34 292
Doina RuSti
34
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