Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

The Phanariot Manuscript

he had his eyes on. Back on the street, he had come to life. Maiorca wanted to go home but, in an impulsive moment, he grabbed her by the arm that was holding the basket without letting her out of his sight, even though he couldn’t see her. Through his retina he could see all her faces which had tortured him in fast-forward. His first words came out thoughtlessly. When the soul is simmering, the mouth speaks the fakest words, songs without fire, without value. That’s why it is said that only people of lukewarm emotions are capable of forging speeches of great emotion. Although a robust declaration was stirring in his soul, his lips asked her how she was,

as if they had only parted yesterday. The girl smiled and the noise of the street sunk into ground. From the bread basket spilled a subtle calling. Maiorca said something, a short phrase and his nostrils swelled. Through the crowd that was swarming the bridges, the two silhouettes shown like torches. She walked in front of him, with her arm around the basket and he was hitting the cobblestone with the tip of his walking stick, three steps behind her skirts. Beyond the bridge lay Bozăria and above them the sun was burning, raising waves of poisoned raw foods. No Greek had ever entered Bozăria. Just like him, any southerner who made it to the city learned immediately

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