There is no one up the street. Or down the street. He pushes aside some fence boards and slips into the back yard. A dog is barking somewhere. He swallows dry. No one. He knows the place well, 33 paces ahead, left, round the woodpile crackling with mould and rot. Through the broken window, he slips his body and the darkness swallows him. For one night, Saul dreams fondly of the days when the shop was still his. He does not know that I, Raphael, his guardian angel, am watching over his sleep, perched on a pile of wood rustling with mould and rot.
(Translated by Oana Georgiana Minea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by prof. dr. Nadina Vișan / Edited by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.