I Must Betray You(44)

? OSCAR is no longer of use. Take necessary measures.

? VAIDA is alone. Accelerate plan.





54


    CINCIZECI ?I PATRU




I thought I was a great pretender. But at that moment, I wasn’t so sure. Paddle Hands was smug, too smug. I’d assumed an agent dealing with teenagers had to be mediocre. Had I assumed wrong?

Starfish intercepted me in front of the apartment block. “I might have something for you.”

“Yeah? What?”

“A British guest at the Intercontinental threw some papers in the trash. They’re in English. A contact is holding them for me.”

“How much?

“Got any Western currency?” he asked.

I thought of the dollar I gave to Cici. “I might. You have the papers?”

“No, but I can get them.”

“Well, get them and we’ll talk.”

I left Starfish and turned toward my building.

Orange flickers.

The candles had returned along with the large wooden cross outside of our apartment block. Death was paying another house call. Tiny snowflakes swirled in the glow like specks of winter dust. Mirel lingered in his usual spot.

“Mrs. Drucan,” he said. “A couple hours ago.”

I nodded.

I made my way up the stairs to the third floor. Cici was moving chairs into the hallway.

“Mrs. Drucan,” she said.

“Mirel told me.”

“Can you ask her daughter if she needs any help?”

The woman from Boston rushed around, organizing things in her mother’s apartment.

“Salut, Cristian.”

“I’m sorry about your mother. Do you need any help?”

“Mersi, but I think I’m all set. She was very peaceful. We had a final exchange. I know she heard me. She took a breath and was gone.”

I thought of Bunu. A smile. A relieved exhale. That was the way he should have died. Deserved to die. I nodded, just standing there. Hands stuffed in my pockets.

“When are you leaving for Boston?” I asked.

“In a few days. My cousins will remain in the apartment. You’ve been so helpful and—unlike others—you’ve refused to accept or ask for anything. Could I treat you to a cup of coffee? I brought some Nescafé from the States.”

Coffee.

“Don’t drink the coffee,” I blurted.

She looked at me, confused. “Why not?”

“It’s . . . unhealthy.”

“Well, it is instant coffee, but I thought most people here liked Nescafé.”

“Yeah, sorry, they probably do. Have a safe trip home.” I turned to leave and felt her hand upon my arm.

“Oh, and Cristian,” she whispered.

I looked over to her.

“Three cartons.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s the answer. It takes three cartons to turn up the gas.”

She smiled, relieved, peaceful.

Mrs. Drucan’s daughter. The woman from Boston. Red boots and lighting bolt earrings. I realized only later.

I never knew her name.

Cici continued to arrange chairs in the hallway. “Mama is home. Dad is out standing in line.” I nodded and headed up the stairs.

Like our parents, our apartment was silent. The door to the bedroom was closed. I headed to my closet to confirm my suspicion. I lifted the stack of books in the corner.

Just as I thought.

The Springsteen article was gone.

The Secu was still coming and going from our apartment.

But the next time they came? They’d be in for a surprise.

Because I would be there.





55


    CINCIZECI ?I CINCI




Sad emptiness has a presence that seeps into everything. Each time I inhaled, it entered me—a spirit-crushing loneliness and the strange, shameful feeling that accompanied it.

I missed Bunu.

It was Sunday evening and for a rare moment, our family was together. We ate our quiet dinner of soup with a wedge of bread that Mama had soldiered hours in the cold for. I then settled in on Bunu’s couch to wait until 10:00 p.m. for the headline recap on Voice of America. Cici joined me. The signal wasn’t clear, so I adjusted the illegal wire that ran from the radio to the kitchen window. As I finessed the dial, a few words emerged from the static.

    ??Protest in Maria Square??



“Where’s Maria Square?” asked Cici.

Our mother appeared. “In Timi?oara, the western part of Romania. Why?”

“Shh . . . I’m trying to tune in,” I told them.

I landed on the frequency. The radio knob pulsed beneath my fingers as the announcer’s voice warbled into our kitchen.

    ??In Timi?oara, what began as a vigil over the forced eviction of church pastor László T?kés has escalated into an antigovernment protest. Romanian security forces opened fire, and there are reports that civilians have been killed. This story is still developing and we’ll come back with details.??



Cici jumped off the couch.

Mama turned and ran to the bedroom. She returned with our father in tow.