23
DOUĂZECI ȘI TREI
hinking words. Speaking words. Writing words.
Writing things down helped the most. Seeing my thoughts on aT page, it positioned them at a helpful distance, out of my head and mouth. Processing. That’s the English word I found for it. Processing helped me evaluate and sort things out. So I sat in my closet and made notes.
Mama’s face is permanently pinched. She’s mad at Bunu for getting sick.
Dad’s a ghost and poor Cici gets skinnier by the day.
If I poke her stomach I bet I’d feel her spine.
Bunu’s the happiest and he has leukemia.
Isn’t the Florescu family fun?!
The teachers were right. I was sarcastic.
But our family felt gloomier than most. Or maybe I was the gloomy one.
Seeing the video from Dan’s friends—so many bananas—it made me mad,
sad.
Had a dream about Liliana last night.
What does she dream about?
• • •
It was Friday. I knew what was coming. If the agent was waiting for me, he’d want a report. Should I tell him that I slipped and mentioned the library to Dan? I was debating. Could it work in my favor? Make me appear honest?
I would have to wait and leave again without anyone noticing.
Especially Liliana. We generally didn’t interact in school. She was quiet, private, like me. So we communicated secretly in the halls: a sly smile, an accidental brush of hands. But after the exchange in her apartment, I had wanted to walk her home. I wanted to see her. Almost as much as I wanted to kiss her.
What if I skipped the meeting with the agent? I could make some odd excuse.
Speaking of odd, how did the agent circulate so close to school? Was he seen? Did he park his black Dacia out front? The secretary saw me meeting with the agent. She knew I was an informer. Did she tell anyone?
Wait.
Of course.
The crumbly old secretary. She was an informer too.
Comrade Instructor stood at the head of the room, droning on about calculus. I had found new English terms to describe the weak light in our classroom: feeble, piss yellow. Above the foggy chalkboard sat Ceauşescu, smirking down at us from his golden frame. When we were younger, the portrait was used as a disciplinary tool.
“Mind yourself. Beloved Leader is watching. He sees everything, you know.”
The picture in our classroom was the old, one-eared portrait of our hero. His head was positioned in three-quarter profile, so we only saw one of his ears. In Romania, calling someone “one-eared” is an expression for crazy or insane. Whispered jokes must have traveled down Victory Avenue because in most locations, the old portraits were now replaced with a two- eared version of our leader.
An absent classmate suddenly appeared at the door—the loner kid with the ratty brown scarf. He gave our instructor a note and took his seat. He looked ill, his face the color of milk. He couldn’t stop fidgeting. He was either going to throw up or pass out. I watched, waiting to find out. It was definitely more interesting than calculus. After several minutes he rocketed from his chair, waving his arms and stuttering like a madman.
“No! No! NO!”
“Comrade Nistor, sit down this instant,” yelled the teacher.
He didn’t sit down. He turned, wild eyed, to the class, gripping and pulling at his own hair. He began to cry. Students gasped in alarm.
“Comrade Nistor. Compose yourself!”
“I can’t. I can’t. Do you know?”
“Know what?” asked a girl.
His hands began to vibrate and then his entire body quaked with
convulsion.
“THAT I’M AN INFORMER!!!”
The temperature in the cold classroom dropped further into frozen silence.
No one tried to console him. No one made a sound.
Comrade Instructor pointed to the door. Our classmate stumbled to it,
sobbing, and left.
The lesson resumed.
And that’s when it hit me: The teacher must be an informer. He informed on the students.
The school director was an informer. He informed on the teachers.
The secretary was an informer. She informed on the school director.
Luca was an informer. He informed on me.
I was an informer. I informed on Americans.
How naive. Had I really thought that Luca and I were the only student
informers? There were probably many.
And then my stomach seized.
Wait, was Liliana an informer?