ARTicles vol. 7 i.2a: In Search of the Ceausescus

Playwright Anne Washburn spent the month of August traveling across Romania. She was following a trail of clues about the lives of the Ceausescus, the dictators whose rise and fall she charts in The Communist Dracula Pageant. Over the next few weeks we’ll be posting extracts from the diary Anne kept as she journeyed around this fascinating and mysterious country. Here is an excerpt:

13 august 2008. Târgoviste – Scornicesti.

Târgoviste was the scene of the Ceausescu’s execution/Dracula’s Princely Court, Scornicesti was Nicolae Ceausescu’s hometown.

I approach a stocky blondish man in his mid-thirties who looks friendly. He has a minimal bit of English but we seem to work out that the bus will come at three, that the trip is a half hour, that buses leave the village on the hour, and that the last one leaves at six. I look for a place to sit; that same man is sitting on a bench next to one of the few empty spots and he gestures that I may take it. I sit down, thank him, there is a long disinterested pause and then he asks where I’m from. I tell him and then I try to ask him where in Romania he’s from. There’s some confusion and then we work out that he comes from Slatina. “Romania beautiful,” I offer – I’ve tried this gambit before, but have noticed that no one ever seems very moved by it. “Nature,” he says in Romanian, “but no money.”

At three I look about, wondering about the bus and has it arrived disguised as another bus, but he says that no, it’s just late and that this is Romania. At ten after I look about again and he tells me, using the notebook, that he is himself a taxi, and he can take me to Scornicesti, wait an hour while I look around, and then bring me back here, for 25 Lei (slightly under $12).

As we start off he asks me what address in Scornicesti and I say “Casa Ceausescu” and there is a bit of a pause and he says that it is good I am going with him because – this is with a lot of gesturing – the bus would drop me off in the center of the village, but Ceausescu’s house is 7 km beyond. “Noroc!” I say cheerfully – ‘luck’, a word I learned in Bucharest while toasting with slibowitz at a Serbian restaurant a Romanian acquaintance has taken me to.

Will we be able to look at the house, I want to know. He doesn’t know. He says the house is now owned by the Ceausescu kids, by Nicu. By Nicu? I say. “Nicu morte.” By Nicu, he says. The Ceausescus had three children, Zoe who died recently, Nicu who died of liver failure not long after their execution, but there’s a third, whose name I don’t remember, maybe he’s called Nicu also. We pass the center of the village which is a combination of low original buildings, big municipal buildings, and, this surprises both of us, a crisp looking new hotel. We continue on, long past the point where the bus would have dropped me off, and up a side road where is a gate and old shady trees, and a largish house, and directly next to it a small cottage. We pull up and stop the car. I pull out my camera then hesitate. There is someone moving about in the yard. Christie opens the gate and steps into the yard and I follow behind him…

To read more of Anne’s journal (and find out what happened!), visit blog.amrep.org7_2