Transylvania and Beyond by Dervla Murphy

His only sibling, a fourteen-year-old brother, had been badly wounded during the uprising on 17 December and though his farmer parents were against his returning, he felt they needed him. If caught, Klaus could have been sentenced to three years’ imprisonment. That escape route, across the flat Banat, was not too difficult by night yet required courage. Klaus, a Swabian from a village near Timisoara, had been working in Germany since illegally crossing the border near Kikinda in 1988. Now all the criminals – Securitate, Party activists, policemen – can do what they want.’ He wants the army to take over until the election. Last week my cousin ran from Timisoara, he doesn’t like to live in a country without a government. The other Ceausescus could be organising a counter-revolution. ‘They still have the best weapons and could be more dangerous now. ‘Only foreigners believe that,’ said Klaus. ‘And aren’t the Securitate gone – disbanded, defeated?’ ‘Don’t you know there’s snow? And the Securitate won’t let you camp, they hate foreigners. ‘But I have a tent – and lots of dehydrated food.’ ‘A tourist? Why? There is no tourist comfort in Rumania, no food or heat in the hotels – nothing!’

Noticing my London–Arad luggage label, Klaus suggested, ‘Reporter?’ Then, taking courage from me and my rucksack, he asked, ‘OK just to sit?’ He too seemed momentarily bemused by this imperial left-over. Instead, the door was pushed open by a tall, thin, slightly stooped young man with longish mousey hair and pale blue bloodshot eyes. One expected several archdukes to appear at any moment. Silver candelabras gleamed on square marble corner pillars and on either side of intricately bevelled window embrasures. Burgundy and silver tapestry wall-hangings shimmered beneath golden rosettes sprouting from the cornice. Slowly I moved to the centre of the room, passing fluted porphyry pillars. The mahogany dining-chairs, rather pompously carved, were upholstered in dark green velvet. The tables stood far apart on a floor of inky blue and carmine marble. Had I strayed into the 1890s section of some Central European Victoria and Albert Museum? Gilded chandeliers shed a mellow light on immaculate damask table-linen.

I paused, startled, in the doorway of Budapest’s empty West Station restaurant.

Transylvania and Beyond by Dervla Murphy