51
CINCIZECI ŞI UNU
m very sorry about your grandfather.”
That’s what Mrs. Van Dorn said upon opening the door.I’ “Please tell your mother it’s perfectly fine if she needs additional
days off.”
“Mersi. I mean, thank you.”
She looked at me, full of pity and sympathy. “Dan’s with his father at the commissary, but I expect them any minute. Do you mind waiting?”
“That’s fine.”
What was “the commissary”?
The phone rang and Mrs. Van Dorn excused herself to answer it. I grabbed the notebook from my bag and ran to Mr. Van Dorn’s desk. Just as I slid it beneath a stack of newspapers, the door of the apartment opened.
Dan entered, carrying a crate—a crate full of food and American products. My stomach groaned. Clearly, the commissary was the U.S.
Embassy store.
“Hey, Cris, have you been waiting long?” he asked.
“No. I just got here.”
“Hello, Cristian.” Mr. Van Dorn nodded, carefully eyeing my proximity to his desk.
I quickly pointed to a nearby painting on the wall. “I was looking at this painting. Is the artist Romanian?”
“Nah,” said Dan. “One of my mom’s paintings from Spain. Just let me grab my backpack and we can go.”
I stood, acutely aware of Mr. Van Dorn’s gaze upon me. He moved toward his desk, still wearing his coat. My heart thumped. It was all crumbling. If he discovered the notebook now, he’d ask me about it. What would I say?
“So, whatcha been up to, Cristian?” he asked, taking a step closer.
I stood, frozen. “Whatcha been up to.” What did that mean? I felt a trickle of sweat slide down the channel of my back.
“Sorry. I’ll rephrase. What’s new? What have you been doing lately?”
“Nick? Is that you?” his wife’s voice called from the kitchen. “Ana’s on the phone to discuss plans.”
“Excuse me.” Mr. Van Dorn headed for the other room, and Dan
appeared with his backpack.
“Ready to go?”
“Yes.” I nodded quickly.
Dan put a finger to his lips. He quietly lifted two cellophane-wrapped items from the crate of food. He held up the packages, smiling. The blue and red label said Twinkies. He dropped one into my coat pocket. What did the word “Twinkie” mean?
We exited the building onto the street. The frozen, snowy air refreshed my sweat-soaked neck. “When do you go home for the holiday?” I asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” he replied. “And I have some news.”
“News?”
“I’m not coming back.”
I turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“I struck a deal with my parents. They’re letting me spend next semester in Dallas. I’ll go to school there and live with my godparents.”
Dan was leaving Romania and he wasn’t coming back. I felt an odd twinge. “And what about Princeton?”
“I’ve finished my essay. Hey, when we get to the library, would you read it? Of course, it’s just my point of view, but I’d like your opinion.”
“Yeah, sure.”
As always, the American Library sweltered like an oven. But I was already drenched in sweat.
Dan chose a table and dug into his backpack. “Hey, since I won’t be around for the holidays, I have something I want to give you.”
He produced a small envelope and tossed it on the table.
I stared at it. I looked around.
“Take it. It’s for you.” He laughed. He pushed it toward me.
I had just gone through this. Accepting something from a foreigner had to be reported. He must know that. Besides, how many people were watching us? But I was curious.
I pulled the envelope across the table and lifted the unsealed flap.
Inside was a pane of four mint U.S. stamps. Each stamp displayed a different illustration, along with “USA” and the value of 22 cents in the lower corner.
“They were issued a few years back,” said Dan. “I thought they were
kinda special.”
They were special.
So special that I didn’t care if I got in trouble for having them.
Along the top of each stamp were the words STAMP COLLECTING.
They were stamps specifically created to commemorate collectors.
Bunu would have loved them. A knot formed in my throat.
“Thank you, Dan,” I whispered.
“Aw, it’s no big deal, just something to remind you of your pal from
New Jersey.”
“Pal?” I said.
“Sorry, ‘pal’ means friend. Just something to remind you of your friend
from New Jersey.”
My friend from New Jersey.
A friend I spent time with because the Secu had blackmailed me to. A friend who was referred to as my “target.” A friend whose father I was exploiting to get information out of Romania. How easily Americans made
“friends.”
Emotion swelled within my chest.
“Here’s the essay. It’s only a couple pages,” said Dan, sliding it across the table.
I stared at the papers.
The sheets in front of me held information that the Securitate was desperate for. Information I could use to my advantage. An American’s thoughts on Romania—officially presented to a U.S. college admissions board.
Read it. Come on, turnător. This was the deal you made, wasn’t it?
What sort of friend was I? Could I really blame Luca for informing on me when I myself was informing on a friend? A pal? Liliana’s words echoed in my head:
You are a liar.
You are everything I despise.
You are an informer.
“You okay, Cristian? You don’t look so good.”
If I didn’t read the essay, I wouldn’t be able to inform on my friend.
“I’m, um, not feeling well.” I told him.
Dan reached across the table and snatched the essay. “It’s my only copy. If you puke, I’m out of luck.”
Luck. Noroc. That was the only word I understood—and I understood that I didn’t have any.
“I think I better go. Thanks again, Dan. The stamps, they’re great.”
“You might like the Twinkies more than the stamps.” He laughed.
“Hey, give me your address. We can keep in touch about stamps and stuff.”
He tore a page from a spiral-bound notebook. I wrote my address on it, knowing it was forbidden to communicate with a foreigner, but knowing it was the last time I’d ever see Dan Van Dorn.
“Have a good Christmas,” said Dan, his face full of sincerity.
Was anyone thinking about Christmas? I wasn’t. I gave a wave and headed toward the door. I exited the building and pulled several deep
breaths.
My notebook was on Mr. Van Dorn’s desk.
Dan was leaving Romania for good.
Bunu was dead.
What would the Securitate do with me now that I was no use to them?
Friendship. It was something valuable. Something I wanted with Luca.
Something I wanted with Dan Van Dorn. And Dan wanted it too. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have given me the stamps and the Twinkies.
Would he?
|| INFORMER REPORT ||
[9 Dec. 1989]
Cristian Florescu (17), student at MF3 High School, resident in Salajan sector 3. Observed Saturday at the American Library in Bucharest with American Dan Van Dorn. Florescu and Van Dorn engaged in a brief discussion and exchanged an envelope and a piece of paper. Florescu left with the envelope after just five minutes.
After Florescu departed, Van Dorn was approached by an American adult male (identity unknown) and proceeded to take part in a hushed conversation that lasted nearly ten minutes. Van Dorn gave the sheet of paper from Florescu to the American male. Following conversation, Van Dorn quickly left the library without reading any books or magazines.