a professional New Orleans chef. Uncertain of my bearings at first, I finally spotted what I was looking for: the Cajun-Creole Chefs Association, or something of the sort. As per my luck, a chef was available; as per even more luck, he happened to be a household name in the French Quarter, insofar as the touristy French Quarter still had “household names.”

After that event – successful but stressful – I took a short vacation. Using the left lane to find lakeside beaches, I dozed in the sun with only peace and tranquility as stalwart companions. Only the sounds of equally peace-loving families risked disturbing my rest.

One time, I had a dream. A simple dream. A Romanian millionaire had bought Caterescu Manor. Pleased by my devotion to the culture from afar, he held a farewell party for me. Instead of me catering to everyone else, I, for one, would be catered to.

Everything went well and everyone was there. My old mother – may she rest in peace – asked me where I’m moving to. Every time I gave the same answer, but couldn’t remember what the actual place was. My mother then asked if I would visit her; I told her, “absolutely!” The millionaire, for his part, spared no expenses: a Gypsy band was brought from the homeland, and even the heir to the Romanian throne – an exile, like me – was there. The princess was very kind. In my dream, I wanted to like her; but something held me back. Too pretty, and too stern.

When I got back home from the lake that day, I saw a letter in my mailbox. Would it surprise you to learn it was, in fact, a Romanian millionaire requesting the exact thing I saw in my dream?

The left lane, it seems, made all dreams come true. But paired with that was another reservation: if everything from the kremówka to the New Orleans chef was the result of dreams coming true, then was I losing my dream? Where would I go?

Leaving everything to the millionaire and relaxing – only now coming to grips with how taxing my catering work had been, no vacation and everything – I decided to pay one last trip to the left lane. Calm and easy as things were, I felt lonely.

This time, turning left, I asked for a woman who could be my lifelong companion; my favorite looks, a Romance language fashion sense, a hidden eroticism designed for me alone and no other guy that expressed itself gymnastically, like our great Olympic athletes; a sense of zest and adventure; and so on. Her personality would, of course, compliment mine to a tee; and naturally, she would be Romanian. All my clients had a taste for the exotic; I did not. In fact, the opposite was true. Had all the richness they’d brought to Caterescu Manor – almost as if for my ingratiation – been lost on me? I didn’t think so; but maybe it was.

I found her at a Romanian wine shop I’d seen before. Great sign. It had been a while, but a part of me still remembered how to talk up the ladies. But it was as if I didn’t need to; at the end of our first magical encounter she even said “I’ve been waiting for you, Mihail.” For how long, I wanted to ask. But tactfully decided to leave it at that.

Her name was Betina. We met every day. The left lane did not fail me this time; the only issue was her preference for using Romanian as our love language. I was rusty; but soon my rusty lect came back to life. I wasn’t just being provided for; I was being improved.

To this very day, I can’t put my finger on why the millionaire was so stoked to own Caterescu Manor. What did he need it for? As far as I knew, he didn’t have a lot of investments in this country. And of all the investments to make, he wants to buy a catering business? My scalp soon turned red from all the head scratching.

In any case, he was true to his word. The party took place as described, Gypsy band and all; Betina came too, dressed in a beautiful outfit betraying Romania’s close cultural links with Italy. I looked around for my mother; to my shock, she was there. I hugged her like I’d hugged no one in my life; after all, she was supposed to be dead! As the dream indicated, she did indeed ask if I could visit her someday.

“But where are you now, Mother?” I asked.

“Don’t you remember, son? I thought everyone knew where their own mother lives!”

Unsure how to respond, I instinctively held up the wine glass.

“I must be drinking too much…wait a second.”

I peered closely at the wine glass. It wasn’t one of mine; the millionaire had bought it. Excusing myself, I went to the wine table and read the labels on the bottles. None of the wine was Romanian. Even though I’d requested it. It was my one request.

I went up to the millionaire.

“Where’s my Romanian wine?”

Glancing at me as one would a hiker lost in the wilderness, he laughed.

“Why, Mihail, would I serve that pig swill from Moldavia? Come, have yourself a cabernet!”

“I don’t want a cabernet. I want a Fetească Regală!”

“Come, this is nonsense. You need to see the greater picture. Have some cabernet. My wine expert insists upon its merits; you don’t want to intellectually insult him, do you?”

As if called upon request, a young man dressed for business hurried up. Something about the way he wore his suit seemed off.

“Did you need me, Sir?”

The millionaire hid his surprise and patted his agent on the back.

“Give our guest some cabernet. And then show him out of here.”

What could I do? I pretended to take the wine. But when I left, I poured it into the bushes.

A minute later Betina caught up with me.

“What happened?”

I explained everything.

“You’re at the end of your dream, Mihail. It’s time you ordered it to stop.”

“But what will happen to you?”

“I will be here. But like Moldavian wine, I will be what you really want.”

“What does that mean?”

“If you love me, trust me.” Betina grabbed my hand. “Come see what it really means to turn left on Fortuna Road. Let’s go to the wine bar, where we met. Forget everything else.”

I followed her to the intersection. There, for the last time, I turned left.