Florcus let himself into the front door of the guest house; it was large and smelled like pine. The landlady, being an atheist, felt that cleanliness was far above godliness and adhered to this principle above all others. Even the part of the dirt road outside her house was cleaner than the rest of the road. It may just have appeared so, but Harold had no time to muse about such things.
Inside, the house was disproportionately tall, with a spiral staircase stretching upwards, each marbled step neatly punctuated with a small red square of red carpet.
The reception consisted of a room with a desk, separated from the main living room by a curtain through which a tv could faintly be heard. Ukrainian shouting carried over a theme from the bus.
Also in the waiting room was an old man with a moustache and a leather briefcase, of the type that travelling salesmen used in the 50s.
'!' said the stranger in Ukrainian.
'Sorry, I don't speak Ukrainian', said Harold. 'Well, a little bit, but...'
Harold trailed off, realizing that the stranger was paying the least possible amount of interest and was instead rooting around in the bag.
'?' enquired he and pointed to Harold's chest.
'My chest?'
The other man pointed to his own chest, made a gesture indicating heavenwards and pointed back to his own chest. He then blessed himself.
'Soul? Heaven? God?' Harold was thoroughly confused and was relieved when the curtains parted to reveal a woman in a shirtdress and polishing slippers.
The woman saw the stranger and began to shout at him. Here we go again, thought Florcus. Doesn't this country come with a volume control?
The man came closer to Florcus, his bald head shining excitedly and his bird-like nose creasing up with the stress of the moment. His suitcase lay open for Harold to see.
Several pieces of paper, folded up, some crumpled up and in the corner a Nestle borscht packet.
'I see you.' said the bald head, and almost ran out of the room, just about missing a sausage thrown in his direction by the woman.
'Excuse we', said the woman, 'Uzbekistani, you know. He does a great trade in buying and selling souls in this area.'
'Souls?'
'Yes...it's an old Romanian superstition. Those in need can buy extra souls to store their left over sins. It's silly. What's your name?'
The book of names was pushed towards Harold and he leaned forward to sign it.