That definitely sounded like Bunu. “Did you read the book?”
“Nah, I sold it,” said Starfish. “You want the papers or not?”
“Yes, I want them. You hear anything new this morning?”
“Yeah. A new American ambassador arrived recently. Lots of activity at the U.S. Embassy. Bring the money down. I’ll be around for another fifteen minutes.”
A new American ambassador. Dan had told me.
And I had told Paddle Hands.
I nodded to Starfish and started for my building.
Our apartment was empty. I needed the dollar from Cici’s locked box. I also wanted the pocketknife she kept hidden for me. I retrieved the box from beneath her bed. Could I pick the lock? And then I remembered—the ring of keys in her sewing basket. She wouldn’t mind.
It was easy to determine which key fit the lock. It was smaller than the rest. I opened the box and found my dollar beneath the white tubes she called “tampons.” I also grabbed my small pocketknife. What else did she have? I quickly poked through.
A small bottle of perfume, a wrapped square called “Trojan,” rose-scented soap, a thick envelope, two packs of Kents, and—lightning bolt earrings. Wait, those belonged to the woman from Boston. Why did Cici have her earrings?
And then I saw them.
My fingers went cold.
Loop rings made from the package of BT cigarettes.
The loop rings that Agent Paddle Hands constantly fiddled with during our meetings.
A wave of nausea rolled through me.
No.
I opened the thick envelope. Inside was foreign currency. A lot of foreign currency.
American dollars. British pounds. German marks. And something else— My Bruce Springsteen article.
The one I’d kept hidden in my closet. The one that disappeared. The one that Paddle Hands mentioned.
My hands trembled.
No. How was this possible? The walls slowly began to fold in on me.
Cici.
My beloved sister.
My devoted friend.
She was working with the Securitate.
59
CINCIZECI ?I NOU?
I carefully returned everything to the box as I had found it, including my dollar. But I kept the knife and pinched some other bills from the thick envelope. I slid the locked box back under the sofa and returned the keys to her sewing basket.
I left the apartment.
My hands shook. I felt frozen straight through.
And then I heard their voices. Below me. Cici was talking to the woman from Boston. I stopped on the third-floor landing, listening.
“Mersi. You’ve been such a help, Cici. I don’t know how I would have done this without you,” said the woman.
She’s not helping you. She’s betraying you. She’s betraying everyone.
My head was spinning.
I exited the building, giving a wave to Starfish. He nodded for me to follow him.
We walked, saying nothing. He handed me his pack of cigarettes. Against the pack was a thick square of folded paper. I slid the money inside the cigarette pack and handed it back to him. I kept the square of paper in my closed palm and transferred it casually to my pocket.
“How’s your pretty sister?” he asked.
Starfish knew most everything and everyone.
I raised my eyebrows and gave him my best knowing look. “C’mon, Starfish, is she pretty, or pretty sneaky?”
“Both!” He laughed and disappeared between two buildings.
I walked down the rutted sidewalk and joined a line outside the Alimentara, killing time, pretending to wait for a stump of bread, so I could think. My mind was full of maybes.
Maybe Cici was blackmailed into being an informer, like me.
The thick envelope of foreign currency—maybe Cici was an agent?
Or maybe Cici was dating Paddle Hands?
Every option disgusted me. Cici told me I couldn’t trust Luca. She told me I couldn’t trust Starfish. Her cautious nature, always suspicious—was that an act? I thought of my conversation with Bunu on the balcony.
Agents. Informers. Rats. This country is full of them. We’re infested. And they keep multiplying. They’re in our streets, in our schools, crawling in the workplace, and now they’ve chewed through the walls . . . into our apartment.
I had thought Bunu was referring to me. Was he actually talking about Cici? Did Bunu know? Cici took the article from my closet. Had she discovered my hiding spot and my notebook? The questions pushed at me: Did Cici really work at a textile factory?
Did she care about our family?
Did she care about our country?
I felt sick. I felt scared. I felt lost.
I left the line and started walking. If I kept going, could I eventually make it to Timi?oara?