Jazz

Daniela G. Pătrașcu
In a corner of the café, lit only by the first snowflakes of the year and a flickering candle, we looked at each other hidden behind the steam of our tea. Maybe it was just the piano with its divine sounds complementing the clarinet, trumpet and double bass, I don't know whose fault it was, but I felt like saying YES. I went to the restroom, and he went to get the car out of the parking lot. When I came back, the people from the café were outside, waiting for the police and an ambulance for the young man who had jaywalked. The piano was silent. I haven't had tea when it snows ever since.
 
 Ana Maria Dobre-Nir
On the airplane, Clara stares out the window, trying to ignore Joel's gaze. It's their anniversary, and she dreams of experiencing the atmosphere of the Blue Note, where the light falls softly and the club rhythms twist through the shadows. But Joel grumbles, the place doesn't appeal to him, and New York isn't exactly his dream. They toss off, twisted lines, like dissonant notes. Eventually, Clara smiles: Maybe it's time to improvise. He smiles back, and their quarrel, like an unexpected solo, melts away, leaving room for a complicit silence.

Florina Hegedüs
With her yoke on her shoulder, she travels. Daily, from her gate to the end of the village. So much happens on the way, many a fine day, stray chickens, dust ruffled by carts. When she gets to the well, she draws water with a bucket. After drinking from a tin cup flattened in places, she shields her eyes from the sunlight as she looks in the distance. There is a car that pulls up beside her. A man gets out. He is thirsty. His shirt smells of cotton. He drinks, sits by the ripening rye field and sings. A quail leaping from the field awakes her. From the American dream.

(Translated by Oana-Elena Dragnea / University of Bucharest, Faculty of Foreign Languages and Literatures, MTTLC, year I / Corrected by Silvia Petrescu, coordinator of the translations)