The boy is shivering in the corner of the room. He has his hands over his ears and is crouching. His lip is swollen and his body is bruised. He is afraid. A mad fear. So many times he's thought of throwing himself out the window. Maybe he could even fly, like Peter Pan, or at least run away from this house to an island of only children hiding from their parents. The door hit the wall. A window cracked. It's storming outside. A fist hits a child's head. A woman falls to the ground. Screaming. Swearing. Police. Hospital. Courthouse. Children's home.
Titela Durnea
Her mother had cast her out in the cornfield when the caravan was passing through the village. The exchange was fair: 100 lei. As long as she didn't know, she was alive. Years among the copper-smiths, a merry-go-round: ripe apples, stew with polenta, bruises, bathing wherever she could, the fervent gypsy dance. She also took lessons. Of limping and begging. She gathered the most on the plate because her skin was white and tender and her belt imprint was clear. Late, when her mother found her and told her the truth, before the woman's eyes a child and a world met their end.
Nelida Holban
At the end of the market I find a stall with clay pots. I look at the jugs, the mugs. The old woman who sells them tells me that the women here are handing out cups of water. They decorate their handles with flowers and give them as handouts for their unborn children. To forgive their sin? No, to appease their heartfelt sorrow. That is not to be erased, dear. It's a heavy sin, one to be paid for, she sighs. I take a glazed mug and hand her the money. May God receive it. I feel like I can't get enough air. I leave with a burning heart. The payment? I've never had children.
(Translated by Victor Albei / 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.