Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

Dana Grigorcea

“Luca,” he’d replied. “No way is your name Luca!” He’d laughed. “Ok, my name’s Arnold.” “That’s more like it—Arnold suits you.”

I’d given him money to buy candles, and as he kissed my hand—he didn’t even have to bend—I became aware that the candle kiosk’s price list was still in the old currency, and I’d always paid in the new currency. I remember regretting this discovery not because I’d been mistaken, which would’ve been an inglorious admission for anyone in my profession, but rather because from now on I’d have to fight a feeling of false humility every time I went to buy candles with the usual amount. As the sunlight grows brighter, the streets become more and more bleached of color. Skinny dogs cross the street at a leisurely pace, it’s a miracle they aren’t run over. One of them is all wet, ducks into the crowd, and crosses the street several times with all the pedestrians, always obeying the traffic lights. Suddenly he stops in themiddle of the crosswalk and looks around, unsure whom to follow—the people heading towards the university hospital, or those heading toward Heroes’ Square. So he simply stops, plops down, looks to both sides, and starts scratching his ear with a hind leg.

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