The sourish air in the village's beanery is pierced by laughter or cheers. With his badass bill on the back of his head and his baggy t-shirt, Vasile walks in swaying and heads straight for the bar, where he winks at the curvy Ana, who quickly places a full glass on the counter. He wiped it off his chin, then waves some bills and loudly, with his voice strangled, roars: My Ferrari, a place for everyone. Then he looks down at the empty glass bacchicly sad . Forget it, uncle Nelu empathically says, you'll buy yourself another moto-digger in the spring.
Carmen-Ecaterina Ciobâcă
From here, the houses in Bel Air series look like puzzle pieces. Anxiety is circling me. I chase it away by sipping from my glass. A knock. It's him. Crooked, shabby coat, dull smile. He shows me a picture of her. This dress ordered from Paris is worn with buttons down the back, he says. A woman would know for sure. Oh, one more thing: no one confirms you were at the golf class. I shift my gaze to the window again. Is that an European car? I ask, seeing his decrepit Peugeot. I had one too. Passionate red. I got away. First of her. Now of my wife.
Julia Sandu
Longing for a change, I sold my Ferrari for a herd of multilingual horses. These polyglot equines, led by a linguistic stallion, could speak five languages fluently. At first, friends questioned my sanity, but soon the horses became basically the talk of the town. They neighed Italian poetry, discussed philosophy in French and performed stand-up comedy in Japanese. So, having a full stable, I've learned that power is not just about horse-power, but sometimes about the eloquence of hooves.
(Translated by Florina Georgiana Țîncu / 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.