The Face of the Eye, struck on every coin looked down on us like a tyrant. It was he who determined who lived and died. He knew our secrets better than we did. I rolled the last penny of his surface between the pads of my fingers, wrinkled from swimming. I slipped it into my pocket, a reminder of the purgatory I'd lived in. I was standing across the river that separates oblivion from hope, pain from triumph, and I thought I was going to be all right. Somewhere, in a camp, my name will no longer be remembered.
Camil Popescu
No one is truly present except in love and sickness. The rest of the time we live off memories, with brief breaks for coffee, a cigarette or the two bottles of ice-cold white wine I had just grabbed when she suddenly jumped into my arms. She had been lurking, as the poet says, and for a split second she cut me off from the past. But only when she was gone did I hear her words again, piece her smile back together again, just like paradise only exists once you've lost it.
Gabriela Marinescu
I've had countless absences without leave in life's catalogue. My parents took me to the piano, I was peeking at the boxing gym. At 16, I saw her playing guitar in the park through black eyes. At 23, all bandaged up I was applauding her great piano concert with my eyes. By 25, I was holding the crutch in one hand and a picture of her smiling and showing me our child in the other. His first day of school, his first school celebration, I saw them both in photos. I still have them scattered on my porch. She and the baby went off to be happy.
(Translated by Adela Neacșu / 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.