Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Doina RuSti

The dancers that Mustafa toldof spokeneither Turkish, nor Greek. “You won’t believe me,” he said while rolling his eyes, “but these people speak Wallachian!” “Aha,” the teacher lightened up.“Perhapsyou’respeaking of Bucharest!” The city’s name brought about a moment of silence. “One of my grandparents went to Bucharest,” Okimon went on. The mere thought that in the vastness of the Empire there were other people who spoke his language made Ioanis feel warm. He didn’t even realise that this ordinary finding brought along with it the invading breeze of the word Bucharest, that hadn’t quite

sounded exotic. This was the beginning which opened with the passing of time. Mustafa’s mouth moving under his moustache, the teacher clarifying things with bright eyes. “My friend’s brother,” Mustafa said. “One of my grandparents,” Okimon had added. Thesedarershadopenedthe gate. The friend’s brother was a sailor with a tobacco- matted beard. The teacher’s grandparent sold olives and smoked mullet. Still caressing the cloth, Ioanis remained still. His profile reflected against the shop window, with his nose protruding as the back of a carp. Okimon thought that the

34