The estate agent with the slicked back hair wiped his hand after touching mine. This attic is splendid by virtue of its vintage character, he told me. The Victorian stove is fragile, no cooking. No smoking, no parties, no women. Water runs only once a month, or we run the risk of the pipes bursting. But the rain often comes in through the roof. That corner over there, you see the mold, you can get rid of it with vinegar, it's easy, cheap. The bucket is in the other corner, on the house. Use the dumpster. Overall, 3000 dollars. Deal? I bent down and caught a rat. I put my tie on it. How about we do fifty-fifty?
Horațiu Dudău
He looked familiar. His features painted a familiar shape, of a time you're not sure you really lived through. Past 60, the man had the sadness of a hostage left behind for eternity. He put money on the table for the next 10 years. He seemed a little nervous, as if he had to meet someone after a long time. He asked for the key, went upstairs and disappeared behind the door. A picture when you close your eyes. Every evening since then, dance-like steps could be heard in the attic, in the delirium of a song that kept repeating itself.
Oana Brumă
That's how the ad sounded in Dutch. My master's program was starting in two days, and Iris ked sleeping in the train station. A greasy-haired Pakistani was going to be my flatmate. I was going to sleep on a mattress on the floor, but I couldn't afford to be finicky. The room temperature didn't go beyond 15 degrees and, to top it all off, my roommate who was doing his PhD was also tricky. I played it dumb, kept asking him about his wife and kid. All of this aside, the mouse scurrying over the stove among grains of rice with curry was actually my limit. And gone I was.
(Translated by Alina-Alexandra Șovar / 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.