Back then I did not know people by their names, by their ages. I knew them by the sound of their voice, by the smell, by the small details that no one else noticed. Aunty Roaită smelled like thin doughnuts[1] and homemade biscuits. Her fingers were like biscuits pressed in a machine, always looking for lint and imaginary creases. Octavian smelled like tobacco and vaseline. Each house had its own smell. All houses were big, I was looking at them upside down. I returned there like a Gulliver over time. My houses were now small.
[1]Minciunele, in a diminutive form,has to do with abakery product known in Romania, not necessarily with what we normally understand in English aslies. Because the next noun phrase is also linked to a pastry product (biscuiți de casă), I gave a personal translation of minciunele, based on its already known aspect in Romanian culture.
Augustin Bănică
He was walking along the cliff with bulging pockets. Despite the untrimmed beard which made him look like a sea urchin carried through the dusty recesses of solitude, he seemed ready when ever to pull out sponges, sponge cake[1] or a pigeon out of the top hat. He bragged that he had received it as a gift from a great circus performer, others said that it was from his dad and this what all he was left with when the Circus had left him at Customs, because he was just a good-for-nothing. He used to juggle empty beer bottles for full ones, that was in his youth, now he did not even change the spot where he begged.
[1]In Romania, the term burete may as well describe a type of mushroom, therefore we can assume the author might have thought of that; the English sponge, however, does not refer to fungi. But the two objects, bureți and pandișpan have a spongy quality.
How much more does a second cost? The apparition replied to him without looking at him from under the shadow of the hood: I do not sell in pieces: I have no time to waste on small talk, either you buy the entire time, or he himself will buy you wholly. Fine, how much? A silver. The unfortunate man reached into his hole in his pocket and lift it up empty. Then he stood with his palm over the for ages out stretched claw measured in a blink of eyelashes. Pieces fell. How much is it here? A silver. All of it? If you don't believe it, count it. Alright, it is granted. The groundhog did not know how to count.
(Translated by Irina Vild / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.