I Must Betray You(37)

“This,” she whispered, “is what happens to philosophers.”





46


    PATRUZECI ?I ?ASE




Sorrow. Anger. An expanse of emptiness that takes form as a separate entity living inside of you. It digs, takes root, and dwells there. And somehow, you know that even if it worms its way out, there will be no relief. If it leaves, there will be nothing left but charred remains, like the inside of a house torched by fire.

What did I do wrong?

Was I somehow responsible? Could I have protected him?

I searched for answers.

For three days, Bunu lay in a stark wooden coffin atop the dining table in our living room. The traditional lighted candle was placed by his head, to help him find his way. Black cloths hung over the mirrors and shiny surfaces in our apartment to ensure that Bunu’s spirit wouldn’t become lost or caught in a reflection. Doors remained unlocked to allow him to exit as he pleased.

I had a small mirror in my closet. I didn’t cover it, selfishly hoping to capture Bunu and keep him.

While the regime wedged and pushed us apart, death brought Romanians together. Neighbors set up chairs that lined the hallway of our block’s fourth floor. They cobbled together what food and drink they could spare to share. The Reporters hovered, wrapped in traditional dark scarves and veils, hiding secrets and fallen faces.

Although I had no interest in socializing, I wanted to stay close to Bunu. I hoped proximity might bring clarity.

How many agents had come to the apartment? How many were involved in his death? Was Paddle Hands one of them? Did Bunu know they were coming?

I sat with him through the nights, mentally continuing my side of our conversations.

I became an informer to get medicine for you. What happens now, Bunu?

I’m going to give my notebook to the U.S. diplomat. How shall I describe what they did to you?

Dan didn’t put the dollar in our stamp album. So who did?

And of course, I shared jokes.

Bunu, why will Romania survive the end of the world? Because it’s fifty years behind everyone else!

He heard me. I felt certain of it. Was Bunu watching over the rest of our family too?

Grief had paled Cici beyond recognition. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t look at Bunu. While neighbors filtered through the apartment, Cici stood detached, lingering by her sewing machine. Bunu’s chess partner, the elderly gentleman from the morning line, appeared on the second afternoon.

“The message you gave me for Bunu,” I asked him. “What did it mean?”

He tented his fingers, reflecting. “You know what? I’d like some fresh air. Let’s step outside,” he said.

I followed him down the stairs. We passed the large cross at the door and headed to the sidewalk. He pulled a stub of a cigarette from his pocket and lit it as we walked.

“Your grandfather was a wonderful man. Intelligent, energetic, with such a sense of justice. But his thoughts and ideas—they labeled him a dissident. You know that, of course.”

Dissident. A protester. An objector. Someone who disputes established policy.

“Bunu kept his thoughts within the family. He said there was no such thing as a confidant.”

“No. His thoughts were not as private as you were led to believe,” he said, exhaling a mouthful of smoke. “And now I must warn you. Your family’s hardship will extend beyond your grandfather’s death. The monitoring and meetings may continue.”

“Meetings?”

“Your grandfather had been called to Securitate headquarters several times.”

I stopped and looked at the man. No. How was I unaware of this?

“Yes. And during those interviews with the agents . . .” He looked squarely at me. “He drank a lot of coffee. Don’t make the same mistake. Do you understand?”

I didn’t understand.

Bunu had told me everything. Shared his opinions and refused to whisper. Why didn’t he tell me that he’d been summoned to Secu headquarters? And if the Securitate had pegged Bunu as a dissident, why would they recruit me as an informer?

“The coffee,” whispered the gentleman, so low I could barely hear. “I suspect it contained radioactive poison.”

I turned to him on the sidewalk, my mind racing.

They poisoned Bunu. The poison caused symptoms that mirrored leukemia. It was a quiet way to get rid of someone. Mama wasn’t angry at Bunu for being ill, but for being a dissident.

“You’re telling me they poisoned him. Eventually it would have killed him. So why did they have to beat him?” I asked the man standing in front of me.

“To stall progress, set an example, make a statement. Don’t you see? If they’ll do that to an elderly man, what will they do to hopeful young students who want to ride the tide of revolution?”

What would they do to a young student? The possibility didn’t scare me.

I was more inspired than ever.

And now? I had nothing to lose.





47


    PATRUZECI ?I ?APTE




Alex Pavel arrived at the apartment carrying two chrysanthemums. The funeral ritual of an even number of flowers puzzled me. In flower shops, they only sold bouquets with odd numbers, saying even numbers were reserved for funerals. But wouldn’t an odd number be more appropriate for a funeral? To signify that one is “missing?”