Day of Lasts

His eyes were the color of the chocolate-covered cherries displayed in the windows of the shop Lidia passed on her way to school every morning. He removed his gloves, their leather as smooth as liquid, and pressed them flat in sideways prayer on top of the envelope containing the train ticket and passport. He reached across the café table, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, the sleeve of his camel-hair coat riding up to reveal a gold watch strangling his fleshy wrist. “So. What do you think?” At fifteen, Lidia had already become familiar with the way boys looked at her, so different from even a year ago. But this? This was something entirely new. Leaving on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Her father used to sing that to her when she was little and couldn’t fall asleep. A friend who’d fled before the revolution had pulled some strings at the post office and sent him a collection of records he kept hidden in the back of the bedroom closet. Her father’s English was terrible, but Lidia hadn’t cared; she just liked the song, liked the sound of his unsteady voice—one she had begun to forget—wrestling with the tune. Now that she knew what the words meant, she imagined that her father had played a part in this whole situation. Maybe he, too, would be in France, waiting for her, and not, as her mother insisted, in Bucharest with his new family. “What’s that smile for, huh? I convinced you?” “Listen, sir—” “—What did I tell you? It’s Gheorghe.” “Sorry. Gheorghe.” Her cheeks burned. He was as old as her father. “Do you know a man named Marius Kovacs?” “Hungarian? Not familiar with him, no. Should I be?” He’s my father, she wanted to say, but didn’t. Gheorghe smiled, the corners of his mouth turning up like the curlicues of bruise-colored smoke trailing from his cigarette. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?” The underside of Lidia’s skin prickled. She imagined reaching up and plucking those delicious eyes from his face, popping them into her