29 292
The Phanariot Manuscript
29
he had his eyes on.
Back on the street, he
had come to life. Maiorca
wanted to go home but,
in an impulsive moment,
he grabbed her by the
arm that was holding the
basket
without
letting
her out of his sight, even
though he couldn’t see
her. Through his retina
he could see all her faces
which had tortured him in
fast-forward. His first words
came out thoughtlessly.
When the soul is simmering,
the mouth speaks the fakest
words, songs without fire,
without value. That’s why
it is said that only people
of lukewarm emotions are
capable of forging speeches
of great emotion. Although
a robust declaration was
stirring in his soul, his lips
asked her how she was,
as if they had only parted
yesterday. The girl smiled
and the noise of the street
sunk into ground. From
the bread basket spilled a
subtle calling. Maiorca said
something, a short phrase
and his nostrils swelled.
Through the crowd that
was swarming the bridges,
the two silhouettes shown
like torches. She walked in
front of him, with her arm
around the basket and he
was hitting the cobblestone
with the tip of his walking
stick, three steps behind her
skirts. Beyond the bridge
lay Bozăria and above them
the sun was burning, raising
waves of poisoned raw
foods.
No Greek had ever entered
Bozăria. Just like him, any
southerner who made it to
the city learned immediately