I saw cabbage at the market. It reminded me of dad. Around this time, we used to go buy cabbage. He'd start this operation just when I was busiest at work. If I told him I would come later, he was capable of taking a taxi and wrestling with the sack of cabbage. Dad used to pickle cabbage. It was the best. When I was a kid, I cut the tube he used to aerate it to make myself a tuber man gun. He didn't scold me. The next day, he went out and bought another tube. I miss pickled cabbage. And now I'm busy at work again.
George Dometi
I wouldn't start now to make a case for my suffering to show how destroyed I am. I count on your imagination. Limited, of course, but without feeling insulted, I want you to strip me leaf by leaf. There are 36 sheets, divided into 9 layers. For the first 6, I was happy, because I remember nothing. Then I met death. In the years of darkness, immobility, and illness, I experienced everything. Everything drained from me with pain, disappointment, and despair. With slimy hands, I roll up the unhappiness. Tasty?
Arthur Ianoși
What's the difference between cabbage and stork to me, I don't really care about either. I'm at the age where I no longer believe in Santa Claus. Not because he doesn't exist, but after my last letter, in which, to be honest, I didn't ask for much, he brought me an onion with a message. I quote: An onion is like cabbage, many layers before you get to the core. I admit, it brought tears to my eyes, but if I ask for steak and you bring me salad, if I ask for size S and you bring me XL, it's clear that somewhere along the way, we lost track or you're making me fat. Lesson learned, writing doesn't fill the belly.
(Translated by Claudia Garofina Greculeac / 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.