49
PATRUZECI ȘI NOUĂ
he puzzling weight of absence. When one potato is removed from a basket, the weight is lighter, easier to carry. But Bunu’s absenceT created the opposite effect. The atmosphere in the apartment hung heavier, more crowded. Cici was irritable, smearing lipstick on and continually altering her clothes as if that might alter the situation.
“Are you okay, Pui?” she asked constantly.
None of us were okay.
Mama orbited in a perpetual state of agitation, whispering to herself and putting a hand to her hair, making sure it was still there. My father shifted about like an iron ghost. He mourned quiet and dormant, like Bunu had said. When he came home, he often went right to sleep. But one night, he joined me on the balcony.
We stood next to each other, watching the snow fall. Several minutes passed. He cleared his throat.
“An old woman is fast asleep when she hears a knock at the door.
Who is it? she whispers, terrified.
It is death, the voice answers.
Oh, good. I thought it might be the Securitate.”
I turned to my father, impressed. “Not bad.”
“Your bunu didn’t make them up on his own, you know.” My father
smiled.
“Really?”
“C’mon, we used to joke around all the time when you were younger.”
“Yeah. I guess I had forgotten about that.”
What else had I forgotten?
I hadn’t forgotten the notebook for Mr. Van Dorn. It was a welcome distraction. I had started a letter and worked through several drafts. When I felt it was complete, I tore out the drafts and rewrote the letter on the very last page.
If I left the notebook on his desk, would Mr. Van Dorn think someone had accidentally forgotten it there? I decided to wrap it, like a gift, and put his name on it. I didn’t have any wrapping paper, so I used pages from Cutezătorii, the Romanian teen almanac. I flipped through my almanac, deciding which pages to use. The front section was always about Ceauşescu, so Luca and I read the almanac from back to front, starting with
the comics and crossword puzzles.
I chose two pieces for wrapping: The cover, because the title of the teen almanac, Cutezătorii, meant “Brave Ones.”
I also chose an interior page that featured Ceauşescu alongside an article titled “Romania—the Country of Creative Work.”
Yes, Ceauşescu’s plan was creative. But so was mine.
I opened Cici’s sewing basket, looking for a piece of string to tie the package. I rummaged through buttons, pins, Neckermann catalogs, and at the very bottom, a couple of coins, a piece of ribbon, and a ring of keys. I took the ribbon and secured the pages around the notebook. It definitely looked like a gift and, this being the middle of December, would probably be mistaken as one.
A gift of truth. That’s what Bunu would have called it.
And then I was finally ready.
Or so I thought.
Everything changed the moment I tucked that wrapped book in my bag. My heart took off from some invisible starting block. I began to sweat.
Profusely.
I had never taken the notebook out of my closet. It lived beneath my mattress of rugs in the secret pocket under the vinyl flooring. But that
Saturday, it would sit in my bag through the entire school day until I met Dan to go to the library. I hadn’t been summoned for Paddle Hands recently. What if the agent chose today for a visit? I had been so confident, a great pretender. But it now felt like the notebook had its own heartbeat in my bag. If the agent didn’t notice that, he’d surely notice the vein pulsing wildly at my temple.
But I had come this far. It was too late to change my mind. And I
didn’t intend to.
I adjusted the strap on my bag.
And left the apartment.