The sea had never seen so far away. The rapeseed fields, irritably yellow, were making the trip seem an endless slope through a viscous land, on top of which clouds were floating in the shape of Dali's liquid clocks. They were not in the mood for talk. Him - paying attention to the road, her - with eyes glued to the phone. They could've been mistaken for two wax figures. How much longer?, she breaks the silence, turning on the radio. A chorus erupts out of it, taking them straight to the hot beach and melting their hearts.
George Dometi
The greenhouse was brimming with vegetables, the damp earth was vibrating, little leaves were dancing within a courageous gust of lisps wind that was hissing through a broken window. Then, the buzzing of bees began dancing hora[1] with the arrangements of a samba song. The old crone Zenobia heard that plants grow more with classical music, but she only had a stereo with little lights inside the speakers and a cassette tape from when she was young and playing around with bumpkin Chirpic. And so, she put it on for the cucumbers, which eventually grew. Even so, tomatoes and okras are the ones which love music the most.
The hora started in the yard, onward concrete. Shirts unbuttoned, wreaths of sweat and prolonged shouts. Get a hold of yourselves, the weather-beaten woman shouted. I've had enough of your frolicking. Don't you dare knock over my geraniums, goddamn you! The rhythm changed, the hora becoming a couple dance. Cousin Nae, left unmatched, was swaying like a hit boa, closer and closer to the terracotta vases. One nefarious second, and he was down. Shards, soil and terror. Goddamn your lambada and all! Drinking must've clouded your minds.
(Translated by Adelina-Maria Mănăilescu / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year II / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)
Versiunea în română a acestui text se poate citi aici, în rubrica Ficțiuni Reale.