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Doina RuSti
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the cover of the green hat
of a small stand. On the
painted plank there was a
string of honey jars, wax and
honeycombs - out of which
sometimes popped out the
tuft of a bee’s head.
However, despite his sitting
motionless on the chair of
spruce wood, beyond his
gentle face, there was a
commotion as great as that
within the heart of a hive,
as he feverishly took in the
rustling of silk hems, thighs
moistened with all the
moving about, reddened
ears and the distant clamor
from coral lips.
He seemed to be nailed to
the chair with the backrest,
but his whole being was part
of the thick lifeof themarket.
And in the siege of reaching
arms, among their agitated
temples, their waving curls,
there was always someone,
a woman like acacia syrup,
for whom Eugen the monk
would give up his life. And
it was not only an impulse,
but an engagement he so
thoroughly lived that if
someone entered under
his canopy, even the abbot
himself or Saint Michael in
the flesh, they would not
have been able to wake him
up. Not even the side of an
eyebrow would have moved
on his face.
When Eugen detected a
woman to his taste, he
summoned his forces.
It was never a question of
a particular woman. There
was no typology of the
victim. On the contrary,
Eugen’s women were each
quite different – young
and old, happy and eroded
by discontent, there were