54
CINCIZECI ŞI PATRU
thought I was a great pretender. But at that moment, I wasn’t so sure.
Paddle Hands was smug, too smug. I’d assumed an agent dealing withI teenagers had to be mediocre. Had I assumed wrong?
Starfish intercepted me in front of the apartment block. “I might have
something for you.”
“Yeah? What?”
“A British guest at the Intercontinental threw some papers in the trash.
They’re in English. A contact is holding them for me.”
“How much?
“Got any Western currency?” he asked.
I thought of the dollar I gave to Cici. “I might. You have the papers?”
“No, but I can get them.”
“Well, get them and we’ll talk.”
I left Starfish and turned toward my building.
Orange flickers.
The candles had returned along with the large wooden cross outside of our apartment block. Death was paying another house call. Tiny snowflakes swirled in the glow like specks of winter dust. Mirel lingered in his usual spot.
“Mrs. Drucan,” he said. “A couple hours ago.”
I nodded.
I made my way up the stairs to the third floor. Cici was moving chairs into the hallway.
“Mrs. Drucan,” she said.
“Mirel told me.”
“Can you ask her daughter if she needs any help?”
The woman from Boston rushed around, organizing things in her
mother’s apartment.
“Salut, Cristian.”
“I’m sorry about your mother. Do you need any help?”
“Mersi, but I think I’m all set. She was very peaceful. We had a final exchange. I know she heard me. She took a breath and was gone.”
I thought of Bunu. A smile. A relieved exhale. That was the way he should have died. Deserved to die. I nodded, just standing there. Hands stuffed in my pockets.
“When are you leaving for Boston?” I asked.
“In a few days. My cousins will remain in the apartment. You’ve been so helpful and—unlike others—you’ve refused to accept or ask for anything. Could I treat you to a cup of coffee? I brought some Nescafé from
the States.”
Coffee.
“Don’t drink the coffee,” I blurted.
She looked at me, confused. “Why not?”
“It’s . . . unhealthy.”
“Well, it is instant coffee, but I thought most people here liked Nescafé.”
“Yeah, sorry, they probably do. Have a safe trip home.” I turned to
leave and felt her hand upon my arm.
“Oh, and Cristian,” she whispered.
I looked over to her.
“Three cartons.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the answer. It takes three cartons to turn up the gas.”
She smiled, relieved, peaceful.
Mrs. Drucan’s daughter. The woman from Boston. Red boots and lighting bolt earrings. I realized only later.
I never knew her name.
Cici continued to arrange chairs in the hallway. “Mama is home. Dad is out standing in line.” I nodded and headed up the stairs.
Like our parents, our apartment was silent. The door to the bedroom was closed. I headed to my closet to confirm my suspicion. I lifted the stack
of books in the corner.
Just as I thought.
The Springsteen article was gone.
The Secu was still coming and going from our apartment.
But the next time they came? They’d be in for a surprise.
Because I would be there.