Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Life Begins on Friday

My eyes remained glued on his clothing: an elegant, seemingly brand-new suit, whose pieces I could not quite name, and tall, highly polished black boots. Beside him a hat had been cast aside, but there was nothing other than that. I saw he was breathing. There was no doubt that he was alive. ‘It was the devil himself made me leave the house today, to get away from my wife’s brattle, and now I’ve met the devil himself, God forgive me. What to do?’ He suddenly turned around and looked at me suspiciously. ‘It wasn’t you, was it?’ He bent his forefinger, as if pulling a trigger. ‘I? God forbid! I don’t know one end of a gun from another.’ ‘Come off it! You can’t fool me. Where’s your

bistol?’ ‘What do you mean? I don’t have a pistol,’ I said, feeling like a bad actor in a good play. ‘What are you jabbering on about?’ Petre began to shout. ‘I’ll bunch you in the head, see if I don’t!’ And he brandished his fists at me. ‘I have never held a pistol in my life,understandthatonce and for all! I have never seen this... this boy in my life. He should be taken to hospital as amatter of urgency. I think he has fainted. I do not even know where I am. I do not recognize anything. I think I must have fainted myself. Maybe I fell. Maybe I was struck. I do not understand anything of this. Anything at all!’ Unfortunately my voice trembled. Petre gave me

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