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.
Seeing the video from Dan’s friends—so many bananas—it made me mad, sad.
Had a dream about Liliana last night.
What does she dream about?
* * *
? ? ?
It was Friday. I knew what was coming. If the agent was waiting for me, he’d want a report. Should I tell him that I slipped and mentioned the library to Dan? I was debating. Could it work in my favor? Make me appear honest?
I would have to wait and leave again without anyone noticing. Especially Liliana. We generally didn’t interact in school. She was quiet, private, like me. So we communicated secretly in the halls: a sly smile, an accidental brush of hands. But after the exchange in her apartment, I had wanted to walk her home. I wanted to see her. Almost as much as I wanted to kiss her.
What if I skipped the meeting with the agent? I could make some odd excuse.
Speaking of odd, how did the agent circulate so close to school? Was he seen? Did he park his black Dacia out front? The secretary saw me meeting with the agent. She knew I was an informer. Did she tell anyone?
Wait.
Of course.
The crumbly old secretary. She was an informer too.
Comrade Instructor stood at the head of the room, droning on about calculus. I had found new English terms to describe the weak light in our classroom: feeble, piss yellow. Above the foggy chalkboard sat Ceau?escu, smirking down at us from his golden frame. When we were younger, the portrait was used as a disciplinary tool.