36
TREIZECI ?I ?ASE
I walked through the dark, so angry that even the dogs kept their distance. The cold crept in, a few degrees above nothing. The familiar smell lingered in the air, snow waiting to fall.
The agent knew about the magazine article. Had Luca followed me to the American Library? I assumed he worked for Paddle Hands too? If so, Paddle Hands had probably intimidated him, threatened him. If I asked Luca, would he tell me? Could we join together somehow?
No, that was a terrible idea. I was safer alone.
I arrived home and found the woman from Boston smoking at the bottom of our stairwell. An American visitor was an extreme oddity. How many residents had reported her and those pointy red boots?
“Bun? seara.” She nodded to me. Her face was drawn, fatigued.
“Bun? seara. How is your mother?”
“It won’t be long,” she said as she exhaled the last of her cigarette. “But she’s comfortable. Your sister has been such a help. Will you ask her to stop by if she has time? I need to move a piece of furniture.”
“I’ll help you.”
“Oh, mersi. That would be wonderful.” I followed her up the stairs.
A bucket and mop sat outside the door. The apartment no longer smelled sour, it smelled . . . I wasn’t sure what the smell was. I helped her move the couch to position it outside the bedroom.
Through the doorway, I caught sight of a figure in the bed. Small and frail. If not for the white puff of hair, I would have mistaken her for a child.
“With the sofa here, I can be closer to her at night.”
I nodded. “If I can ask, how did you end up in Boston?”
“I left Bucharest in the seventies. Harvard offered me a place. Things were easier then.”
“Is this your first time back?” I whispered.
“Yes. The entry was complicated, but I’m married to an American and have a U.S. passport now.”
Married to an American? Oh, yes. The residents had definitely reported this woman. The throats of the Reporters were likely chattered dry. Was she aware that when she left Romania her family had probably been punished?
A whimper sounded from the bedroom.
“She wants to be moved again. Could you help me?”
I followed her into the bedroom. The stark loneliness of the small, pale room was warmed by a photo of Pope John Paul II. So Mrs. Drucan was Catholic, not Romanian Orthodox. It didn’t matter. Most people prayed in secret anyway. The regime harassed religious leaders and destroyed many churches. When Ceau?escu razed the center of Bucharest, a brave engineer saved several historic churches. He put them on rolling tracks and slid them to different parts of the city. Bunu called him “the engineer of heaven.”
“She likes the pillows arranged in a certain way. If you can lift her torso for a moment, I’ll reposition them.” She turned to address her mother. “I have some help here, Mama.”
Help? I had no idea what I was doing. Mrs. Drucan looked so breakable. Tufts of her white hair were missing. The tender pink of her scalp resembled a bald baby bird. “My sister might be better—”
“Just hold her neck and head. Bring her slightly forward.” I did as instructed, terrified that Mrs. Drucan might die in my arms. When I released her back against the pillows, her gaze floated to me. The look was hollow, yet still connected.
“This is Cristian Florescu, Mama. Cicilia’s younger brother.”
I smiled at the woman.
Her eyes slowly closed, then opened again.
“Oh, an acknowledgment. That’s more than she’s given me all day. Rest, Mama, I’ll be here.”
I followed her daughter out of the room. She rummaged through a cabinet, turned, and extended a package of Kents. I looked at her.
“Your hesitation, it tells me that you’re a nice boy.”
I decided to ask.
“Do people in the United States know what life is like in Romania?” I whispered.
“No. Americans don’t know much at all about Romania. Ceau?escu prefers it that way. And right now, the U.S. is focused on Germany and perestroika with the Soviet Union.”
I nodded, thinking of the reports from Radio Free Europe. Bunu said Ceau?escu would never allow perestroika to touch Romania.
She cleared her throat and quickly pushed the package of Kents into my hand. “Look, maybe it feels odd to accept cigarettes for helping a dying woman. But let’s face it, everyone here can use them. I can’t even imagine how many Kents I’m going to need to get a death certificate and a successful cremation.”
I looked over to the frail woman tucked in the bed and Bunu’s words floated back to me.