Mister officer, I swear on my life that three days ago, when I last walked into this pub, there were no roads here. I mean, there was a road, but \'twas one of them dirt roads: with stones and potholes. I've never seen any of your colleagues \'round. I mean, they were \'round, but inside the pub, not \'round it. And now, there's suddenly asphalt, smooth like butter, and a speed bump, and you're out with the radar, handing out fines? I'm lost, boss. It's simple, citizen; we're in an election campaign, the mayor had the road paved.
Gheorghiță Mircea
The tavern was on the road. In my way. I walk in and ask. Who put the tavern on the road?[1] No one replies. I repeat the question. Again, no one replies. I scan the room and, one by one, I look into the eyes of those who have frozen in front of the bottles and glasses, and who, one by one, lower their gazes in shame. A deep silence sets in. The tension reaches its peak, and I feel my nerves stretched to the limit. Nobody knows? How is that possible? Someone tries to answer. We've had it here as long as we can remember. Hey, idiots, that was a rhetorical question.
[1] This text is a pun based on the famous Romanian song, "Cine-a pus cârciuma-n drum" by Ileana Sărăroiu.
That little dried bouquet smelled of youth. How could I forget itit? I pictured myself at that tavern on the outskirts of Sibiu, where we ended up after the mountain had tested us on a trip to Parâng. We felt a touch of sadness; the farewell was near. I had only exchanged a few words with him, even though he had been my guardian angel throughout the journey. A flowerless florist approached our table, selling basil. I was the only girl who received that fragrant bouquet. I knew that basil meant marriage. He didn't.
(Translated by Andreea-Nicoleta Ban / 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.