15
CINCISPRE ZECE
y breathing tripped and stumbled.
Light fixtures on the ceiling. Were they bugged? Was oursM bugged? Why hadn’t I thought of that? The light fixture made more sense than the telephone. You couldn’t put a pillow on the ceiling.
How often did the Securitate access apartments to install devices?
Voices filtered from the hallway.
“I think your parents are home,” I said.
I followed Dan out of his room. Mama stood in the foyer, speaking with Dan’s mother.
“Hey, buddy.” Mr. Van Dorn gave a light punch to Dan’s shoulder.
“And you must be Mioara’s son. What’s your name?”
“Cristian. Pleased to meet you.”
Mr. Van Dorn nodded slowly, evaluating me.
“Nick Van Dorn. Pleased to meet you too. Your English . . . it sounds pretty good, Cristian.”
The way he said it, there was hesitation—a question or curiosity behind it.
“His English is definitely better than your Romanian, Dad.” Dan laughed. His mother made a comment, but not in English. She spoke another language to Dan.
Mr. Van Dorn leaned in, sheepishly. “My Romanian’s pretty bad. My wife gets us by though. She’s got a gift for Romance languages.”
I nodded. Mr. Van Dorn had done his homework. Some people assumed Romanian was a Slavic language because of our proximity to Slavic countries. But Romanian is a Romance language, like French or Italian. Bunu could speak all three.
I remained quiet, casually trying to make note of things for Agent Paddle Hands.
Van Dorn set his hand on his wife’s shoulder. Her fingers instinctively moved to join her husband’s. Their affection, it was natural, effortless, and absent the constant tension that surrounded my parents’ interactions. When was the last time my parents held hands? It sometimes felt like they tried to avoid each other at night and by morning, carried the fatigue of it.
Mr. Van Dorn carried fatigue of a different sort. His blue suit was crisp, but he didn’t seem as well rested and smooth-faced as most Americans. He probably spent long hours at the U.S. Embassy and long nights with his wife. The way he casually kissed her fingers, it had the look of it.
He caught me watching and hiked an eyebrow. I quickly looked away.
The heat crawling up my neck, was it visible?
Mr. Van Dorn turned to face me, his expression sincere. “It’s nice of you to walk your mother home. It’s rough in Bucharest at night, huh?” he
asked.
“No, it’s not rough.”
He nodded. Extended eye contact. Evaluation. It felt so uncomfortable, but I willed myself not to glance up at the light fixture.
“No. You’re right, Cristian. Bucharest’s not rough. Just a little . . . dark,” said Mr. Van Dorn.
• • •
“You don’t have to come so often,” my mother whispered once we were out on the street. “It’s much too far. It could be dangerous. I’m authorized to interact with foreigners, but you’re not.” She threw a nervous glance behind us.
“The wife. She’s not American, is she?” I asked.
“No, she’s from Spain.”
“What do they think of Romania?”
“How would I know?” said my mother. “I’m just cleaning their
toilets.”
“The husband. He seems . . . tired.”
Her head snapped to me. “He’s a very good man.”
Interesting.
If she was just cleaning their toilets, how would she know that?