92 292
Mircea Cartarescu
92
I crossed the waste ground
until I got in front of the
door. Beyond the black bars
the glass was broken. The
square windows as well. A
cold wind, smelling of wall
debris came from inside.
A piece of paper with “For
sale” written in ball pen
was stuck next to the door.
Underneath there was a
phone number and “Ask for
Mikola”. I went around the
housewhiletheduskbecame
denser. Behind it there was
another street entirely, with
grey apartment buildings,
as if the tree of streets in
the neighbourhood had
produced those fruit of
Creole exuberance and
sadness only in Maica
Domnului. There had been
another entrance once on
the blind wall at the back of
the house, but it was now
closed with bricks. At that
moment, in front of that
blind entrance, I saw myself
living there my entire life,
because if every house is the
image of the one inhabiting
it, no matter how deformed
and deceitful, then I knew
that there, in that tesseract
of ash, I had found my most
flawless self-portrait. I was
already imagining myself
in the narrow room of the
tower, looking at the sky
through the round window,
while the horizon was
getting dirty yellow and the
first stars were coming out
in this lamp oil shade.
As soon as I got home that
evening I talked to my folks
about buying the house.
My mother knew Maica
Domnului verywell, street of
hookers and knifers. Shouts
and reproaches began: “Is