Trafika Europe 6 - Arabesque

the physics of sorrow

a bit from the others’. Against the backdrop of the sober brown of their trench coats and suits, their macramé sweater-vests, and the older women’s headscarves, he looked as if coming from another, hostile—or so he thought—world. His short red jacket stood out like a sore thumb, while his jeans and sneakers, in all their casualness, looked strange amid the sharp creases all around him. He ducked off to the right, wanting to stroll for a bit through the deserted side streets. The warm September sun was shining. The faint scent of roasted peppers waf ted from somewhere. Flags were hanging from some of the windows. On one corner, a swarthy grubby man of indeterminate agewas selling funnels of sunflower seeds,

just like back in the day. The funnel is an ingenious invention, his father had loved to say, the cone gives a sense of height and volume, yet the inside holds a much smaller amount, the ideal shape for commerce. He bought himself a funnel. It was made of a piece of old newspaper. Just like in the old days, he thought yet again on that day. Once upon a time, everything could be made from old newspaper—from a painter’s cap to a lampshade. As a rule, everything could be made from everything you had at hand. He could read parts of words, numbers and percentage signs on the scrap of newspaper, which was cer tainly from back then, with that unmistakable ink and font. If this is a movie shoot, they really have thought of everything

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