I could go anywhere. Any city was a stone's throw away. It was even better than the magic carpet I dreamed of as a child. I'd say goodbye to the people who annoyed me and forget they existed. I could take pictures of nature, which had never been more beautiful. A village clustered around a white church with a gold or silver roof and a river nearby was fairy-tale-like. I also loved the smell of petrol. It was more savoury than any French or Arabian perfume, floral or sweet. It was stronger than any drug.
Miruna Marin
It's been ringing insistently for minutes. With sleep-clouded eyes, the young resident doctor opens the door. In the doorway there was a small, puny one. Doctor, help me, you have a car. My wife's having a baby, I called the ambulance, but it's not coming and there's no time. It's the fourth, you know. The resident pulls on his shoes, grabs his coat as he walks, Wife, I'm running to help the neighbour. In a few moments the familiar purr of Dacia car is heard. Then silence. Quick footsteps on the stairs. Anca, do you still know how to tie the umbilical cord from obstetrics? The neighbour gave birth in the back seat.
Ana-Maria Butuza
Hope, named after the famous saying, was the service car ridden by the bosses to the construction sites where it was sent. From Tulcea we came to Cluj at most once a month, slowly, because the rusty frame, the wheels that jammed or other problems that took it on the long road didn't hold it. And as we were going down to Brașov, two of us in the car, a heavy rain blew our wipers. The driver was screaming: I can't stop, I can't see anything. I was half out the window, wiping the windscreen with a T-shirt while the radio crackled: the weather will be sunny.
(Translated by Andreea-Daniela Vasilache / 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.