He discovered Johnny Răducanu[1] during a break. The multitude of timeless sounds tickled his ears, giving him hope that pieces torn from the chaos could shape into something masterful. The best student from the University of Music, he was roaming around the old town in a shabby waiter's uniform outside of his study hours. That was until an uneducated scalper slapped him because he didn't get bread with his pasta. It was the fall of 1991, when the jeans' generation was passionately screaming in front of the factories: We are not selling our country. We are not selling our country.
I wipe away my tears, looking at the stranger in the mirror. I tie my hair up in a perfect bun, redo my makeup and use his last gift: the lipstick. I put on my evening gown and leave the booth. The dark corridor leads me to the hall. In the diffused light, the spangles become thousands of fireflies that attract attention. The murmur becomes deep silence. When I step on stage, the pianist tenderly caresses the keys. The saxophone and double bass accompany it. I take a deep breath. And one, two, three: Maybe this time, I'll be lucky. Maybe this time, he'll stay.
Aurelian Țolescu
I had always loved her. Years had passed and I still think about her. She was beautiful, warm, petite, quick-witted and she always listened to me. Our love lasted almost 10 years and I don't have a single word, nor moment of regret with her. I adored her embrace, her scent, the warm sound. I was careful and attentive to her so nothing would happen, so she wouldn't get sick or get mad about God knows what and get out of the picture. I adored her and had great respect for her. She never let me down, my dear Honda Jazz[1].
[1]Here, the author uses the term for the music genre to refer to a model of car.
(Translated by Ioana Bobeanu / 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.