59
CINCIZECI ŞI NOUĂ
carefully returned everything to the box as I had found it, including my dollar. But I kept the knife and pinched some other bills from the thickI envelope. I slid the locked box back under the sofa and returned the
keys to her sewing basket.
I left the apartment.
My hands shook. I felt frozen straight through.
And then I heard their voices. Below me. Cici was talking to the woman from Boston. I stopped on the third-floor landing, listening.
“Mersi. You’ve been such a help, Cici. I don’t know how I would have done this without you,” said the woman.
She’s not helping you. She’s betraying you. She’s betraying everyone.
My head was spinning.
I exited the building, giving a wave to Starfish. He nodded for me to follow him.
We walked, saying nothing. He handed me his pack of cigarettes.
Against the pack was a thick square of folded paper. I slid the money inside the cigarette pack and handed it back to him. I kept the square of paper in my closed palm and transferred it casually to my pocket.
“How’s your pretty sister?” he asked.
Starfish knew most everything and everyone.
I raised my eyebrows and gave him my best knowing look. “C’mon, Starfish, is she pretty, or pretty sneaky?”
“Both!” He laughed and disappeared between two buildings.
I walked down the rutted sidewalk and joined a line outside the Alimentara, killing time, pretending to wait for a stump of bread, so I could think. My mind was full of maybes.
Maybe Cici was blackmailed into being an informer, like me.
The thick envelope of foreign currency—maybe Cici was an agent?
Or maybe Cici was dating Paddle Hands?
Every option disgusted me. Cici told me I couldn’t trust Luca. She told me I couldn’t trust Starfish. Her cautious nature, always suspicious—was that an act? I thought of my conversation with Bunu on the balcony.
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 . . . into our apartment.
I had thought Bunu was referring to me. Was he actually talking about Cici? Did Bunu know? Cici took the article from my closet. Had she discovered my hiding spot and my notebook? The questions pushed at me: Did Cici really work at a textile factory?
Did she care about our family?
Did she care about our country?
I felt sick. I felt scared. I felt lost.
I left the line and started walking. If I kept going, could I eventually make it to Timișoara?