I’m in Bucharest for the presentation of “The story of my baldness.” My publisher here, Denisa Comanescu, is utterly charming. Sometimes she grabs my hand and leads me to the next journalist.
My translator is charming as well.
During dinner we spoke extensively about the last days of Nicolae Ceausescu. According to my Romanian friends here the files of the Securitate were never really opened. The files about the informers are open now, but the files about the officers will probably be closed forever.