Bunu’s question lingered. Who are you?
I thought I knew. I had always been myself with Luca. Until now.
Now I hated him for informing on me, not only because it resulted in my being forced to spy for the Secu, but also because it ended the first true friendship I had.
We arrived at the field.
“Wait, I think we went the wrong way,” I said.
“No, this is it,” said Luca.
This couldn’t be it. Could it?
Moments of profound realization are memorable, especially when they involve your own stupidity. Romania was full of beauty and natural resources. The majestic Carpathian Mountains, the Black Sea, the lush Transylvanian countryside. I had seen them myself as a child. And for the past several years, our national TV bulletins showed chest-high crops, thick and wondrous. If you waded into the fields, you might never return.
The field in front of us was not a field. It was a scrubby lot of weedy plants. An emaciated cow moaned in the dirt. A carpet of flies feasted on the animal’s corrugated rib cage.
No.
I wanted the fields they showed during our pathetic two hours of television. I wanted the lush crops and enormous produce. Of course I didn’t believe everything they told us, but I had believed the fields were overflowing. I not only believed it, I needed it to be true.
We were told Romanians made sacrifices, but we had so much to be proud of. The country needed more children because we needed more workers for our bountiful crops. Life was difficult, but I found comfort that nature hadn’t turned its back on us.
I looked at the scrawny field in front of me. Even nature had betrayed us. But maybe that’s what happens when you roll cement over grass, remove the trees, displace the birds, and starve the dogs. You’re punished.
But the person responsible—he wasn’t suffering.
We were.
Our hero, Draculescu, sat in his cardboard castle wearing a hollow crown, surrounding himself with clapping men who bowed to him as the Golden Man of the Carpathians while his people suffered, starved, and lived in terror.
I blinked, trying to stop myself. The thoughts alone warranted a death sentence.
I turned my back to Luca and the field. Dormant anger stirred, a scream inside me that I didn’t know existed. Tightness gripped the bottom of my ribs. The tightness rose, hot, and spread into full-blown fury.
Nature was betraying me.
My friend was betraying me.
Life was betraying me.
“Cristian, you’re mad at me. I can explain—”
I whirled around and threw my fist.
I punched my very best friend.
18
OPTSPREZECE
You think you know someone. And when you realize you’re wrong, the humiliation steals something from you. Your mind becomes a thick forest of dark thoughts and you wonder—what else am I not seeing? But I couldn’t figure it out. Who was I angrier with? Luca or myself?
I ignored his bruised face and the way people stepped back when I passed through the halls at school. I told myself it didn’t matter. They didn’t understand. Besides, I was focused on Liliana. I wanted to walk home with her and give her the chocolate.
“Pupil Florescu.”
Damn it.
The school director flagged me in the hall. He stood, making idle chatter as the students filed out of the building. I saw Liliana approaching so I looked to my feet and spoke of exams. “Thank you, but tutors are very expensive, Comrade Director. My parents don’t have the money.” As soon as Liliana passed, I stood silent, waiting.
He handed me a piece of paper with an address. “Around the corner,” said the director.
I looked at the paper. A “host location.” I had read about them in the spy novels. Sometimes the Securitate used a nearby apartment for meetings. The “host” was usually an adult informer who allowed access to their apartment while at work. Good. If I had to meet with the agent, I preferred being away from school grounds.
I lingered until all the other students had left, worried that someone might see me. I rechecked the address on the paper and set out onto the darkened street. The wet, blowy cold slid beneath my jacket. I shivered. A drone of Dacias buzzed by, weary brake pads shrieking. An old red bus spit fumes as it rumbled around the corner. Head down, I walked to the stone monster of an apartment block.
Up the stairs. Second floor.
The door was open a crack.
The agent sat at a table smoking. His wisps of remaining hair were slicked with a greasy pomade. He yawned. The cigarette burned, a white toothpick in his huge hands, and the smoke climbed like a curious spirit toward the ceiling. The rank of major, yes, but an agent assigned to teenagers? He had to be second rate. I could outmaneuver him, couldn’t I?