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Mircea Cartarescu
90
like medieval fortresses,
another one looks like a
tram depot, a third one is
simply a solemn vault in the
middle of a yard with not
one single flower. When the
evening falls, the scene gets
soaked in blood like gauze
and becomes unbearable.
Most gardens have white
and pale purple four o’clock
flowers that darken the
evening air with their smell.
In others you can only see
weeds. At dusk the people
who live here go out in the
street and squat in front
of their strange houses,
being stranger and more
enigmatic
themselves.
Most of them are gypsies
sheltered in the ruins. They
don’t have running water or
electricity and pay no taxes.
There are also Romanians
of the suburbs, carpenters
working in undertakers’
shops, tool men in this or
that factory, tram ticket
sellers. They sit around in the
evening, their sleeves rolled
up. You can also see them
on the balconies – young
girls dressed like prostitutes
hang undershirts, bras,
underpants
and
flashy
coloured
unidentifiable
rags. Dangerous looking
tattooed men smoke while
looking towards the end of
the street. They all speak
loudly, seem to quarrel
endlessly, however there is
something so melancholic
in them, that one must
admit they are the most
appropriate dwellers of my
street.
You have to go along the
street for a long time in
order to reach the house in
the shape of a ship. It is the