Aunt Rada used to put us around a round table with three short legs and slam a bowl of polenta in the middle. There was no point in bragging, and I would quickly plunge the wooden spoon into the bowl. With a couple of her peers, Aunt Rada was guarding the mouth of the basement entrance, which covered the bottles with oily yellow liquor, the source of the story. We children were chased over the brook, where a stream of crazy trout flowed. When we returned, the women cried and laughed and told me, unabashedly for the evil eye, that I was too blonde.
Costi Gălățanu
It leaves at night. Finally, I turn on the radio. I wait a little. Hiss, hiss, hiss, stop. I hear something. Turn it back a bit. Too much. Forward a little. There you go. Shut up. Radio Free Europe. Close the door, I can hear the little ones. Shut up. Man, turn it down, the whole block can hear. Shut up, man, can't you hear? Ah, the power's out. Fucking hell. Light the candle. Knock on the door. Will you get it? Are you expecting someone? I'm not expecting anyone. All right, I'll get it. Who was that? Neighbor from the second floor. She needed garlic bulb. She's making aspic.
Ionuț Tuhoarcă
You know when you drink too much? And you remember elementary school. The French lady. She was good to us. Or was she goot at manual work? She'd take you to the blackboard. Monseur. Learn the verbs, little brother, and you'll be somebody. No, I didn't learn them and I became a butler. You know how hundreds stick to me? I open the door. Closing the door. Welcome, sir. Madam. Not to mention high school. Pimples. Coeds. Angel-faced brutes. Hanging out with the older boys. And you wanted in. But what did they care?
(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.