25
DOUĂZECI ȘI CINCI
nstead of lying on the couch, Bunu was standing in the kitchen,
fiddling with our broken radio.I “Feeling better?” I asked.
“I’ll feel better when we have the radio. I need some air. Help me out to the balcony.”
I put my arm around Bunu and guided him toward the sliding glass door.
“Romania is so efficient in the winter,” said Bunu. “Such a timesaver, not having to put on a coat.”
I laughed. Breath fogged from my mouth. We never put on coats because we never took them off.
“Shut the door,” said my grandfather. “Don’t want to make it colder out here.” He smirked.
“Bunu,” I whispered. “In Romania, what’s colder than cold water?”
“Hot water.” He smiled. “I’m surprised you remember that one.”
I glanced across the street to Liliana’s building. Liliana mentioned she’d seen me on the balcony. How often was she watching?
Bunu cleared his throat. “Something’s brewing,” he said. “I can feel it.
But we need the radio to hear the updates and plans.”
“You mean the restructuring plan? The one they mentioned on Radio Free Europe?”
“Perestroika? Bah,” Bunu scoffed. “Maybe in other countries. But not here. Ceauşescu would never allow that in Romania. That would dilute his
authority.” Bunu shook his head with frustration. “This five-foot-nothing man has absolute mental control over twenty-three million people. And his wife is part of that power. We have two dictators and they’ve insulated and
trapped us.”
“Some don’t seem to mind.” I shrugged.
“That’s because we’ve been ruled for decades with such totality that it’s impossible for most to imagine anything different. But I’m older. I’ve been exposed to more. I’ve traveled. I know what’s out there. But you, my dear boy—you’re young. This cult of communism, what is this life doing to
you and people your age?”
“Boosting our endurance, I guess.”
“Really?” Bunu’s voice strained. “Is that what it’s doing? Or is it corroding your judgment and vision?” The emotion behind his words caused him to cough. I put my arm around him until he steadied.
“Cristian, I have to tell you something. Someone brought me a package
recently.”
I waited, uncertain how to reply.
“Apparently word has traveled that I’ve been . . . unwell. It’s attracted
attention.”
I was an idiot.
Did I really think that Paddle Hands would give me medicine for Bunu during our meeting? No. He’d send someone. To spy further. But if Bunu received medicine, did that mean the agent felt I was delivering?
The Van Dorns’ apartment. It was definitely bugged. Maybe the agent heard me asking about the American Library. But if he was tracking my every move, why did I need to meet and report to him?
My head was spinning.
Bunu looked over the balcony and again shook his head. “Evil Secu.
This regime couldn’t exist without them. And this black bat who lives beneath us has the entire apartment to himself. All that space, but so much merchandise he stores some on the balcony?”
“You think he has ration limits of five eggs per month?”
“He probably craps five eggs per morning,” said Bunu. “Agents.
Informers. Rats. This country is full of them. We’re infested. And they keep multiplying. They’re in our streets, in our schools, crawling in the workplace, and now they’ve chewed through the walls”—Bunu looked directly at me—“into our apartment.”
I gripped the balcony railing. Panic hissed throughout my body.
Bunu stared at me. “Yes,” he whispered. “An informer. In our apartment. Right here. Can you imagine that, Cristian? And suddenly
medicine appears. But at what cost?”
“Bunu—”
“Shh. Say nothing. I’m the only one who’s figured it out. It’s too painful to discuss. Besides, I have no idea what I swallowed. For all I know, it’s the breath that blows out the candle.” Bunu shuffled toward the door and I helped him inside. His grumbling voice echoed in the darkness.
“You know what, Cristian? Dante was wrong. Hell isn’t hot. It’s cold.”