19
NOUĂ SPRE ZECE
ahrenheit și Celsius, două căi de a măsura același lucru.
Fahrenheit and Celsius, two ways of measuring the same thing.F I wrote that translation in English class. Spring and summer were pleasant in Bucharest. But winter drew near and the cold would get colder. There was no set schedule for electricity. No announcements to help us prepare.
“This never knowing, it weakens us,” Bunu would say. “It’s a form of control. They know exactly what they’re doing.”
When the power snapped off in the winter, the dark was instantly deep.
The windows became a glaze of ice inside and out. Even when the electricity was on, the temperature in our apartment rarely rose above 12 degrees Celsius, which was 54 degrees Fahrenheit.
“People in other cities and in the countryside have it easier,” said Cici.
“They have farms, more food, less restrictions. It’s the worst in Bucharest.”
So why were we living in Bucharest?
I tried to describe it in my notebook:
DO YOU SEE ME?
SQUINTING BENEATH THE HALF-LIGHT,
SEARCHING FOR A KEY TO
THE LOCKED DOOR OF THE WORLD
LOST WITHIN MY OWN SHADOW
AMIDST AN EMPIRE OF FEAR.
During the day, neighborhood streets milled with people. Friends lingered together outside. After all, why sit in a smoky, freezing matchbox of an apartment when you could have fresh air and privacy on a freezing street?
Luca and I continued to avoid each other. That was fine by me. His bruised face—it cramped my knuckles and conscience. I looked for Liliana the next day after school but couldn’t find her. Did she leave early? I had been carrying around the chocolate and wanted to give it to her. When I arrived on our street, she was standing on the sidewalk near her building.
“Cristian, you need to feed your dog.”
“Yeah? You have anything I can feed him?”
Her response and smile surprised me.
“Sure. Follow me.”
She turned and set off toward the entrance of her apartment block.
Did she really want me to follow her? I wanted to follow her.
So I did.
The electricity was off. We started up the stairs, ascending into blackness.
“My mom is terrified in a dark stairwell,” I said.
“So am I,” replied Liliana.
Should I reach for her hand? Before I could decide, we were on the second floor.
“Your apartment faces the street but ours overlooks the inner courtyard,” she said.
“How do you know ours faces the street?”
“Because I’ve seen you on your balcony. Fourth floor. Watching the agent in the black Dacia come and go. Are you spying on him?”
“I’m plotting a Kent heist. He has a stash on his balcony. You in?” I joked.
She laughed.
“So,” I said softly, “you’ve been watching me, huh?”
“That’s not what I said,” she replied as she opened the door. I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear the smile in her voice.
I stood in the doorway of her dark, quiet apartment.
She leaned against the open door, gazing at me. A tiny silver heart hung from the suede cord around her neck, resting perfectly in the hollow of her throat. “You can come in,” she whispered. “No one’s here. My brother and parents are working.”
I nodded and stepped inside. A match hissed. Her hand moved to light a stub of a candle. Did her family buy candles at the street markets or from the church? Centered on the table beneath a handmade lace doily was a car battery. She noticed my gaze.
“My brother rigs it to create light for homework. It’s brighter than a
candle.” She stepped into the kitchen.
“Hey, are you hungry?” I asked.
“I thought we were feeding the dogs.” Liliana returned from the kitchen and set a bone on the table. “My dad brings bones home from work.”
“We are feeding the dogs. But I thought we could also share this.” I removed the small chocolate bar from my pocket. “It’s not a Coke, but—”
“Uau! I’ve never had that kind! Where did you get it?”
I shrugged and handed it to her. “I know someone.”
She broke it in half. We stood near the table, candle glowing, eating the chocolate.
Her fingers brushed the bottom of my jacket. “The dogs tore it. You repaired it?”
“My sister did. She has a sewing machine.”
“I’ve heard.” And then it was quiet. “Do you like music?” she
suddenly asked.
“Sure, do you?”
“Yes. I like . . . Springsteen’s lyrics.” She glanced up at me as she said it.
The candlelight danced shadowed patterns on her face and hair. My heart bumped. She was even prettier up close.
“Springsteen was born in September. He’s a Libra,” said Liliana.
“Oh, yeah?” I leaned against a chair. “Can you guess what my sign is?”
“I don’t have to guess.” She smiled. “I know.” She placed her hand near the candle. On the center of her palm was a small symbol. It looked like a lowercase “m” with a comma stuck to it. “You’re a Virgo.”
She had drawn my sign on her palm? “Whoa, how did you know?” I
asked.
“I just know.”
I nodded, not sure what to say. “Hey,” I whispered. “What color are your eyes?”
“Yours are a weird gray-blue color,” she said.
“Weird?”
“Sorry.” She laughed. “Not weird. Different. I mean, unique. They’re
unique.”
“And what color are yours?” I repeated.
She lifted the candle from the table and held it in front of her face.
“You tell me. What color are my eyes?”
The candle flame swayed. “I can’t see them through your hair,” I
whispered.
“You can’t?”
“No.”
She stepped closer to me.
And then closer.
Silence and candlelight flickered between us. I paused, then slowly brushed the hair from her eyes. A shudder of energy pulsed through me.
Did she feel it? I thought something might drop from a shelf.
“Brown,” I whispered. “They’re brown. They’re really pretty.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled.
And then she blew out the candle.
We stood, silhouettes in the dark. Somewhere in the room, a clock
ticked softly.
I gently wrapped my arms around her.
She pulled me closer and pressed against me, placing the side of her face on my chest. We held each other. Soundless yet somehow boundless.
And in that quiet moment, all hardship melted away. For once, the shadows weren’t gloomy. They were private. Holding Liliana, alone in the stillness of that dark apartment, feeling her breathe, it was everything.
I had everything.
I closed my eyes, held on to the moment—and for once, thanked the heavens for the darkness of communism.