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being extended with some
cotton of the same watery
green. Instead he made
them pockets, some big
visible ones, others hidden
in the lining, small pockets
for single coins, one on top
of the other, small slits in
the pleats next to the fly,
pockets for the waistband
and the hem, pockets within
pockets, sealed by buttons
or ornaments, embroidered
with silk, a total of 18
pockets.
And as he twisted the
thread and sucked in his lips,
through the open window
between the painted bars,
the sly April breeze brought
in the
Song of Selim
. And
suddenly his mind whirled
with dancers hopping, led
by a Greek, a friend of the
merchant Mustafa, dancers
with interwoven fingers
standing tiptoes, ready to
take flight. The name of
Bucharest was vibrating,
making his nostrils tremble.
Ioanis dropped the needle
and ran after the singer
who was minding his own
business, raising his thin
flute-like voice anytime he
mentioned the dream city’s
name – Bucharest.
Ioanis’s mouth dropped
when
he
heard
that
Macariotatos
Selim himself
had composed this song
and he sung it so many time
that evening and during the
following days that every
last member of the Milikopu
family knew the lyrics.
Mustafa was the first person
to see the new trousers.
Unlike the teacher, he was
pretty optimistic about the