Bottled Goods Page 3

  “I can’t,” says Theresa. “I can’t touch the glassware, not unless I want to let the strigoi* back in.”

  Alina notices that all the cups and glasses are turned upside down. She chuckles. “You almost had me. Water would be fine.”

  But Aunt Theresa isn’t smiling. She fumbles in one of the cupboard’s drawers, extracts a basil branch and a bottle filled with transparent liquid that seems to catch the sunlight and make it glow golden. Alina stands up. Her hand hovers above one of the crystal glasses.

  “Don’t!” shouts Aunt Theresa. “We barely kicked it out of our house two days ago. None of us could sleep last week—can’t you see?” Aunt Theresa points at her own eyes. But the signs of fatigue have been well hidden under powder and concealer—or she may have slept her exhaustion off. She places the bottle and the branch on the low coffee table, then delves in her purse. “Serves me right for trying to help a friend.”

  Aunt Theresa pours the liquid onto a saucer, dips her keys into it.

  “A strigoi?” asks Alina, with an improvised smile. She tries to laugh at her aunt, but she knows that Theresa’s playing with the supernatural is often a dance on the brink of a precipice, and nobody has any idea what awaits below.

  “Yes. A friend’s—former friend’s—great-uncle. What they did to the poor man! I’d come back to haunt them, too, if I were him! But, of course, he can’t find them now. Not anymore. So he haunts us. Though it’s not much: slamming windows and doors, scattering our clothes or the garbage, breaking dishes, just enough to be an annoyance. But if he finds my friend—ha! The things he can do!” Aunt Theresa sucks in her cheeks. She looks like a rosy-cheeked Mommy.

  “I thought vampires sucked blood, not the strigoi,” says Alina.

  “No, the strigoi drain life. Anyhow, it was ill-considered to summon him at my house. No matter, Father Toma is coming down from Putna tomorrow, and will help me fix this. Be a good girl and stretch your hands now.”

  Aunt Theresa dips her hands into the saucer and rubs Alina’s wrists, making the sign of the cross. “Holy water. Told you not to come here today; you insisted. It’s such a bother to get out—and I really need to. We need more of this, we’re running out.”

  When Alina called her, Aunt Theresa did warn her against coming—but with the heat outside, and Liviu coming late in the evening from Seceratu, Alina couldn’t bear staying in her flat a moment longer, stifling in the heat and her own fears. Even a strigoi was safe, compared to what could have happened in her own home.

  “We’re going for a drive,” says Aunt Theresa. “But first, we have to get out of the house. When I say ‘now’ you have to move very fast. Very, very, fast, all right?”

  Alina shrugs. This is not the strangest thing she’s witnessed in her aunt’s house. Theresa wets the tips of her basil branch and uses it to spray holy water on the door, on the frame, on the threshold. Absala follows them, swooshing her tail. Alina points at the cat.

  “Don’t worry, she just wants to guard the door,” says Aunt Theresa, then places the holy-water bottle in her purse. She squeezes the doorknob. “Now!”

  Alina and her aunt tumble outside. Alina’s left foot catches in the doormat, and she lands on her knees. Aunt Theresa slams the door shut behind them, then helps Alina up. “The strigoi, that’s why you fell. And that’s the least of what he can do.” Theresa shudders. “Poor man.”

  Much later, her aunt’s elegant Volga trembles with all its joints on a road full of potholes. The avenue of trees framing the road casts long, thin shadows, and between them the asphalt glints silver, shivering. Alina thinks of oases in the desert, of light and its reflection. She finally asks, “And the glasses? Why were they turned upside down?”

  “The strigoi tries to use any concave object to get into the house and wreak havoc. We’ve been eating and drinking off flat plates for days.”

  Aunt Theresa veers onto an earthen path. Yellow dust powders the car’s windows. Alina thinks how nice it would be to emerge on the other side of the dirt storm, into a different reality, one where the authorities aren’t persecuting Liviu for his brother’s defection, where she doesn’t have to tremble every time she comes home for fear that two agents of the Secret Services are waiting for her, where she and Liviu are as light and carefree as they were last year. She thinks how her life has been turned upside down, too, like Aunt Theresa’s glasses, and how there is no Father Toma she could ask to exorcise the evil spirits that have a grip on her life.

  How to Attract (Unwanted) Attention from the Communist Authorities

  Linger in the classroom, leafing through the class roster—though you could do this just as well (even better, with the lack of interjections and other noises of eight-year-olds) in the teacher’s break room.

  Insist on lingering, even when noticing the first signs of trouble. Signs of trouble:

  Pupil Săpunaru Carmen, the most popular girl in class—who just presented her new pencil box, fully equipped with secret drawers, compartments, a lid from which a princess with a lime-green dress and blue hair smiles mockingly—is gathering her belongings.

  The crowd of adorers is clearing from around her, migrating toward open spaces (for instance, the hallways or the schoolyard), where they can more effectively burn the excess energy they always seem to display.

  Pupil Atanasiu Maria, wearing a uniform inherited from one of her three older siblings, is watching pupil Săpunaru with the fixed stare of a deer who is about to be run over by a truck.

  The former finally decides to leave the safety of her desk and engage the latter in conversation.

  The diva seems to be giving monosyllabic answers as the other speaks in low tones, with a bowed head. The admirer is becoming increasingly nervous (this state to be recognized by the compulsive scratching of the scalp).

  The follower pushes something colorful, that appears to be some kind of magazine, under the nose of the revered one.

  Raise your eyes from the class roster and watch the scene unfolding before you, dumbstruck. Don’t move or say anything as the diva pushes her admirer back, the colorful object falling to the ground. Or as the crazed fan gathers the crumpled item from the floor, almost as wounded as her pride. By now you have identified the apple of discord as a Pif et Hercule magazine, a contraband article forbidden by the government.

  When it is far too late to pretend nothing has happened, close the class roster and take hurried steps toward the door. Stop on the threshold, when you can no longer ignore the prima donna’s cries of “Comrade teacher!”

  Say, “Yes, what is it?” in a tone as snappy as you can, hoping (vainly and groundlessly) to intimidate.

  At the diva’s excited exclamations of “Atanasiu brought a forbidden magazine to class!,” simply raise an eyebrow.

  Now say, “I don’t see anything,” without looking at the zealot’s blue apron. Through its thin and discolored fabric, the sharp corners of the magazine are peeking and the familiar contours of the two silly pets can be made out.

  Ignore the entreaties and exclamations of, “It’s there, under her clothes! How come you don’t see it?”

  Step a bit back and to the side, so that the perpetrator may escape through the open door and make her way (hopefully) toward a garbage bin. Preferably one that is not located on the school grounds. Don’t call for the perpetrator as she runs away.

  In fact, don’t do anything, except walk toward the teacher’s break room, heart banging in your chest like an angry neighbor when you’ve been playing loud music for hours, the huge class roster tucked under your arm, the sneak’s cries in the line of “I’ll tell my daddy about this! You saw it. I know you did” ringing in your ears. Her father is high in the Police. You’re heading toward a head-on collision with the Secret Services and their like. Congratulations!

  Quotes from My Mother (Commented)—Part I

  “You would never even have thought of doing something like this! It’s all Liviu’s fault. I told you not to marry that man! Him and his family of
reactionaries!”

  This statement was my mother’s first response when I told her about the incident with the magazine.

  Her assertion was wrong on so many levels:

  Liviu was definitely not in the classroom when I decided to turn a blind eye to what was happening.

  Liviu’s family was far poorer and less politically involved than ours. None of his close relatives happened to be a prominent member of the Liberal Party or of the Conservative Party or of any party whatsoever (unlike my grandfather). His grandfather’s only fault had been trying to resist the collectivization (the posh term for “the communist government took the peasants’ lands away from them”). For this reason, he was awarded a two-year stay in a dungeon.

  Liviu doesn’t even know about what I’ve done. I mean to tell him, and I will, one of these days. I just couldn’t find it in myself to burden him with this, too. I don’t want him to think that what I did will cause even more trouble for him. I’m sure that’s what he’ll say. Lately, he only thinks of himself.

  I didn’t make any of the points above while discussing the matter with my mother, because:

  It would have been pointless. Everything I do wrong is Liviu’s fault anyway.

  I had more pressing matters to debate, like what to do next.

  I was so panicked and relieved at the same time after I had admitted to what I had done that I didn’t think about any of the counter arguments above, except for the last one.

  “And the magazine fell on the floor?” Whistles. “And you’re still not sure what it was? Was it a Pif et Hercule or not? How can I help you if you don’t tell me the truth?”

  Yes, the magazine fell. Yes, I pretended not to see it, not even when pupil Atanasiu concealed it clumsily under her clothing. Yes, it was definitely a Pif et Hercule, but I suddenly remembered that my apartment might be tapped. I do stupid things when I panic.

  Regarding the last question: point taken. I turned the water tap on in the kitchen and whispered the truth in my mother’s ear.

  “This is bad. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

  This particular observation made my already racing pulse skyrocket and my self-possession dissolve into tears—I had been holding them back for the entire duration of our conversation.

  “Maybe your aunt Theresa could help you. At least, she could tell you if you’re in trouble or not.”

  I was actually thinking about the same thing, but I loathe asking people for favors, even more when they’re family. But now that my mother has mentioned Aunt Theresa (and they haven’t spoken in years), it seems like the only option I have.

  “You wouldn’t have gotten into this kind of trouble if it weren’t for your husband, though.”

  I’m starting to believe this.

  “You have to show them where you stand. If you do the right thing, I’m sure they’ll leave you alone.”

  Yes, but what to do? Isn’t it a bit late now to report pupil Atanasiu, more than a week after the incident? What if my mother’s wrong and the Secret Services aren’t going to do anything about it? It’s been a week, and nothing has happened. Except for the fact that the pupil in question hasn’t come to school since the incident.

  “When is your math book coming out?”

  Deciding there was nothing left to say about my slip with the magazine, my mother changed the subject and, hard to believe as it may seem, she managed to make me even more nervous than I already was. Rodica from Bucharest, the project coordinator for the math exercise book, hasn’t returned my calls in weeks.

  “Has your mother been in here again?” Fake coughing. (He likes to parade his cigarette intolerance, which was nonexistent when his brother smoked, and disapproval of everything my mother does.) Waving of hand, cutting through imaginary smoke. “I don’t want her in my house.”

  This was a quote by Liviu when he came home. I had to prepare the meat for the rasol* we were having for dinner. I was in a hurry after my mother left, so I forgot to gather the remnants of our coffee and cake from the coffee table. Liviu found the incriminating evidence.

  Regarding the question: Yes. My mother has visited me.

  Regarding the statement: Liviu, there are so many things I don’t like about you, too.

  Homework

  “Atanasiu Maria, to the blackboard!” says Alina, staring at the child’s worn and thin apron that failed to conceal contraband merchandise last week.

  “Yes, comrade teacher.”

  “Please underline the subjects and the predicates.” Alina points toward the sentences glowing in white chalk.

  “Yes, comrade teacher.”

  Maria turns her reddened eyes away and looks imploringly at the Beloved Leader’s picture that hangs above the blackboard. Twenty years later, an icon of the Savior will hang in this spot, but in 1975, it’s Ceauşescu’s depiction that the children must revere.

  The pupil begins scratching underlines with a scrape of chalk as big as a fingernail. Her sleeve slips as she reaches on the tip of her toes for the first sentence. Alina can see that Maria’s forearm is full of blue-and-purple blotches on her fair skin. She turns away and opens the window.

  “It’s stifling in here,” she murmurs.

  She crosses her arms and looks at the old lady selling flowers on the corner of the street. The woman ties her head-kerchief. On it, beige snails are printed on a brown background. The snails, with their continuous revolving motion around their own axis, make Alina feel dizzy. She cannot bear to look. She closes the window and turns to see that Maria has finished the exercise.

  “Hmm,” she grunts. “Good. Now please write down the main ideas from the text you had to prepare for today, ‘Ștefan the Great and the Peasants of the Tall Oak.’”

  Maria looks down at the painted planks of the dais, her hands collected in front of her. Alina’s eyebrows shoot upward.

  “Pupil Atanasiu? The text?”

  “I’m sorry, comrade Mungiu, but I did not prepare anything.”

  “Why?”

  “I did not know we had to prepare the text, comrade Mungiu.”

  “Oh? You did not come to school for nearly a week, and you couldn’t be bothered to ask about your homework, either?”

  Alina is very much aware of the fact that Maria has no friends in class she could ask anything.

  “I’m sorry, comrade Mungiu.”

  The girl’s voice is wobbly, like an unstable object, ready to fall at the slightest gust of wind.

  Alina turns her eyes toward the class roster and the pupil’s grade report. She paints the mark in two swift moves. The four looks like a desolate upturned chair next to the straight tens in Maria’s column.

  “Atanasiu, get back to your place.”

  Alina can hear the girl weeping when she sees the grade, but she covers her sobs with her own voice.

  “Open your textbooks to page forty-three. Today we will talk about the past tense.”

  * * *

  During the break, Alina seeks a quiet spot behind the gym. A few of the older students are smoking there and scurry away as soon as they see her. She leans against the cold wall and wishes she had asked them for a cigarette. When she closes her eyes, the blue-and-purple spots on Maria’s forearm twirl before her eyes, a madman’s juggling balls.

  * * *

  Alina spends the last break of the day in the teachers’ room. She takes a seat next to Mariana. After Alina’s brother-in-law’s defection, Mariana is one of the few fellow teachers who still speak to her.

  “Some children are outright spoiled and ill-behaved. Can you imagine, after causing all that commotion with pupil Săpunaru, pupil Atanasiu didn’t come to school for a week and when she did, she was completely unprepared.” Alina speaks in a loud voice, so that the right persons might hear her. There are informants everywhere; she only hopes there is one in the break room now, to tell the authorities of her righteous conduct. “The cheekiness,” she says, shaking her head.

  Mariana covers her forearm with her hand
and squeezes gently.

  “What was that about? There was talk of contraband merchandise? Bubble gum, chocolates, magazines? Was she trying to sell them?” asks Mariana in a whisper.

  Alina recoils. The rumors have already touched mythical proportions, but she must not try to contradict them, siding with the perpetrator. She has done herself a huge disservice by ignoring pupil Săpunaru’s cries and fleeing the classroom. She replies in a booming voice, chuckling.

  “Oh, no. Not that I know of. I didn’t see anything, you know? I think pupil Atanasiu was just trying to get some attention.”

  “Oh? How come?”

  “I showed her, though, what I think of such behavior. It will not be tolerated, not in my class. I gave her a four. I doubt now that pupil Atanasiu will qualify for a scholarship next semester.”

  * * *

  It’s the first day since the incident that Alina’s heart is not racing on her way home. She has done right and also said so in the break room. The authorities will surely hear of it. There will be nothing to fear.

  Her pulse settles to a regular, pleasant beat, but she still hurries her steps, by force of habit. In front of her apartment building, there is nobody waiting for her. Why should there be? She has righted the wrong.

  Alina considers whether she should go to the vegetable market and buy some bell peppers to stuff while she turns the key in the great metal door. They should celebrate this relief. She pushes the apartment building door open and out of the shadow steps a man in a gray suit. He grabs her by the forearm. She tries to wrench it free, but his hold tightens.

  “Comrade Mungiu? I have a few questions for you.”

  The Hunt

  Every Tuesday afternoon, he materializes from the shadows thrown by her apartment building, from the smoke emanated by his own cigarette. He tips his hat and Alina, turning her head away from the scar severing his eyebrow in half, hastily invites him to come in. She does not want to give him time to speak, to roll those dreaded words out of some dark recess of his mind: