Trafika Europe 8 - Romanian Holiday

Doina RuSti

the cover of the green hat of a small stand. On the painted plank there was a string of honey jars, wax and honeycombs - out of which sometimes popped out the tuft of a bee’s head. However, despite his sitting motionless on the chair of spruce wood, beyond his gentle face, there was a commotion as great as that within the heart of a hive, as he feverishly took in the rustling of silk hems, thighs moistened with all the moving about, reddened ears and the distant clamor from coral lips. He seemed to be nailed to the chair with the backrest, but his whole being was part of the thick lifeof themarket. And in the siege of reaching arms, among their agitated temples, their waving curls,

there was always someone, a woman like acacia syrup, for whom Eugen the monk would give up his life. And it was not only an impulse, but an engagement he so thoroughly lived that if someone entered under his canopy, even the abbot himself or Saint Michael in the flesh, they would not have been able to wake him up. Not even the side of an eyebrow would have moved on his face. When Eugen detected a woman to his taste, he summoned his forces. It was never a question of a particular woman. There was no typology of the victim. On the contrary, Eugen’s women were each quite different – young and old, happy and eroded by discontent, there were

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