Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Ioana Pârvulescu

letters: L’INDÉPENDANCE ROUMAINE. The letters U and M, which were below a chimney, were blackened with soot. Bells were ringing somewhere nearby. Then I heard, like an echo, the chimes of clock, of the sort that provides entertainment to those new to the city. ‘They still haven’t appointed a new director at L’Endebandans, to reblace Mr Lahovary,’ said Petre, who was suddenly talkative. ‘I read it yesterday in Universul. Whoever they bring in, the baber won’t change its bolicy. True, they bretend they’re not caught up in bolitics. But that’s what they all say!’ The street advanced in time with our sleigh, strangely fast. We reached an intersection that I was seemingly seeing for the

first time, we crossed it with diffculty, since sleighs and carriages were passing along the boulevard and were not prepared to wait, and then we turned right, coming to an immediate stop. We were plunged within the shadow of a wall. I recalled the unconscious young man and wondered whether he might have died in the meantime. I looked at him and he seemed to groan. There was something terribly childlike about his face, and his blond, longish hair covering part of his cheek. An imposing, yellowish, two-storey building loomed before us, and above the entrance, beneath the coat of arms, was embedded a clock, whose hands showed half past two. And beneath the clock, large stone letters read: PREFECTURE OF THE

166