For assigning house numbers in Kleingroßdorf, the responsible mayor's office of the larger neighboring town, the "Kleine Stadt" (Little Town), has an infallible, ingenious system. It goes something like this: somehow. This confirms the assumption, widespread among the residents of Kleingroßdorf for decades, that the administration they are subject to is absolutely idiot-proof: one can be absolutely certain that it has fallen prey to idiots in the "Kleine Stadt." As was recently demonstrated once again in an odyssey of goods, visitors, and official letters that needed to be delivered, received, and served on our parallel street. With little success, but utter absurdity.

The blackberry lane doesn't run directly behind the fence of our Transylvanian summer paradise; several properties lie in between, whose owners thankfully show little inclination to change the overgrown state of their land. But the blackberry lane beyond is clearly our parallel street.

Well, "street" is a rather flexible term, of course. Brombeergasse is partly paved, partly unpaved. Even where it does have a surface, it might not meet all EU standards. This hasn't deterred many aspiring homeowners from realizing their dream of owning a home in recent years. Amazing architectural concepts have been implemented, though some have simply failed, as unfinished construction projects are a common sight here. It's a picture of failure.

Be that as it may, Brombeergasse is a development area. It's developing to the right, it's developing to the left. Not so much vertically; but who knows what the future holds. The relentless advance of civilization into the hitherto undeveloped areas of the idyllic Kleingroßdorf first made its presence known with heavy truck traffic and cement mixers, then left behind carports, neatly fenced front gardens, their accompanying garden gnome habitats, basketball hoops on garage doors, cheerfully welcoming doormats, and warning signs about the dog that guards the garden. And barks. And barks.

You have a house, you have a home, you have an address. You know where you belong. Or so you think.

(One more thing beforehand: Brombeergasse is quite long. A lot can get lost along the way. Quot erat demonstrandum.)

Brombeergasse 34, as proclaimed not only by the solar-powered house number – a brand new, recently assigned number – at the Georgescus' home, but also by the mailbox standing on a post right at the curb, an American model brought back by the homeowner from a sunny California vacation. The homeowner was mowing the front lawn to Wembley-worthy proportions when an Amazon delivery van unexpectedly pulled up.

Georgescu didn't order anything; he distrusts Amazon and believes that anything you can't get directly at the farmers' market, Lidl, or the local delicatessen chain Transagape, or maybe Kaufland, isn't really necessary. He therefore approaches the Amazon representative cautiously.

"Hello!"

"To this."

"I have a delivery here for Brombeergasse 34."

"This is here. But I didn't order anything."

The delivery man had already opened the back of his Ford Transit, heaved a hand truck out of the vehicle, and loaded it with a groan. "A diesel generator, two pond pumps, and 20 Baukulit panels—I can't fit them all on the hand truck. Could you perhaps help me with that for a bit?"

"What is Baukulit?"

"No idea. You ordered the stuff, didn't you!"

"I don't have a pond, and I don't need a diesel generator."

"Oh, not you? I deliver a lot of generators around here; the power keeps going out in your area. And a pond is a fine thing to have. You'll probably need pond liner for it too; you should have ordered that at the same time. And something for the mosquitoes. I'll just come by again, no problem. Always at your service, see you later!"

The messenger continues to heave gifts from Jeff Bezos' cornucopia onto the hand truck without a care in the world.

"I didn't order anything. I never order anything. Especially not from Amazon. And certainly not Baukulit."

The messenger pauses, frowns, and takes his smartphone out of his back pocket.

"Brombeergasse 34, right?"

"Yes, exactly."

"And you are Mircea Dumitru?"

"No. I am Radu Georgescu."

"Are you sure?"

"My whole life."

The messenger scratched the back of his head. Georgescu shrugged. "Perhaps another blackberry lane? In Sus de Jos or something? In the big town? In the small town?"

The delivery man swipes at the display. "So, according to the navigation system, everything is correct; the delivery is expected in Kleingroßdorf, at Brombeergasse 34."

"But not from me." Georgescu is fed up. "Then it's addressed to the wrong person. I don't have time for this sort of thing. Have a good day, o zi buna. Pack that stuff up again. I don't want it."

Another delivery is due 300 meters further on: 100 chicks for breeding purposes. It's a lively cargo, chirping away in a delivery van belonging to a supplier of all kinds of agricultural supplies.

The car stops at a house devoid of greenery. There's no sign of a chicken coop. A barren gravel "garden" mars the property. Two ATVs, all-terrain vehicles, are parked under a carport: bulldozing machines for nature and landscape. Next to the carport, a yellow flag flutters from a flagpole, bearing the outline of western Romania, complemented by an arc of eight small stars in the east. The mailbox is overflowing with mail.

All the blinds on the windows of the house, a forbidding, raw concrete block resembling a post-apocalyptic bunker, are tightly closed. Except for one. Something protrudes from one of its slits, looking suspiciously like the barrel of a shotgun, towards the delivery van.

The driver of the car prefers to stay in the vehicle for the time being and double-checks the delivery address. No doubt about it: Stanciu Chicken Farm, 34 Blackberry Lane. He lowers his window slightly and calls out uncertainly, "Pui de găină? Pui? Chicken, chickens?" No answer. The rifle barrel continues to protrude through the slit in the blind.

The delivery man gets out on the passenger side, carefully opens one of the two rear double doors of the car, using his delivery van as cover, and releases the chicks onto the street. Delivery is delivery. He doesn't need a confirmation; the whole thing is done under the table and without an invoice.

Then the driver accelerates. Behind him, he hears gunshots and sees downy feathers rising. Meanwhile, at the Stanciu chicken farm, at Brombeergasse 34, but 500 meters away, the owner, George Stanciu, stands at the gate of his business, looks at his watch, listens to the gunshots in astonishment, and shakes his head. Where are the ordered chicks?

The police arrive. With two patrol cars. "They're fast," Stanciu thinks to himself, before he realizes that the police operation isn't for the unknown shooter further down Brombeergasse, but for him.

As a tow truck pulls up, four police officers get out of their cars, hands on their pistol holsters, and stride resolutely toward the chicken farmer. Behind them, a formidable official emerges from the back of one of the two patrol cars: Mihai Dumitrecu, the local bailiff. The debt collector had opted for a police escort because the official action he now intends to carry out is, according to the authorities, fraught with danger: The debtor he intends to apprehend is a notorious extremist, considered prone to violence and possibly armed.

Stanciu, who is anything but that, doesn't know what's happening to him. Dumitrecu reads to him with a grim expression and a thunderous voice, while the police keep a close eye on the chicken farm owner:

"You owe the municipality unpaid property and house taxes, water, sewage, and garbage collection fees, as well as private creditors for various insurance premiums and consumer loan installments, totaling 47,312 Lei and 34 Bani. You have ignored all legally served payment reminders. Including late payment interest, a total payment of 54,412 Lei and 12 Bani is due. Should you not pay this amount immediately in cash, I am authorized by the seizure order to confiscate items from your property up to their corresponding market resale value. Two used all-terrain vehicles (ATVs) of approximately the same value as the outstanding debt are registered in your name and at your address. I hereby request that you surrender these vehicles for safekeeping if you cannot settle the outstanding amount immediately. Credit cards are not accepted."

The bailiff lowered his papers and breathed a sigh of satisfaction. The police officers nodded encouragingly at him. His performance had gone as planned. Practice makes perfect. Dumitrecu is an authority figure. Everyone has bowed to him.

Stanciu isn't. The chicken farmer isn't intimidated at all, but rather highly amused. "What ATV? You mean my tractor? There's only one of those around here. And what debts? I don't have any. To anyone."

Dumitrecu doesn't even blink. He's seen this before. There's always a denial. But his seizure order is clear. "This is 34 Blackberry Lane?" he asks condescendingly, knowing the answer. The authorities never make mistakes. Never.

Stanciu nods and crosses his arms. "Well then," says the bailiff, taking a step toward the defendant. He points his official index finger at the denier's nose. "And you are Gabriel Teodorescu." Dumitrecu doesn't ask, he states.

“Not at all. Numele meu este George Stanciu, that is my name. And as I have already said: I owe nobody anything, I never have and I never will.”

The official bailiff retracts his extended index finger. The police officers exchange glances.

"Can you show me your identification?"

“Cu plăcere, with pleasure. If you allow me to retrieve my passport from my office.”

"An officer will accompany you."

A peremptory nod from the bailiff prompts a patrol officer to shuffle into the house. His three remaining colleagues each light a cigarette and surreptitiously eye Dumitrecu out of the corners of their eyes. He's not exactly young anymore. The official checks the seizure order. The address is correct: Brombeergasse 34.

But the embarrassed look on the policeman's face as he returns with Stanciu from his office tells Dumitrecu that something must be wrong with his decision. The police have other problems now anyway. A new, top-priority order comes in over the radio. Shots have been fired in Blackberry Lane! The officers jump into their cars and immediately speed off with flashing blue lights. A grinning chicken farmer and a bewildered bailiff are left behind. "Should I call you a taxi?" Stanciu asks. "Or are you going back in the tow truck?"

A much younger man than Dumitrecu is quite familiar with picking up women, and he too has found himself in Blackberry Lane today. Laurențiu Miculescu is an attractive, pleasingly athletic young man, fit but not excessively muscular. Women generally fall at his feet. This is partly because his otherwise symmetrical physique only exhibits a striking disproportion in one prominent area, which Laurențiu likes to emphasize with tight trousers and sometimes even exposes for money. The young man is a stripper.

His assignment today: Hen Party at Brombeergasse 34. A bachelorette party is taking place there before a wedding – strictly for women. The bride's friends have chipped in to give her an unforgettable send-off from single life, with good food and plenty of alcohol. And one last indulgence: the surprise guest is the exhibitionist Laurențiu.

He had expected white and pink balloons at the garden gate, loud music, whether pop or disco—he knew all that stuff well enough; lots of giggling and a boisterous group of women, too. But nothing of the sort. The house in front of which he parked his car—he checked the address one more time—was a rather ramshackle place, its roof long overdue for replacement. Next to the garden gate stood a bench on which sat a wrinkled old woman wearing a headscarf, her gnarled hands resting on her walking stick. The old woman looked curiously at the newcomer.

Laurențiu gets out of his sleek two-seater, stretches to his full length, looks up the street to his left and down the street to his right. "34 Blackberry Lane?" he asks the old woman. She nods.

"Okay," he says. "When and where should I start? I'm scheduled for 3 p.m., for one hour."

"Only an hour?" The old woman shook her head thoughtfully. "You'll have to be quick, young man. It's a large meadow. It's behind the house. I wasn't expecting you at all. And where's your scythe?"

Sense? Laurențiu has heard many tool-like terms for his genitals, albeit from considerably younger women. "Hammer" is the one he likes best; he's not so keen on "hose."

“I have everything with me, Doamna, you’ll see in a moment,” he says, patting his thighs meaningfully. “But where are the others?”

"The others?"

"Well, the other ladies."

"Should there be others involved?"

"Mostly, yes. I like to undress for everyone."

The old woman giggles. "Well, wait a moment then, young man."

She goes inside. There she talks on the phone with her equally elderly neighbors, a few lively widows among them. "The gardener is here. He says he's going to take his clothes off to mow the lawn. And there are supposed to be other ladies with him. Should I call the police – or should you come over?"

The verdict is clear. Within five minutes, three white-haired neighbors are sitting on the bench with the lady of the house. Laurențiu is scrutinized by eight eyes. He is enveloped in a strong scent of cheap perfume.

"Uh, yes... buna ziua. Should I go right here? I think we should go behind the house, shouldn't we?"

“I should say so,” said the hostess. “Luckily, there’s still a scythe by the shed. I also have gloves for you. But I suppose you don’t want to wear anything else? Just be careful, the sun is blazing today. I don’t want you to get sunburned.”

Laurențiu retreats. Actually, it's more of a flight. His sports car speeds off at full throttle, and the women sigh. "Well, he wouldn't have made it across the whole meadow in an hour," says one. "He would have picked up loads of ticks, all naked like that," another points out. "But it would have been nice," the lady of the house laments, "if the lawn had finally been mowed. I'll have to complain to the groundskeepers now. They should send someone who does it clothed and without an audience."

Laurențius' car, ill-suited to the gravel road of Brombeergasse, frequently bottoms out during his hasty retreat. He's driving far too fast, yet the police still manage to overtake him. Two patrol cars pass him and leave him unmolested, even though he's speeding well above the limit.

Had Laurențiu driven down Blackberry Lane in the other direction, he might have come across a rather drunk group of ladies and a tearful bride-to-be at house number 34, staring incomprehensibly at a diesel generator, two pond pumps and 20 Baukulit panels that had been unloaded in front of them.

The lawnmower, who was expected at number 34 Blackberry Lane instead of the stripper, never actually made it there. It went to Raspberry Lane. There's no number 34 there, not a single one. The lawnmower only knows about grasses, not berries.

Bailiff Dumitrecu isn't about to let the humiliation he suffered go unanswered. As portly as the respectable official is, he huffs and puffs his way back to his office in the Big City: The tow truck didn't fit in the tax office's official vehicle parking space and had to drop off the evicted debtor three blocks away. Enraged, Dumitrecu immediately demands to see the documents concerning the house number assignments on Blackberry Lane. And he discovers: In the mayor's office of the Small Town, which is responsible for Little Big Village, house number 34 for Blackberry Lane was assigned a total of five times simultaneously. That explains a lot. Heads will have to roll in the mayor's office.

However, the question remains: What on earth is Baukulit? The answer is known to a man who spent a long time in vain looking for an Amazon delivery van in front of his house at Brombeergasse 34.