14
PAISPRE ZECE
fter two visits and two weeks, I still hadn’t seen Dan.
I waited for Mama in the hallway, outside the Van Dorns’A apartment. I hadn’t heard from Agent Paddle Hands, but if I wanted medicine for Bunu, I needed something to give him when I did. And finally, that evening Dan poked his head outside the door.
“Hey, Cristian. I thought you might be here. Come in. Your mom’s waiting for my parents.”
The Van Dorns’ apartment occupied nearly the entire floor of the building. It was a lemon bath of bright light warmed by the power grid of the U.S. Embassy down the street.
Antique furniture. Tall bookshelves spilling with forbidden books: Müller, Blandiana, Pacepa. Expensive foreign paintings. Color photos in frames laddering the shelves. In America, photos were developed in color?
Did all Americans have expensive, forbidden things—and hired help to dust them?
“You want something to drink?” asked Dan.
Of course I did. I wanted something to eat too. “No thanks.”
“I have to show you these new stamps,” he said.
Stamps. That’s what started the trouble in the first place. I followed him down the hall.
Dan didn’t live in a closet. He had his own big bedroom, the size of our living room. On the wall was a poster of a band called Bon Jovi and a sports jersey with an autograph. He noticed my glance.
“Dallas Cowboys. Texas. American football.”
“Texas? I thought you’re from New Jersey,” I said.
“I am. But my godfather is from Dallas. I’m named after him.” Dan gestured to a framed photo on the shelf. “His oil company is a corporate sponsor for the Cowboys.”
I had no idea what that meant but pretended like I did. In the picture, Dan and Mr. Van Dorn were standing in an enormous sports stadium next to a glamorous dark-haired couple. They all looked relaxed and carefree, like the people we saw in movies.
While Dan retrieved the stamp, I scanned the room, making mental notes:
Second floor, large apartment. Desk beneath bedroom window.
Desk lamp. Leather jacket on chair.
Bon Jovi poster. Dallas sports jersey. Rich godfather oil sponsor.
Music player labeled SONY WALKMAN. Stacks of cassette tapes.
Bookshelf with books and binders.
White sweatshirt with the word BENETTON. Several pairs of sports shoes, all different brands.
In Bucharest, we had one shoe factory, Pionierul, so most people had similar, boring shoes. My eyes lingered on a pair of red, white, and black sports shoes. Puffy leather. I moved closer to make out the words: Air Jordan.
“Here it is,” said Dan, interrupting my inventory.
He brought over a sheet-block of four U.S. stamps.
“The U.S. Postal Service released these this year. Dinosaurs. But look closely. This one’s labeled ‘brontosaurus’ but it’s an apatosaurus. They made a mistake, so it’s collectible. It could be worth a lot.”
“The post office in America makes mistakes?”
Dan nodded. He then tapped his chest and pointed to the ceiling.
“Sometimes,” he said, increasing his volume. “But U.S. government agencies do their best.” He grinned and then directed his voice to the light fixture on the ceiling. “But boy, the U.S. could sure learn a lot from Romania!”
He had a leather jacket, a Walkman, Air Jordans, and something else.
Intel.
Dan Van Dorn knew he was under surveillance.