And their children, Nicu, Zoe and Valentin, spared during the Revolution. Modest for a dictator, I say to my companion, looking at the two rather small Corinthian pillars propping up the entryway. Not for a socialist one, he answers, and our nationalities become abundantly clear.
Especially for a socialist one, I say. Over twenty-five years after the Revolution, the house opened to the public. The colonial-looking mansion is surrounded by marble mosaic floors and carefully tended green gardens. Come over here for the tour, a woman barks in heavily accented English. She gestures toward a bin with blue disposable shoe covers. We twist ourselves into awkward positions to slip them on. The guide is in his early thirties, about my age.
During the Revolution I was three. He speaks in measured, monotone monologues and spends most of his time describing the decor. Overall he believed things were headed toward something better. Outside the window, a miniature frog, duck, and carp, each on their own Corinthian pillar, heads up, mouths open. The fountain is dry. On the white marble veranda a peacock naps, its head folded onto its dark green wings.
I take a picture; it lifts its head and peers, goes back to napping. These are the offspring of the original peacocks that the family raised in their gardens. We walk through rooms of lush carpets, crystal chandeliers and more Rococo imitation furniture.
Their furniture taste turned out to be prophetic, my companion mutters. Later, he found out why. Someone would just disappear. It was imperative not to tell their own families when they went out on these missions, in case police questioned them. The guide is careful to point out that while Elena and Nicolae had separate bedrooms, they did not have marital problems.
