Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

The Phanariot Manuscript

constantly carrying all sorts of bags with blue herring, silver mullet, grumpy goby and turbot all lined up piece by piece in wicker baskets. All this remained forever engraved in his memory alongside his father’s face, embossed against the sky as a big sunflower hat, dried and blackened by rain. His parent’s namewas Bradu Milikopu, an honourable name, well-known in the whole neighbourhood, not necessarily for some heroic deeds, but for his pocked face and his blazing eyes that hid a single burning desire by the name of Lambros Katsonis. On that April morning, after the last basket was laid under the stall, Ioanis ran off as usual. Mustafa’s shop was in the other part

of town, a small business, crammed into one room with a wooden ceiling. Into this room lined with fabrics and shawls, Ioanis would go everyday only to touch the huge ballots of cloth, to weigh the rolls of Indian satin and feel the Mosul silk because few things can compare to the softness of textiles that slip between the index finger and the thumb like a drop of warm tea. Sometimes, he would go by Mustafa’s just to feel under the palm of his hand a pack of brocade or to absorb the pastel colours of muslin with his eyes. And when he had some money, he would buy scraps, leftovers from others, even small patches of cloth that no one wanted. He would make adornments for turbans, gloves, bags

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