The Bucharest Digest - 2046.5
Posted: Fri Apr 16, 2021 9:32 am
Mr. Diya al Din pushed out a sigh, and waved me towards the chair next to his desk.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Nothing, really. Price of doing business, unfortunately.”
I’ve seen enough mobster movies to recognize the transaction, but couldn’t settle in my mind whether I had witnessed bribery or extortion. <br/>
“Who was that man?”
“Better you don’t know,” he said.
“My Romanian is rusty, but I don’t think he said something polite when he left.”
He leaned back in his chair and dropped a heavy gold pen on his desk. “You grew up in America, yes?”
I nodded.
“You are lucky for that,” he continued. “I grew up an Arab Muslim in Israel. It was my country, but it wasn’t. We lived in a community of fellow Arabs, and we practiced our religion. We did what we could to make it our home, but we never felt quite welcome. It was a difficult time in that country’s history.”
That’s an understatement. Doing quick math, I figure that he lived through some of the most tumultuous times in the history of the Middle East. What I don’t understand is why I’m getting his autobiography. It doesn’t feel like a lecture, but nor is it a casual coffee chat. We hardly know each other, and it comes off as a little condescending.
“Then I come here. To Romania,” he goes on. “I am successful. I make this place my home. I do what I can to give back.”
“Is that what that was?” I nod toward the door. “Giving back?”
“In a way,” he said.
“Doesn’t seem right.”
“Well, like I said,” he shrugged. “You’re American. You have the luxury of feeling that way.”
The conversation lingers in my mind, even as we creep toward the trade deadline. The team is in a neck-and-neck race for the wildcard with Tripoli. It's crunch time, and if we're going to make a push for the playoffs, the time is now. McBride and I tossed around some trade scenarios, and he said he would make some phone calls, but I have this feeling that he's not going to get anything done. He's lately been engrossed in canvassing the city for the city's best cheesecake. Anticipating this, we called up Miguel de la Silva to see if a hungry youngster can add some pop to the lineup, and the left side of the infield has been . . . less productive.
But through all this, I can't shake the feeling I got from what I saw and my first conversation with the owner. I know he'd prefer I forget what I saw, but I can't. He tried to convince me that it was the ordinary course of business in Romania, but I find that hard to believe.
“What was that about?” I asked.
“Nothing, really. Price of doing business, unfortunately.”
I’ve seen enough mobster movies to recognize the transaction, but couldn’t settle in my mind whether I had witnessed bribery or extortion. <br/>
“Who was that man?”
“Better you don’t know,” he said.
“My Romanian is rusty, but I don’t think he said something polite when he left.”
He leaned back in his chair and dropped a heavy gold pen on his desk. “You grew up in America, yes?”
I nodded.
“You are lucky for that,” he continued. “I grew up an Arab Muslim in Israel. It was my country, but it wasn’t. We lived in a community of fellow Arabs, and we practiced our religion. We did what we could to make it our home, but we never felt quite welcome. It was a difficult time in that country’s history.”
That’s an understatement. Doing quick math, I figure that he lived through some of the most tumultuous times in the history of the Middle East. What I don’t understand is why I’m getting his autobiography. It doesn’t feel like a lecture, but nor is it a casual coffee chat. We hardly know each other, and it comes off as a little condescending.
“Then I come here. To Romania,” he goes on. “I am successful. I make this place my home. I do what I can to give back.”
“Is that what that was?” I nod toward the door. “Giving back?”
“In a way,” he said.
“Doesn’t seem right.”
“Well, like I said,” he shrugged. “You’re American. You have the luxury of feeling that way.”
The conversation lingers in my mind, even as we creep toward the trade deadline. The team is in a neck-and-neck race for the wildcard with Tripoli. It's crunch time, and if we're going to make a push for the playoffs, the time is now. McBride and I tossed around some trade scenarios, and he said he would make some phone calls, but I have this feeling that he's not going to get anything done. He's lately been engrossed in canvassing the city for the city's best cheesecake. Anticipating this, we called up Miguel de la Silva to see if a hungry youngster can add some pop to the lineup, and the left side of the infield has been . . . less productive.
But through all this, I can't shake the feeling I got from what I saw and my first conversation with the owner. I know he'd prefer I forget what I saw, but I can't. He tried to convince me that it was the ordinary course of business in Romania, but I find that hard to believe.
