“Mama, where’s Bunu?”
“Come here, please.”
A cold twist of fear seized my abdomen. I slowly approached the table.
“I came home from work,” she whispered, “and found your grandfather.” The illuminated cigarette in her hand began to vibrate. “We’ve put him . . . in the bedroom.” She set the quivering cigarette on the lip of the ashtray and reached for my hand. I helped her out of the chair, then followed her to the closed door. She took a breath, turned the knob, and pushed the door open.
And then she turned her back.
Bunu lay on the bed. But it wasn’t Bunu. Life had fled and left a waxy corpse—a withered leaf that had lost its water. Bunu’s gray skin stretched gaunt and taut over his angular cheekbones. His open eyes stared hollow and his mouth pulled wide, as if living a silent scream, gasping for freedom.
My chest rose and fell, panting. “Bunu . . . no. He was feeling better.” I stared at the husk of my grandfather and then I realized.
“Mama—”
She turned to me, shook her head, and put a finger to her lips.
I took a step closer to the bed.
Bunu’s hands lay like broken birds. Their color, a purple so dark, nearly black. The bones above his palms were snapped, smashed.
Mama pulled back the blanket covering his legs. A wave of nausea rolled through me. Bunu’s bare feet had been clubbed beyond recognition.
“His chest. The same. All ribs broken,” she whispered in my ear. “They beat him to death.”
My body was instantly cold. A rush of shock and frozen fury. I stood shaking at the side of the bed and felt myself buckling to the floor. Who did this? Who would viciously beat an elderly man? And why? My god, was leukemia not enough?
Bunu. My grandfather, my teacher, my inspiration.
My hero.
How could I ever live without him?
My mother kneeled down. She laid her hand upon my shoulder.
“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.