20
DOUĂZECI
:00 a.m.
Layers.5 Two pair of socks. Three shirts. Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Ration card.
I pulled the woolen hat down over my ears and zipped my jacket. It doesn’t take long to dress when you sleep in your clothes for warmth.
Bunu’s wall thermometer said the temperature in our apartment had dipped to 8 degrees Celsius, 46 Fahrenheit overnight.
I left quietly. As if in unison, the other apartment doors opened and a line of tired residents clutching oilcloth shopping bags appeared. We trudged down the cement stairs to join the sea of humanity swarming into the freezing dark—that bleak wasteland of time.
To stand in lines.
Every family had a system for the Alimentara, the local shop. This was ours: I stood in line three days per week before school.
Cici stood in line three days per week before work.
Mama stood in line after work.
Our father relieved Mama in line during the evenings.
To shiver. To wait in line for absolutely everything. That’s what I was
used to.
That’s what we were all used to.
How long were the lines in other countries?
I thought of the advice from the British travel book:
Best to avoid Romania. Visit Hungary or Bulgaria instead, where conditions are better.
How much better? Did they have blue-eyed boys and teenage informers?
The wind blew in icy breaths. A little boy shivered alone in front of me, gripping his rumpled shopping bag like a blanket. He yawned, awakening a slumber of phlegm. His cough sliced so sharp I could feel the infection in my own chest. Near him, a spindly silhouette hunched against the wind, smoking a cigarette in the cup of his hand. Ahead of the smoker was the quiet kid from my calculus class who wore a ratty brown scarf. I had finally found an English word for him: loner. An ancient, babushka- wrapped woman heaved in close by, propped up by arthritis and a cane. Age or illness was no exemption from standing in line.
If an outsider approached, they wouldn’t see Romania—once beautiful, lush land of the Romans and Dacians. No. They’d see a snaking line of frosty communism, huddled against the cold on a dark street full of potholes.
I looked toward the front of the line. Luca stood behind the woman with the drooping face. Beneath the flickering lights of the Alimentara, the folds of her skin glowed an eerie blue. If Luca passed the university exam for medicine, he’d eventually be drinking coffee and counting Kents in the morning instead of standing in lines. He’d cure coughs, save babies from broken incubators—maybe even save women from drooping faces.
Me? I’d be a philosophical wordsmith. A poetic traitor.
My stomach murmured, reminding me it was empty.
Would there be anything in the shop today? We stood in line, programmed, never knowing. If a line formed at a neighborhood shop, most rushed to join it. Last night after three hours in line, my father came home exhausted, clutching a dented can of beans covered in dust.
“The expiration date is 1987. Two years ago,” said Cici.
My father said nothing, just shrugged. My father was quiet when he was mad, quiet when he was tired, quiet when he was happy, and quiet when he was contemplating. He felt inaccessible and I hated it. He was nothing like Bunu. How could a father and son be so different?
“Your father’s hungry, Cristian, literally and figuratively. Ration cards in the 1980s? We had more food during World War II,” complained Bunu.
“Do you see the lunacy of all this? They’ve got us brainwashed, standing in lines for hours, grateful for rotten beans. But what is the cost of self- worth?”
I didn’t have an answer. My self-worth was temporarily detouring through the sewer.
Liliana’s brother stood a few places ahead. He glanced back at me. If he was in line, that meant Liliana was still asleep. Did he know that his sister had invited me into their apartment? Did he know that I had held her in the dark? Did he know that I had thought about her all night?
I felt a tug at my jacket. I turned. Behind me was an elderly gentleman that Bunu used to play chess with. The squat man with the spongy nose.
“How’s your bunu?” he whispered.
“He’s fine,” I lied.
“Good, good,” nodded the bulbous face. He leaned in close. “Give him a message for me. Tell him the coffee’s not as tasty as I expected. I’ll come to visit him.”
I looked at him, confused. His eyes pivoted to his feet.
“They’re watching. The coffee, you’ll tell him?”
“Sure,” I said.
“You too,” he whispered. “No coffee.”
I turned back around. They’re watching? Of course they were watching. And coffee? No one had real coffee, except for bribes. Was he referring to a bribe? Or maybe it was a joke.
Or maybe, we were all going a little bit insane.