This land, which we passionately call homeland, is just an open cemetery, full of pits that we have dug for each other. I spit my habit in the morning, in front of a Hungarian, as if to mark my territory. By evening, I make sure I've left my mark on a Romani or a Jew. Then, with hands stained by hatred, I cross myself and swallow a cabbage roll, convinced that my purity has remained untouched. Night falls over the city, and I go to sleep. Dreaming, the ground is cracked beneath me and I wonder who dug my grave.
George Dometi
I've worked here for nearly ten years and every week I see him coming in. Dressed as if for a date. He's always carrying his bouquet of hydrangeas, which he puts in the bronze-green vase. Sitting on one knee, he whispers all sorts of syrupy stories for half an hour. He rarely uses his handkerchief, but when he does, rain clouds gather. Lumbering and slouching, he leaves the alley and hides behind a clump of weathered wood. He's soaking the grass. Shall I tell him that that grave belongs to his wife's lover? I think he knows.
Vlad Mușat
I've fought in many galas, but this is the most important match. I stand in front of his house and I see the same crusty window, and beyond it, a child beaten brutally. I ran away from home when I was 12 and promised him, I'd come back. My father was a world champion boxer. I ring the doorbell, custom ringtone, Eye of the tiger. He opens and, for some reason, I don't stay on guard. His fist hits my jaw. He's still got power. Who are you, motherfucker? I don't say a word, I smile and put a white towel in his arms.
(Translated by Andreea Georgiana Bogdan / 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.