Row upon row, cot upon cot and the smell, not Johnson’s baby shampoo or sweet talcum-powdered bottoms I watch the worn out, tired, hard-lifed women as they casually throw babies around, for a living they hold a child, a child who may become my child, feet first under a freezing cold water tap and grin with amusement to see my horror at that It’s hard not to judge But who am I to come into this eastern wasteland flaunting my western ways, shamelessly handing out Boots No.7 eye shadows and cheap cigarettes to desperate, wary officials who readily crave my trivia as their trophies, my dollars buy a place at the front of the queue in Ploesti Orphanage No. 1 Babies for sale, dark-skin cheaper than pale, babies damaged, derailed, babies forever with missing years locked inside their heads as they rock and rock Children are paraded, tiny hands reach out to grab at my heart, two years old but babies, undersized, unsteady, undernourished and some, like sweet Ramona, already looking at life through empty eyes A voice says ‘We don’t wish to offend you Madam, but would you be willing to consider a gypsy child ?’ It’s hard not to judge My gypsy baby is number twelve She is the smallest and the darkest but her eyes shine and tell me she is still holding on tight to her spirit, no sign yet, of surrender The woman sings her name ‘Re-beca, Re-beca Maria’ I hold this tiny life and ask myself what right I have to take her from her country, her culture and her creed, but then I look around at her country, her culture and her creed and know for certain that she will die here, even if she lives So I’m sold, and I’m told I must find her mother, find Venus Venus with her rich olive skin is beautiful but Venus isn’t the Goddess of love, Venus is young and has no shoes and April snow is falling lightly above the filthy oil fields of Prahova County We smile and I try to remember everything I’m told she has dreams for the baby she’s never seen to be an English Princess, but I’m kind and don’t tell that Princesses, English, Romanian or otherwise are thin on the ground in Manchester It’s hard not to judge I want to buy Venus some shoes But the interpreter scorns and warns ‘She’s just a gypsy and she’ll want more, show her you are strong’ But I don’t want to be strong, I want to give her the world for she has given the world to me Rebellion kicks in and Venus and I link arms and go shopping in downtown Bucharest In department stores devoid of light bulbs we rummage together cheerfully, new comrades, searching deep in the darkness We emerge triumphant with an odd pair of ill-fitting boots and as I cry, not really knowing why, I gaze at Venus, Goddess of Love, who now stands magnificently with the world at her feet