34
TREIZECI ȘI PATRU
he crossroads of reality and nightmare. My classmate who cracked —he had been there, trying to escape the suffocation that slitheredT
and pulled tighter.
I didn’t want to be an informer.
But I didn’t want Bunu to die.
Double bind. That was the English term for it.
Luca spotted me the next day. “Cristian, this standoff between us, it’s stupid. Let’s talk,” he said. “You’re not okay.”
I stared at him with disgust. “Are you okay? You know how it is, don’t you, Luca?”
He gave a small nod and looked to his feet. He walked off.
Did Luca have it as bad as I did? Somehow, I doubted it. He looked well rested, probably still recognized himself in the mirror and in his nightmares. Probably didn’t spend nights on the bathroom floor. Even though I still hated Luca for getting me into this, a small part of me hoped he wasn’t suffering like I was.
The next day, I tried to approach Liliana at school. She wouldn’t look at me, purposely avoided me as if she knew exactly where I’d be. I tried to speak to her on the street.
“This is a misunderstanding. It’s not over,” I told her. “I’m not giving
up.”
“Give up, Cristian,” she replied.
Starfish overheard and offered counsel. “Forget about her. Lots of girls talk about you. You have other options.”
I didn’t want other options. I wanted Liliana.
“I’m not giving up,” I told Starfish.
“Did you hear that?” I shouted up to the Reporters. “I’m not giving up.”
Deranged? Desperate? Who knows what people were whispering about me.
But Liliana, it had felt like she could read my mind. She had to know it wasn’t true. Yes, I was an informer. But I hadn’t informed on her. How could I explain?
After a few days, she no longer spent time outside, but I looked for her anyway.
My family knew something had gone awry, but they didn’t know what.
I couldn’t tell them—or anyone—why Liliana wouldn’t see me.
Fortunately, she hadn’t told anyone either. Was she trying to protect her family . . . or me? I clung to the possibility.
I stood on the balcony, hoping she would see me. Trying to telegraph messages to her.
One night, Cici joined me. She took a deep breath, gathered her long black hair, and tied it into a knot. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, Pui, but I know something happened with Liliana . . . and I know you’re hurting.”
Sorrow crept into my throat. I couldn’t speak. Just nodded.
She put her hand on my back. “Keep trying. She’s worth it. And so are you.”
Was it my sister’s kindness? Her encouragement to persevere?
Whatever it was, it broke me. And she knew it. And she had the compassion to give me privacy on that cold dark balcony, alone with my tears.
Bunu eventually shuffled out as well. He said nothing at first, just stood next to me. His presence alone was comforting.
“Your pain, it inspires me,” he finally said. I looked to him. “Yes, inspires me. This regime steals so much from us. Some, like your father, are
forced to go silent, dormant. But to feel so deeply, that is the very essence
of being human. You give me hope.”
I had to confess.
He already knew I was an informer, but I had to say it out loud.
“Bunu—”
“That’s enough for tonight. It’s colder than Mother Elena’s heart out here.” He left me on the balcony and returned to the apartment before I could say another word.
I often think back to that night and my desperation to confess. How many others across Romania were standing on their balconies at the same time, painfully picking at the adhesive, all trying so hard— To pull the tape from our mouths.