I clicked back to Endangeredworlds’ homepage. Someone had reformatted it completely so there was just a simple screen, outlined in black. To go anywhere you had to click a discreet “enter site” button in the corner. Otherwise you just sat there and stared at the banner endlessly scrolling in 48 point Calibri, Goodbye, Mike, words can never say.

Words did say, of course. In addition to the forums, Greg had posted an account of the tragic events. I read it through for what must have been the fortieth time, and for the fortieth time the words pulled me up short:

Endangeredworlds is in mourning today for Michael Tyler. The site’s founder was killed, along with his sister Claire, in riots that broke out in Bucharest on the stroke of New Year.

Along with his sister Claire

He’d talked about her ad infinitum, about the clingy sister he had to phone or e-mail to check in with every night, to make sure she hadn’t done anything stupid like she did seventeen years before. And that was Claire.

Instinctively, I took my hand off the keyboard and looked at it. It was hooked over from all the typing, but as I stared at the space between my fingers and my palm I said the same thing to myself over and over again.

“It’s empty. Something was there but now it’s gone.”

I had to get back onto the streets. I could clear my head there, in open spaces filled with car horns and the chug of Vespas, screaming youths and the chorus of hacking smokers. My room was too quiet. I needed noise to think. I needed to go and kick paper cups and tin cans in the gutter. Then I’d sit in a square somewhere with a beer.

Outside it was freezing, but the cafes and bars still spilled people onto the streets. Everyone seemed to have a laptop. They were all reading or writing, telling people what it was like to be there while history was made. Hardly any of them were Romanian. The Romanians were all at work, dealing with the new reality of being in the EU. Those that were left were all political tourists like me, hoovering up everyone else’s experiences from the forums and the blogs and chatrooms in case they missed anything out when they told the story to their friends back home.

I looked at reflections of their laptop screens in the windows as I walked. I realised, suddenly, that I was checking to see if any of them was reading my latest post. I quickly looked down at my feet, turned the next corner, and sat down at a café table with a beer.

“Excuse me, miss.”

It was the waiter. I told him I hadn’t finished my beer and I’d let him know when I wanted another.

“No, I don’t want to take your order,” he said. “I don’t mean to bother you but didn’t you sing in the Grey Wolf on New Year’s Eve?”

“That’s right,” I answered.

“You were great.”

“Thank you.” Had it really been less than two days?

“You’re from Hungary aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“It seems strange.”

“What seems strange?” I asked.

“You coming here to join in with our celebration. Most Hungarians hate us. The ones who live here have bolted themselves into their homes since Christmas in the hope it’ll all go away. And the ones who live in Hungary think now we’re brothers together in the EU the Romanians will come in the night and take their jobs. So why are you here?”

Why are you here? Well, Claire, why were you here?

*

I was staying at a boutique hotel near the city centre. It was the kind of place where the staff treat you like a friend rather than a customer. That’s great when you arrive lonely off the night plane, desperate for a welcoming face; less so when all you want is to sit in the bar and watch the world. When I got back Nicolai was on reception. He must have been in his fifties. He looked like he’d worked there all his life, and he’d been shrinking into the counter since the day he started. Every bit of him was getting smaller with age except his smile. By the time he retired it would fill the front of his head.

“Good night, Nicolai,” I shouted from the door. It was easier than the puppet games we’d play otherwise: I’d smile at him and he’d smile back and I’d have to look away before it got embarrassing and I’d time how long before I could make eye contact again, all the time watching his fixed smile from my peripheral vision, wondering when he’d say hello. “I’m heading back home tomorrow. Will I see you in the morning?”

“Then it’s goodbye,” he said. “I don’t work tomorrow.”

“Thank you for everything,” I said, shaking his hand and palming him a ten dollar bill.

“You’re welcome,” he said with the same smile. The one that said I was the best customer he’d ever had, the same one he used with everyone he met. “Will you be having room service tonight?” he asked. “Or would you like to settle up now?”

“Can I pay now?” I reached in my purse and handed over my Dad’s credit card.

Nicolai stared at his computer screen, and down at the card; he frowned. Maybe he was going to call my Dad and say your daughter’s done a runner with your life savings. It was OK. Dad was happy to let me have a card because I always paid off what I spent from my allowance. But Nicolai wasn’t looking suspiciously at me, just the credit card.

Suddenly I understood. “A friend booked the room for me,” I said.

Nicolai looked at me, and back at the details on the screen. He could see Michael’s name. Through his smile he was itching to ask. Professional courtesy, I guess, and maybe a touch of sympathy, held him back.

I nodded; and returned his smile.