I can't make it to the match, i'm not feeling well, said the man on the phone. I have a bad cold, my eyes and nose are running, I am such a mess. He looked in the mirror once again, his right eye was glassy and purple, and his left eye was blinking under the bloated eye socket. He stumbled upon the house slippers that were thrown around the room and he started to cry. The devil pushed me to taste absently the stuffed cabbage rolls which she cooked for me. But even worse was the tabu remark that he made when he said out of the blue that his mother cooked them better, saltier, with more smoked meat.
Ana-Maria Butuza
I found myself a lover from Țara Oașului[1]. When he introduced me to his family, I had to wear their traditional costume: cămeșă, cheptar, pindileu cu pogmată, zadie, zgardă, opinci[2] and a chischineu[3] on my head. 40 degrees outside, I was sweating, but mostly because I was very nervous, for, from the courtyards, from behind the fences, cooks were screaming: I would marry if I could find a bride. As for me, I didn't feel like a bride at all, wrapped in all these clothes, like a decorated stuffed cabbage roll, ready to be eaten by the greedy mouth of my future mother-in-law.
[1] A region of Romania located in the north-east part of Satu Mare County.
[2] Romanian archaisms describing clothing items from Romanian folk costume: shirt, sleevles fur coat, white linen skirt, wool fabric belt, woollen fabric decorated with wide black and red stripes, worn over the skirt, one side at the front and one at the back, necklace, traditional leather shoes.
[3] A scarf, part of the Romanian folk costume.
I stand uncertain on my legs and I watch, well, suddenly I hear the voice of my sister, you didn't get me what I asked for, the heavy rain is unleashing, who would still enjoy the Easter now, being afraid, I pull a layer of leaves over myself to protect myself from the evil, my brother makes a fuss because he doesn't have shoes like the mayor's son, the parents are crying, I hide, I get into the dance of literature, a big quarrel, I hide myself, I pull all the leaves over myself so that no drop of light from the sun could go through, I write, I write, my leaves are growing white, skilled hands are taking my clothes off, pickling me.
(Translated by Diana Sitaru / 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.