Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Ioana Pârvulescu

Rather than clicking his heels and saying: ‘Yes, sir!’ the Police’s best coachman soundlessly moved his lips. He knew very well that at Dr Rosenberg’s Hospice, patients without any name or papers were taken in, many of them in a serious condition. The City Hall paid an annual fee to the Hospice for this service, and likewise to Dr Șuțu’s establishment on Plantelor Street, where persons with no means of subsistence were treated. And on top of this, his wife was expecting him at home, as he had to slaughter the pig. It was the Feast of St Ignatius, after all. You can tell the chief’s a bachelor! He thought to himself. Why had he got it into his head to make a suggestion like that, when he knew the chiefs’ working method: if you’re the one

who comes up with an idea, then you’re the one who acts on it? He ought to be charier with his words. But he promised himself that he would go home first and then visit every madhouse in the city. That vagrant was a menace. Since Petre brought him in yesterday, things had been going badly for everyone. He was like a curse. ‘Who relieved you?’ asked Costache. ‘I sent Ilie, ’cause he’s got a fast cab. But if it were up to me, two legs would be just as good. You don’t need four wheels to follow him.’ ‘All right, never mind. See you don’t stop off at home first! There’s plenty of time for the pig this afternoon!’ called the chief after the coachman, confirming his reputation as a mind reader.

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