Vamonya Ch. 01

[WARNING: this story has a *very* long intro/backstory before there is any sex.]

[Note: all characters in this work of fiction are at least eighteen years old.]

My name is James Popescu. Despite my surname, I am not ethnically Romanian. My parents were both naturalized Australian citizens who were born in Romania. They adopted me at age two, after their son died. He was a year old at the time. Neither felt like they could go through the process of conception, pregnancy and childbirth a second time.

I did well at university in Sydney. After graduation, I worked at software companies in the United States, first in Boston and later in Silicon Valley. By age twenty-four, I was leading small projects and making a bigger salary than I'd ever dreamed.

One Spring morning I was looking out at a smoggy San Pablo Bay from my office, when I got an email from a Romanian man named Davon Popescu. My immediate reaction was that the email was a Nigerian Prince scam. He claimed that I was his only living male relative. He wanted to transfer the title for a substantial property in Romania to me. He was not asking for money. I assumed that would come later, if I responded.

I ignored the email. A week passed. Davon emailed me again. He said he realized that his earlier message must have seemed like a scam. He apologized and asked me to contact an attorney, Ian Dragos, in San Francisco. Dragos was licensed to practice law in both Romania and California. He urged me to research the lawyer first and assured me that, once I'd done so, the whole affair would appear above-board.

This I ignored as well. I didn't Google the attorney. I marked the email as spam. Further emails from Davon would go directly to the Trash.

A month went by. Davon must have figured out what I'd done. I got a new email from him, this time from a different address. He implored me to look up Ian Dragos. He said the property was worth the equivalent of a million dollars in US currency, possibly more. I relented, and found the attorney online. To my surprise, Ian Dragos was legitimate. His online profile indicated he had law degrees from a US university as well as a Romanian one, and had provably passed the California bar exam. His primary business was finalizing business contracts for US citizens who didn't want to have to fly to Romania just to sign paperwork. Although I was an Australian citizen, there seemed to be no reason he wouldn't be able to work with me.

I gave myself a day to think it over. Then I called his office. His assistant answered. "This is out of the blue, I know, but I got an email from--"

"The Vamonya guy? James Popescu? Ian said you might call."

"Vamonya?"

"I'll put you through, he's just eating lunch in his office."

"Wait--" It was too late, I heard a ring on the other end as she transferred me.

"Ian Dragos speaking."

"Hi, I guess you were expecting me? James Popescu?"

"Ah, James, yes. It seems you have a benefactor in Romania who is most eager for you to inherit a property which is rightfully yours."

"Is he dying or something?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Just old?"

"No, he's, let's see." I heard keys clicking on the other end. "Thirty-eight."

"Can I be honest Mr. Dragos?"

"Call me Ian, please. My last name makes me sound like a George R.R. Martin character."

I laughed. "Fair enough. Ian. Davon said to research you, and I can tell you're legit. I have to say, though, this whole thing sounds scammy."

"Understood. Look, Davon is going through a divorce. It sounds nasty. And under Vamonian law, before it can be finalized he has to transfer the property to a legal relative."

"You meant Romanian, right?"

"Ah no, the property is in what's called an enclave. This one is known as Vamonya. Think of it as a sort of city state within the country. They have their own sovereignty, laws, passports, etc."

"Never heard of it!"

"Most people haven't. Check it out on Wikipedia if you'd like."

I brought up the entry while we were talking. Sure enough, there it was, an area around the size of the US state of Rhode Island in the middle of the country of Romania.

"He does realize I'm not a blood relative?" I asked. Against my better instincts, I was starting to take the offer seriously.

"Yes, yes. That doesn't matter. Legally, you're his only living male relative, and apparently their laws are quite clear on this point."

"Fine. So what's the catch? Let me guess, I have to wire twenty thousand dollars first to a Swiss bank account?"

Ian laughed. "That'd be a good one! No, nothing like that. You'd have to fly there and sign the papers. I'd do it in my office but since the property isn't legally in Romania my law degree doesn't help. There aren't any Vamonian attorneys outside the enclave, that I'm aware of. And the community is small, so I assure you I'd know."

"You have a copy of these papers?"

"Yes. We can go over them in my office if you'd like. Davon paid for two hours of my time. He'll also pay for your airfare if you decide to go ahead."

"I have to think about this. But if I do come in, I'll pay you myself. Don't want any conflict of interest."

"Suit yourself."

At this point I no longer considered Davon's email to be an out-and-out scam. Something seemed off, but beyond seeming too good to be true, I could not put my finger on what. After a week of procrastination, I decided to respond to Davon. He reiterated what Ian said: he had to transfer the property to me as part of a divorce settlement. He didn't want to get into details, beyond indicating that the proceedings were extremely adversarial. The property transfer was the last element to be wrapped up. He said he understood it wasn't my problem, but he urgently needed to finalize the legalities so he could take a much-needed vacation.

I set up a meeting with Ian Dragos for the following Friday. He had a dingy two-room office in the business district. I felt like I was in a 1940s detective movie. His assistant, a poorly-dressed middle-aged woman, signaled for me to head right in. Ian was a tall, portly man with an ill-shaven beard and thick glasses.

After exchanging pleasantries, he went over the document I'd be signing. It was surprisingly short. I had bought a small condo earlier that year, and it had involved way more paperwork.

"Vamonya has statutory laws; no juries, no precedence. Keeps these short."

"I see. Davon said this was worth a million dollars. If I want to sell it right away, wouldn't I run into the same problem he did?"

"Good question. I looked this up. If he were single, or if he had no living male relatives, he could indeed just sell outright." Ian patted a thick, dusty, leather-bound book. The pages looked like they were made from hand-crafted paper in the Middle Ages. "By Vamonian law, if a man is married, he cannot sell his property and must instead transfer it to a male relative."

"But wouldn't he be able to sell it after the divorce?"

"No. During divorce proceedings, all property must first be disposed of."

"I see. I guess! This whole thing seems weird. Do you think I should do this?"

Ian shrugged. "I can't advise you either way. What I can say is: legally, there is no problem. Unless you decide to marry a Vamonian!" He laughed.

I laughed too. "Right. Don't marry a Vamonian. Check."

Two weeks went by. Davon kept emailing me. I put him off. Then I decided to sign the papers. I had an excellent salary, but making an easy million dollars was too lucrative to pass up. Ian answered all my follow-up questions to my satisfaction.

X X X X

I bought my own plane ticket, a round-trip between San Francisco and Otopeni in Romania, connecting in Switzerland. I flew a lot and had enough miles to get a business class ticket for a reasonable price. It seemed cleaner not to accept anything from Davon outside the real estate transaction itself. The flight, with fully-reclining seats on the longest leg, was pleasant.

Davon recommended against renting a car at the airport. Vamonya doesn't allow cars to cross the border without a specific license. It would have been a big hassle to drive a car there myself. None of the major rental car companies have an office at the border crossing. So I accepted Davon's offer of arranging a driver to meet me at the airport.

When I cleared customs there were a number of drivers waiting outside the exit holding signs. It took me a few minutes to find mine. I was expecting a heavyset man in a cheap uniform. My gaze passed over the pretty blonde with a ponytail wearing expensive, tight-fitting athletic wear and gym shoes. Only upon a second scan did I notice she was holding up a small whiteboard with "James Popescu" written in clear, block letters.

I walked up to her. "I'm James."

"Veronika. It is nice to meet you." Her English accent was too perfect to be a native of the British Isles.

"Same here." We shook hands. Her grip was firm. "Did you study in the UK?"

"Me? No. Why?"

"Your English is so good."

"I learned from my husband."

"He's not Romanian too?"

"Vamonian. But no, he was born in England. He taught me well." She gave a small smile which struck me as out-of-place. "Follow me?" She grabbed for the handle of my suitcase.

"It's okay," I said.

"I insist." Veronika took it before I could object further. "This is everything?"

I had checked baggage, but my luggage was small enough to have fit in the overhead bins, had I wanted to lug it onto the plane. "Not staying long."

"Pity," she said. "You will like Vamonya."

She walked ahead of me and set a fast pace. I was a few steps behind and my gaze dropped to her rear. Her cheeks, two substantial peaches, were highlighted by the thin, skin-tight material of her shorts. The hem rode up high, above the crease. A visible patch of skin was red, and I wondered why that was. Her toned legs were otherwise pale and unblemished.

She loaded my luggage in the back of a Toyota Corolla. There was barely enough space. The trunk was messy, crowded with empty shopping bags, garden tools and other household items.

I got into the front passenger seat. As Veronika slipped behind the wheel I noticed that she winced when her curvy arse made contact with the seat.

"Been busy lately?" I asked, as Veronika pulled out of the car park.

"Busy with what?" She sounded confused.

"Driving? Lots of visitors right now? It is the Summer."

She laughed. "Ah, no. Vamonya is not truly a tourist destination."

"Thanks for coming to pick me up, then. I hope you're getting paid well for this long drive!"

Veronika chuckled again. "No pay. It is a favor for Vanessa."

"You're not a professional driver?"

"No."

"Who's Vanessa?"

"You know Davon, right?"

"We've emailed, yes."

"Vanessa is his wife. Not for much longer, of course."

On the two-hour ride, I learned a little of Vamonya's history. It was founded more than a thousand years ago. It had existed as a city state that entire time. She described it as a representative theocracy, which sounded like a contradiction in terms to me. I didn't want to get into a political debate with her, so let the matter drop. She said the two biggest industries were banking and information technology. I found the latter surprising. I worked for a software company and had never heard of the country.

We drove through a small town. The buildings looked old. There was nobody on the streets. Then we drove for another forty minutes, through a thick forest. It ended abruptly at a large, smooth, gray wall. It rose fifty feet into the air and curved off in either direction, farther than I could see. A gatehouse with a guard booth sat in front of an enormous steel door. You could drive a bus through it.

There was a taxi waiting outside the gate. The driver, a short man wearing a tam-o-shanter, was standing outside smoking a cigarette.

A handsome, uniformed middle-aged brunette had a semi-automatic rifle slung over her shoulder. She was standing next to the booth. Her attire looked Soviet to me. It also hugged her figure, highlighting a narrow waist and wide hips. She waved Veronika through and we parked on the other side of the wall in a gravel car park.

"You can leave your bag in the car." I found that confusing since presumably customs might want to inspect my luggage. But I wasn't about to bring up a lapse whose remedy could only cause me delays. Veronika led me to an office with a waiting room. It was sterile and clean. A loud analog clock hung on one wall. The manufacturer's name was on the dial, in a script I couldn't read. I thought it might be stylized Cyrillic.

A tall man was seated on a bench across the room. He looked like he had just come back from a jog. His black hair was damp and stuck to his forehead. He had two large suitcases with him and was dressed in street clothes. Before I could say hello, another woman came in the room.

The newcomer's hair was held in a tight ponytail. She was wearing a white blouse, pencil skirt and had a clipboard in one arm. An official-looking ID hung from a lanyard around her neck. "Mr. Popescu?" she said. Just like Veronika, her accent was flawless, although she had a flat Midwestern intonation rather than a British one. Her voice was hoarse, as if she was getting over a cold. She looked to be in perfect health, though. "Welcome to Vamonya. My name is Kassandra Belli, and I am your medical, customs and immigration officer today. We are a small country, you know." She smiled. Her voice, other than being hoarse, was warm.

"That's me." I heard the word "medical" but didn't understand what it really meant.

"Please follow me." She led me down a corridor to an exam room. It looked just like the ones I was familiar with from growing up in Australia or my later life in the United States, except every piece of furniture and gear, while well-maintained, looked like it was manufactured no more recently than 1950. On a hook was a worn, albeit clean, white medical gown.

"I shall leave the room, then the doctor will enter one minute after that. Please put on the gown during that time."

"You mean, take off my clothes?"

"Precisely."

"Sorry, Miss Belli, I think there's some kind of misunderstanding. I'm just here for a few days at most. I don't need a medical exam."

"Understood. All visitors require a medical exam to enter Vamonya."

"What if I refuse?" I said, feeling some heat.

"That is, of course, entirely up to you. You would not be able to enter the country, however, and would have to return to Romanian soil."

I stood there, seething, for nearly a minute. I took a few deep breaths. Stripping and submitting to the exam was worth a million dollars. I recalled hearing about some countries, usually backwards ones, requiring procedures like this. I sighed. "Fine."

"Excellent." Officer Belli left the room.

I stripped, folding my clothes and putting them on a chair, then put on the medical gown. As promised, the doctor entered a minute later, stethoscope around her neck.

"Hello," she said, with a British accent. It seemed to be 50-50 what to expect on that front. "I am Dr. Lysandra."

"Nice to meet you, I guess." I sounded truculent. Dr. Lysandra was precisely the worst doctor imaginable for this kind of thing: a pretty, voluptuous woman with curly black hair cascading to her shoulders. I had a sinking feeling.

The exam started with the usual knee reflex tests, coughing, saying "ah," and so forth. Then she had me lie back on the exam table. "I am going to check your prostate," she informed me, immediately handling my cock and squeezing each testicle.

"What the--" I said, red in the face. She inserted a lubed finger up my arsehole and pushed hard towards my balls.

"I am sorry. You seem like a healthy young man, but we are required to check your prostate, by law."

"How can that possibly be relevant?" I was furious, but there wasn't any obvious recourse.

"Please wait here for your blood draw."

I was ready to put on my clothes and leave. Then I remembered the million dollar property waiting for me. "Is that it?"

"You mean will that conclude your medical exam? Yes."

"Fine, what the fuck ever."

A phelbotamist entered next, another attractive woman. She had a name tag, but I couldn't read the script, and she didn't tell me her name. I sat in a chair while she drew several vials of blood. She was highly skilled, and the procedure was swift. Once finished she said, as if reciting from an unseen script, "Your test results will be available in twelve hours. You will only be contacted if medical concerns are found. If we do not contact you, you may assume there are no such concerns. By Vamonian law, you may not have sexual relations until twelve hours have passed, and, of course, you have a clean bill of health." She looked at her wristwatch and told me what time that would be.

"I'm not going to have sex--" I tried to say.

She held up her hand. "That is not any of my concern at this juncture. You may put on your clothes now."

Still fuming internally, I dropped the medical gown to the floor and didn't bother picking it up, instead dressing again as fast as I could. I had just finished when Officer Belli returned.

She led me to another office. This one looked like a Russian interrogation room. We sat on opposite sides of a table. "Forgive me, Mr. Popescu, but I have to ask the standard set of questions. It is just a formality."

"Fantastic," I said, not caring if she could hear the intense sarcasm in my voice.

"First, may I have your passport?" I handed it over. She flipped through the pages, then pulled out a large stamp and pressed it into one of the blank spaces. She then clipped it into her clipboard. "What brings you to Vamonya?"

"I just found out I'm being gifted some property as part of a divorce settlement. So I just need to sign papers and get out of here. And apparently get tested for STDs while I'm at it."

She ignored my extraneous remark. "Do you have any goods to declare?"

"No."

"How long do you plan on staying?"

"A few days at most. I just need to find a real estate agent who can sell the place for me. I assume transferring money to the States is straightforward, at least?"

"It couldn't be more straightforward!" She smiled broadly. I noticed she had orderly teeth, either through luck or orthodonture. "Since you are in a hurry, you will be glad to know I have the title right here."

My brow furrowed. "You can transfer the title just like that? I was expecting a real estate agent or lawyer or something."

"No need for that. Title transfers between relatives are streamlined. Unless you have any questions of a legal nature." She looked at her clipboard. "There's a notation here that you have consulted with a Romanian lawyer in the United States, Attorney Dragos?"

I was surprised that the Vamonian Ministry of Foreign Affairs -- or whatever they called it -- was so thorough. I guessed that's just how small countries work. I now felt marginally better about the embarrassing medical exam. "That's right."

"If you do not need to make any changes to the contract, you may sign it right now. I cannot say for sure, but perhaps you can find a real estate agent today or tomorrow for the sale?"

"That'd be amazing! I have two weeks before my return flight out of Copenhagen. Hoping to meander my way up there."

"Sounds like a fine trip." She spread out the papers in front of me. I noticed right away that there were two signatures on it already. I didn't recognize the script, but I knew who they must be. Ian had explained that both Davon and his wife had to sign before I could.

"Mind if look this over?"

"Take your time. I'll be back in a few minutes. Even then, no rush."

"Thanks." I sat down and compared the papers she'd given me with the photocopies from Ian Dragos. There were no discrepancies. Kassandra returned before I finished. She no longer had her clipboard. "Do you have a pen?"