I Must Betray You(21)

“Yes, cool,” I said, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat.

“I’ve gotta go,” said Dan.

“You going to the American Library?”

“No, meeting my parents at the embassy.” He paused, looking at me. “How did you know I go to the library?”

Damn. I was so thrown by the food. I slipped.

“Oh, all Romanians have heard of the American Library,” I lied. “Seems like a place where I could practice my English.”

“Sure.” Dan nodded. “I was planning on going Saturday to see if they have any new magazines. You can come with me if you want. Come by after school and we’ll go together.”

“Okay.”

I followed Dan out of the room. My head felt detached, spinning with thoughts. Liliana’s question floated back to me.

Cristian, do you ever wonder if any of it’s real? The things we see in American movies?

The video I saw that afternoon was not a fabricated script.

The boys on-screen were not actors.

They were real people, in a real house in the West, with real food.

It was all true.

And everything we’d been fed?

It was all lies.





22


    DOU?ZECI ?I DOI




We walked through the frozen dark toward the bus stop. Sleet ticked against my jacket and the cold crept through my shoes. My mother’s eyes darted. She clutched her purse, digging her elbow into it. I felt bad for the purse.

And I wondered how much she knew.

“Dan showed me a video today,” I said quietly. “His friends in America have their own video camera. They filmed a greeting at their house and sent a tape to him.”

My mother said nothing.

“Did you see their color TV and video player?” I asked.

“I don’t look at their things; I just clean them. It’s none of my business.”

My mother had worked for the Van Dorns since June. After several months, she had seen much more than I had. What did she think of the disparity? Mama had seen movies from the West. How long had she known that the lives depicted on-screen weren’t fantasy? Did she ever question why other people ate bananas while we lived in a charcoal wasteland?

“In the video, his friends were in a kitchen. Mama, the food—”

“It’s none of your business. I don’t want you picking me up anymore. You shouldn’t be interacting with a foreigner. You’ll be questioned by the Securitate.”

Should I tell her? It’s already happened. I’m a turn?tor. I’m informing for them, Mama. They knew I was coming to the apartment today. Tomorrow, Agent Paddle Hands will probably be waiting for me after school. They think I’m a good comrade. But I’m going to beat their game. I’m going to get medicine that will save Bunu.

What would she say if I told her that? How could my mother dismiss everything that was right under her nose? How could my parents accept life under the regime’s heel, crushed and pushed further into the dirt each day, eating nothing but lies and fear?

“Don’t you want better for your children?” I asked.

She stopped abruptly and faced me. Her chimney of patience began to smoke.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I should want for my children. This is not a game, Cristian. It’s dangerous. There’s no use dreaming of things we can never have.”

“Who says we can never have them?”

“Me! I’m telling you! We can never have them!”

Finally. She was angry. “Good, at least you’re expressing some emotion.”

“You know what I’m expressing, Cristi? Exhaustion. Your father and I, we’re so tired. We work constantly and when we’re not working, we’re standing in lines. We’re never home. We’re never together. And there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“You’re wrong. They steal our power by making us believe we don’t have any. They’re controlling us through our own fear.”

Her palm cracked against my cheek. Hard. She spoke through gritted teeth.

“Don’t you ever say things like that. Do you want to end up like your grandfather? Can you even imagine what that’s done to our family?”

What? She was mad at Bunu for having leukemia? That made no sense.

Before I could reply she stormed down the slick, black pavement.

Alone.





23


    DOU?ZECI ?I TREI




Thinking words. Speaking words. Writing words.

Writing things down helped the most. Seeing my thoughts on a page, it positioned them at a helpful distance, out of my head and mouth. Processing. That’s the English word I found for it. Processing helped me evaluate and sort things out. So I sat in my closet and made notes.


Mama’s face is permanently pinched. She’s mad at Bunu for getting sick.

Dad’s a ghost and poor Cici gets skinnier by the day.

If I poke her stomach I bet I’d feel her spine.

Bunu’s the happiest and he has leukemia.

Isn’t the Florescu family fun?!



The teachers were right. I was sarcastic.

But our family felt gloomier than most. Or maybe I was the gloomy one.