He dreamed of being an actor. Or an actress. In theater, you can play anything. That's the principle of artistic versatility. He liked to step into the skin of any character; that's how he felt he was someone. That he had a certain worth. He was more prepared than anyone else. He could quote any line ever written, even at midnight. An eternal memory. He was envied, yet despite all this, he had never passed a casting. When the role of the prompter became available, he didn't even blink. He took his scene partner by the hand and, from the cup of his palm, whispered: To be, or
Dan Banu
To be or not to be, the actor declaimed. He had died long ago, but his costume always looked immaculate under the stage lights. The seven-year memorial had passed, yet he still tried to find the meaning of life, holding a man's head in his palm at every performance, usually from the front row. Who would carry the burden of life, if not for the fear of the mystery that follows, the actor concluded apocalyptically, as the head nodded as though it understood. The spectators ran toward the box office to buy as many tickets as they could.
Horațiu Dudău
I keep imagining that rotten curve and what the hell was going through his mind that he didn't see it. How he cracked his skull. How his brains smeared the steering wheel. So many years have passed, and I still wake up at night, going to his coffin to hold him in my arms. To ask him for forgiveness for not being with him that night. Maybe I should have insisted on doing something else. But all I see is the cracked skull. Empty. White. Silent. No matter how I turn it, all I can see is the crack. And I hear him telling me we'll see each other tomorrow. At the bar downtown. Where I never showed up.
(Translated by Carmen Badea / 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.