Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

The Phanariot Manuscript

amongst themselves in Turkish, Jews whispered in their own language, which no one understood, and, as soon as you entered the Căţol neighbourhood, you could hear the words stuck in honey whose core only the Wallachians knew. For a few minutes the teacher praised Sultan Selim, who was celebrating exactly one year since coming to the throne. “A Greek, a friend of mine,” Mustafa felt the need to add, “told me that wages have gone up twice for sailors. My friend’s brother worked for Gazi Hasan.” As the teacher continued to stare at him intently, Mustafa added: “Some even climbed into the ranks!”

Through the shop’s window you could see the grey roofs and further away the sea was sparkling, which made Ioanis suddenly feel a close bond to the place, to the shop lined with silks and to the two men who were the most dear to him in all of Săruna. And then, in that moment, warm like a crayfish fit to be laid on the table, the blade of the word Bucharest crept into Ioanis’ life, into his young brain and his lustful heart. “My friend’s brother”, boasted Mustafa, “has become master over a city in which everyone dances!” The teacher doubted such a place existed, but the Turk kept chatting on, while Ioanis continued to caress the piece of fabric.

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