Doina
Ruști

Occult beds

Publisher: Litera, 2020,

2-th edition: Litera, 2023 (author series)

72.000 wd

bestseller

particularly popular among young readers. It has even been incorporated into the curriculum of over 50 high schools, inspiring students to create book trailers like this one:

Synopsis

Flori (student, 20 years old) discovers a bed where she dreams of a strange forest of carobs. When she wakes up, her physiognomy is slightly different. She finds out that there are several such beds and begins to look for them: she enters unfamiliar houses, just to sleep for at least a few minutes in such a bed. One morning, waking up in such an unfamiliar house, he finds a man in a pool of blood. And this is her boyfriend, Lev (a bookseller and student of Letters). How did he get to this place? It is a mistery.

Flori runs away in panic, and on the way she remembers the love story between her and Lev. And this story is connected with occult beds.

In the 18th century, a carpenter built 28 carob beds. Each bed has mysterious powers. A bed generates strong passions. Another produces physiognomic changes. Another bed can kill, etc.

The history of the beds is gradually revealed: in fact, a seed from another dimension of the world accidentally arrives in our world. The accident is caused by Căpriceanu, a mediocre but very ambitious man.

He arrives in a universe populated by carobs, who live in perfect harmony. But for him it is not enough.

     While sleeping in a carob bed, Flori arrives in the carobs forest and communicates with Căpriceanu. The border between the two worlds is breaking.

In another form, Căpriceanu returns to our world from which he left, but in the 18th century. He has a history that reaches the present day, where he meets Flori again.

The denouement of the novel takes place in this meeting. We go back to the beginning of the book and find out what happened to Lev, how he ended up in a pool of blood, and what happens to him next.

Essentially, the novel follows the life of Flori: she is a teenage girl who does not read any books. She's smart, she knows everything on the net. He watches a book trailer and can talk about the book etc. He enrolls in the Faculty of Letters, but still does not read. Instead, she is passionate about the adventure of the mystical bed, and when she finds the manuscript about the carpenter, she passionately reads its story (a love story), unknowingly entering the universe of fiction, of reading, of literature.

Each character brings a message through his story.

Occult Beds

by Doina Rusti

excerpt translated into English by Alin Mărgescu

At last, she settles onto the bed, a ritual steeped in familiar emotion and expectancy that precedes every encounter. A subtle creak emanates from the bed, a recognition imbued with a subtle gladness for her touch. Singular in its understanding, the bed alone comprehends the convolutions of her mind, deciphering the lace-like movements of minuscule creatures concealed within her capillaries. Sixty-two days of anticipation culminate in this moment, where her fingers trace the wood, imprinting the recollections of days whose memory, though fading, detoxifies the soul. The board beneath her trembles delicately, as if extending a muted greeting. It stands at a modest height, barely reaching her shoulder blade. Despite her inclination against shorter boards, this one reveals its virtues—the supple grace with which it moulds to her back. Mere wood, an exquisite specimen, it flirts with the possibility of synthetic mimicry, adorned with everlasting plastic and polymer molecules. Yet, against all scepticism, she senses its authenticity, hearing its resonance, feeling the texture akin to moistened sand. In the midst of the board, an almost-melted sphere blends seamlessly into the wood. Her fingers trail along its implausible smoothness, reaching the snake's eye where her digit fits snugly, sinking into it like curd. A startled shiver courses through her, a reaction inexplicable even to herself. It's merely wood, an artifact carved by human hands, now adorned with the vestiges of ash and dust. Within the eye resides a dormant word, a slumbering essence, though imperceptible to sight and touch.

The board gracefully curves into a relaxed arc, enfolding the corners where two satraps’ repose. They might be lions, although their ears possess a slightly too-pointed elegance, and their tightly pursed lips suggest a role akin to bodyguards, perhaps in the service of a serpent. Spirits of the bed, genies, daemons—elusive entities that occupy the realm of obscurity and imagination.

Nestled behind the nightstand, she deftly discovers the socket, plugging in the charger. The fiery circle on her Samsung ignites, a visual proclamation of severe depletion. Clad in her attire, boots still firmly on her feet, she slips beneath the blanket. Beyond the window, the vibrant signs of Unirea illuminate the scene, while the Dâmbovița River flows nearby. Unheard but felt, its rhythm mirrors the subtle movements coursing through her blood. The room unfolds with tables, shelves, and stools, while a dark portal beckons her into the hallway.

As is her routine, the rustling of branches and the vision of a grove accompany her. The shadows cast by leaves serve as a gentle balm to her senses. A familiar surrender awaits—she knows she will soon succumb to the embrace of sleep. Beneath the foliage, her fingers embark on an ethereal dance, possessing an unimaginable length, adept at stirring the shoots of dreams.

Amidst these fading images, the ethereal journey commences. The clock in her mind, once of consequence, now rests in quiet dust. Misty movements solidify under the vaults, and she floats among white shadows beneath the trees—a tissue moistened by the warmth of a lung. Until a jarring interruption fractures her peaceful slumber. A nail pierces her forehead, a colossal comb extracts her from the realms of sleep, and the branches yield to a man’s desperate cry. Time languidly stitches the fragments together as she endeavours to reclaim her life —from the room to the signs of 'Unirea', the whispers of the Dâmbovița River, and the enigmatic bed demons. An unsettling fear diffuses like ash carried by the wind, infesting the fabric of her bedding. Gradually, comprehension dawns—what she perceived as an ethereal disturbance is, in reality, the persistent tolling of a doorbell, a prolonged sound that disrupts the sanctity of her thoughts. In a moment of indecision, she gazes at the door, her boots' tips emerging from beneath the blanket. The room shrouded in fog, the sky trembling behind the windows, the dawn remains a distant promise. The insistent doorbell drills into her consciousness once more. A persistent knock follows, signalling that the intruder is resolute, willing to disturb the peace of the neighbours, the entire floor, the entire building. A disgruntled figure stands sentinel by the door. In a sudden realization, she leaps out of bed, and the reflexive, almost-mad gesture takes her to the mirror—an essential, mandatory act for her beleaguered state.

The hallway bathes in the soft glow emanating from the kitchen. With cautious steps, she advances, but the doorbell's abrupt cessation halts her progress. Less than two meters to the door, voices pierce the air, a shout proclaiming the arrival of the ambulance. "Are you there?" the voice echoes, prompting a frenzy within her skin, unleashing a myriad of agitated bugs.

Instinctively, she darts toward the peephole, her eyes veering to the right. In the kitchen's entrance, on the clear tiles, a man lies in a pool of blood—an unnerving sight that drains her strength, leaving her breathless. An aberration takes root in the madness, and the murmurs at the door evolve into whispers. A voice threatens to break the door, urging anyone within to stand aside. The lifeless form in the kitchen is known to her, the familiarity discernible through the dim light—bangs covering his face, a velvet jacket, a glimpse of a shoe, and a familiar bag still clinging to his shoulder.

Outside the door, a medley of voices mixes. She lacks the strength to flee, her trembling knees leading her back to the bedroom. She seizes the bag just as the door loudly jumps. Hiding under the bed would be foolish; the wardrobe, the first place they'd search. The bedroom door, now open, folds behind her in a moment of idiocy.

The hallway resonates with voices. "He's dead," someone declares. More pressing matters loom, yet she realizes she left her phone on the nightstand. Regardless, determined footsteps draw near the bed. Stepping from behind the door, she readies herself to confront the unfolding reality. The man gazes bewilderedly at the board, mirroring her earlier state.

"Have a look at the big man's bed!" he whistles, allowing her to pass with small, cautious steps, akin to a thief. The entrance door stands unhinged and aside.

"There's also a phone," a voice within the bedroom adds.

In the kitchen, ambulance personnel bend over the lifeless figure. In the hallway, tenants assemble, kept at bay by a cap-wearing figure. The window illuminates the scene, casting shadows over a half-blind bulb and a neon light above the sink.

Approaching the door, she addresses the man with the cap, "The dead man is young. I think he can't be thirty." Obliging onlookers jostle to catch a glimpse, while she clings to the door frame, seemingly offering passage. A woman, resembling rags, eyes her suspiciously, as someone shouts to the police through the phone in a deep bass voice.

She navigates past the sceptical dame, who maintains an unwavering gaze. "Everyone, out of the apartment, now!" insists an ambulance doctor. Unconvinced, some retreat, and the cap-wearer mutters self-importantly. Seizing the opportune moment, she slips between two people and, without haste, descends the stairs to the lower floor. The elevator, unusually prompt, arrives in a mere second.

In the quietude of her reflection, a well-known euphoria unfurls its wings, enveloping her with a sense of recognition. While she stands before the looking glass, it is undeniably her, and yet, an entirely different entity has surreptitiously woven itself into her existence. A nuanced variation of her being now coexists within the contours of her reflection. Her lips, once painted with vitality, have now paled, perhaps succumbing to the silent tremors of fear that echo through her being. The canvas of her visage undergoes a subtle transformation—her skin, once a tapestry of life's stories, now radiates with a brighter and smoother texture. And in her eyes, there lingers an intangible essence, a deceptive flicker that adds an elusive depth to the windows of her soul. Notably absent from yesterday's countenance is this newfound perfidy in her eyelashes, a subtle betrayal that now adorns her gaze. The delicate strands of flax, akin to seeds sown in the fertile soil of her clear iris, stir with a mesmerizing dance. In this moment of metamorphosis, she recognizes that this alteration was not in vain, for it has etched a subtle yet profound shift in the canvas of her existence.

In a moment tinged with almost-smiles, a sentiment quashed by the ominous presence of the deceased, the pool of blood, and haunting premonitions. A subtle twitch flits above her knee, coinciding with the elevator's descent, shadows filling its confined space. Her slumber, a sanctuary untarnished until now, succumbs to an unprecedented brutality. Morning rituals, where she savours coffee in the cocoon of her bed, bracing against the supporting board, represent a daily triumph—a cherished conclusion to her nocturnal respite. However, an air of solemnity pervades this awakening; something weighty has transpired, its tendrils circling the kitchen. The particulars elude her—how he infiltrated this space, what right he had to be within these walls, and, most confounding, why his form rests within a crimson pool of demise.

In the embrace of profound slumber, she succumbed to a deep and resonant tranquillity. Yet, within the nocturnal tapestry of her dreams, a knife gleams—an unsettling spectre haunting the dark recesses of her sleep. An ethereal hand orchestrates a silent ballet of recollection. Even in the realm of dreams, one stark certainty persists: he is dead. The questions linger, ominous and unanswered—why would someone perpetrate such an act, and against whom? A gnawing uncertainty surrounds her, a paradoxical survivor in this macabre narrative. Was it a misfortune, an unforeseen illness that prompted him to summon an ambulance? She remains convinced of his identity—attested by the garments, the distinctive bangs, and the inseparable bag.

Before the mirror's candid gaze, she scrutinizes herself once more. Remarkably, amidst the chaos, the altered countenance bestows a peculiar solace. The dissonance is palpable—how can one relish, even savour, this seemingly profane transformation when death casts its solemn shadow? Yet, within her very sinews, within the intricate bundles of her muscles, delicate blossoms have sprouted, growing with an unbridled frenzy.

The bed that cradled her in its embrace last night carries with it a storied legacy—a tapestry woven by those who have traversed its realms, imprinting dreams upon her countenance. The recollection of this bed, adorned with satraps evoking the grandeur of gothic monasteries, sends shivers cascading down her spine, kindling a stirring tumult within her throat. The memory, a potent echo of lives interwoven with the bed's narrative, continues to evoke an emotional tempest within her.

For a span of sixty-two days, she embarked on a quest to unveil its elusive presence. Two months prior, it existed merely as an ephemeral impression—an intangible whisper in the tapestry of her thoughts. Deep within the edifices of Unirea, she harboured the certainty of a bed waiting. She sensed its silent exhalations, its latent desires beckoning her. This was no ordinary rendezvous; it surpassed the realm of previous encounters. Each day, she traversed the vicinity, mapping the terrain in pursuit of her coveted destination. Methodically calculating distances, deciphering potential risks, she orchestrated a clandestine ballet. Slipping past a couple engrossed in the minutiae of parenthood, their child nestled in a stroller, she, cloaked in a long-hooded dress freshly acquired from H&M, felt an aura of protection and bravery enveloped by her worn navy-blue coat. Ascending the stairs while the elevator mirrored her ascent, the ethereal light carving through the staircase, she intuited the bed's proximity. On the second floor, at the culmination of her ascent, a rustle echoed, carrying with it the breezy whispers of an enchanted realm. Here, on this mystical landing, she could almost taste the holiday at Valea Stanciului—the room adorned with shoes, a tantalizing fragment of her elusive sanctuary.