The City of White Skins
Doina Ruști
Doina Ruști
FERENIKE
75.000 w
Copyright: Humanitas, 2025
Doina Ruști
His death hit me hard, and I was never able to let him go. Even though I’d seen him dead, then buried right before my eyes, the truth was, he’d never really left me. I grew up measuring myself against him, counting the years, thinking, One day, I'll be as old as Tavică was. Just a few more years, and I’ll be just like him. I never stopped to imagine how he might have grown older. Instead, he remained forever frozen at that ideal age, freed from high school and about to start medical school. I kept talking to him, seeking his advice. Back in college, it was trendy to hold séances, and I’d summon Tavică. In a way, it was like staging a performance, stepping into the maze of storytelling. Tavică played the main character and my second voice. He’d become so popular that even students from other dorms would come to ask him questions. My room was in the far corner of the building, right at the very edge, and this corner was where Tavică would always appear. I’d spoken of him so often that details of his life began to spread on their own. My dorm room was a revolving door of visitors, and after drinks and discussions about the latest literary trends, the conversation always circled back to Tavică and summoning the dead. All it took was a touch of the coin—one of those old ones tucked away in the storage shed, among all the other things waiting to be discarded—and that coin, with King Michael on one side, would start moving across the paper, picking out the letters.
I had a photo of Tavică on the wall, worn from being passed around so much because anyone who summoned him felt the need to look at him and burn his face into their mind. One day, the photo vanished, leaving behind nothing but the tape and my invisible connection to it, since it was one of his last photos, death already hovering just above his brows. I had made him into a character, probably my first character, whose existence no one ever doubted. But he was also a dream of freedom, a symbol of the world that had been lost, swallowed up by communism.
I carried Tavică with me everywhere. I still remember one fall day during high school. I was 17 and had made up my mind to break away from Comoșteni and my family. The first thing I did was take all my photos from home. I had an album filled with detailed notes, a sort of guide to all the important photographs, starting from the Canine Schoolteacher and even further back, from Mițulica’s father, the grocer, to her vineyard-owning grandparents and Gică’s Macedonians scattered across the Balkans, all the way to recent photos of me in front of the high school, in a public garden, at the library, at the Palace, and on a train.
I was renting in an outlying neighborhood, in a grim house that was, by far, the worst I’d ever lived in. But it didn’t cost much, and I was in full-on saving mode. My goal was to build up enough funds so that by my senior year, I could move somewhere better to prepare for university, a thought that haunted me every day. The woman I rented from was a drunk, something I discovered gradually as we got to know each other. I’d met her at the University, right by the entrance, where people posted rental ads for students. She was coming out of the building, dressed smartly and smiling, and didn’t seem like a professor or secretary but more like someone who worked in an office. She saw me reading the rental postings and offered me a room at a very low price. Back then, I didn’t know that cheap usually meant a scam. I went to see the place, then felt too embarrassed to turn down her offer. It was a small, damp room, the kind that put a real strain on your lungs. Later on, I learned that she was a cleaning lady—one of those dumb yet persistent phrases in the terminology of the socialist system. The moment she got home, she’d start drinking and squabbling with some imaginary character, perhaps her own Tavică. She’d throw her things around and howl like a beaten dog. I admit I was observing her and even wrote a story where she hanged herself. I lived there for two months, and we parted ways on a bone-chilling rainy day. I was walking back from school, clutching a large umbrella I’d brought with me from the storage shed in Comoșteni. It had been pouring all morning.
I spotted my belongings from afar: a few blouses, a blanket, and my trusted white throw, which went everywhere with me. Nearby, piles of waterlogged books sat ruined. Then, amid the torrent of rainwater flowing down the street, I saw my album lying open, stuck in a clump of mud, and a couple of photos floating or sinking in the murky water. I salvaged what I could. A few were still in decent shape, but most were beyond saving and looked like pieces of oilcloth coated in muck. One photo showed a headless Tavică, the frame including only parts of his polished shoes and the edge of some steps. Meanwhile, I was nowhere to be found; my face had been washed away by the autumn rain, along with my identity and history. It was the first great tragedy of my life, which made Tavică’s death, by then a distant memory, seem like nothing.
I gathered some of my things, and then the intoxicated woman I’d been watching with a writer's detached arrogance stepped into the doorway with a knife. I realized arguing was pointless: my savings were gone, and she was genuinely outraged that I had so much money stashed in a book. Once I started university, I ran into her often. She mopped the hallways, pretending not to recognize me, and I’d picture a carousel of all my family photos spinning above her head.
On that rainy day, I gathered the remainder of my belongings into two bags and set out through the city to find a new place to stay. I didn’t know where to go and had no plan whatsoever. At some point, I also lost my umbrella, which would later appear in my dreams, another weight on my conscience. The rain had softened to a light drizzle, only a few stray drops still sliding off leaves. I found myself lost in a forest of apartment buildings, rows of gray boxes with shut windows.
I slumped down, leaning against the wall of a building. I had no clue where I was or how to escape the gray forest. Yet, I wasn’t worried; just as I was nodding off, someone touched my shoulder. For a split second, I was sure it was Tavică. I didn’t turn around, nor did I move. The day was breaking, and the hand on my shoulder grew insistent. It belonged to a woman leaning out from a window. She wanted to know what I was doing there and why I was sitting on the ground. At first, I didn’t see her clearly, then I turned to face her and froze: her eyes were like Tavică’s, incapable of deception or hatred. She also had a dark complexion, which gave her a southern look seldom seen in that city of white faces. We slipped into conversation naturally, as if we were family. I couldn’t tell her she reminded me of Tavică, but I already trusted her without realizing it; her familiar gaze became a source of reassurance. I briefly told her what had happened, stressing that my grandmother would arrive soon. I sincerely wished for that, even though I knew I’d write to her the next day, and the letter would take three or four days to arrive, and then she’d immediately send me a telegram and some money to the school address, which would take another day or two. Judging by how she looked at me, it was clear that this woman who resembled Tavică knew all the ins and outs of this kind of situation.
“I’ve got a spare bed,” she told me. “But it’s here in the kitchen.” She asked for 150 lei a month, which sounded perfect to me. “And one more thing,” Tavică continued, his spirit shining through the woman half-hanging out the window. “I’m Gypsy, sweetie. If that’s alright with you, great. If not—scram!” I was at a loss for words, and she added, “The bed’s right by the window. You can see the whole view from here.” I glanced over at the sea of buildings, and we burst out laughing, our chortles echoing with a sense of home. I spent the rest of the term in that ground-floor kitchen. When I returned to Comoșteni, I smelled of food, and even my books carried the same aroma. I remember buying new ones to replace a part of them. But I had made some savings. My independence wasn’t cheap; it never had been.
I never mentioned anything about the photos and didn’t dare take any more from my family’s spare copies. And that was a mistake. When they passed away, a stranger’s hand carelessly threw away whatever had remained, and it felt as though I had to start completely over, my history gone. But why would I need photos when they live on in my heart?
Whenever I think about memories, I see the photo where Tavică’s head is missing, erased, perhaps out for a stroll, and not dissolved by the rain. I picture him floating among the apartment buildings, only to settle onto the figure of a woman in a kitchen on the edge of a socialist-era neighborhood.
Even now, I haven’t truly let go of Tavică. Maybe it wasn’t just our five years together that bonded us so strongly. What happened afterward had an even deeper impact.
On the day we parted, when the stretcher made of tree-of-heaven wood had reached our gate and the violins were playing in the gazebo, the rest of the village was bustling as usual, with lunch preparations in full swing. I’d clambered onto the gate, so I got a good look at him lying on the stretcher, his eyes closed. I’d never seen a dead person before, and my understanding of death was still rather vague. A few people were shouting, and silence had fallen over the gazebo. Gică was the first to get there, and he stood paralyzed by the gate, followed by Mițulica, who came screaming. Someone had told her, or maybe she’d heard people talking or just had a feeling.
I’ll never forget that hot day in May when Tavică lay stretched out on a table before the steps, with Mițulica wailing beside him. I don’t remember what each and every one of us did or how things unfolded, but certain scenes stand out in my memory. Cornel was crying next to a fig tree, half-hidden by its leaves. I remember Gică looking sorrowful but not shedding any tears. I hear Mițulica’s horrifying screams and see her collapsing by the gate and later speaking to Tavică’s spirit, which I’d started seeing drifting by the steps and wandering through the rooms, particularly the library, where thereafter he remained so that whenever I picked up a book, it would open to the very page where he lingered.
I can also clearly remember the moment we entered the cemetery. The coffin placed in front of the church. The priest, grim and irritating, standing before the door. Tavică wasn’t allowed to enter the church because he’d died without having a candle lit for him. He’d drowned. I don’t think he would’ve wanted one anyway. Visibly rattled, the priest stood transfixed in his vestments, staring right at me, while I watched from the other side of the coffin, lowering, giving him my best death stare. I remember struggling to stand upright, my feet apart, fists clenched. But the priest didn’t move an inch either. Then come the following years, the first six, which only strengthened my bond with Tavică. Mițulica had fallen into a mystical fervor, and no one dared snap her out of it. “We have no choice,” she’d say. “We have to send him light and water.” And I could almost see Tavică waiting in line in the afterlife at the post office of the dead to receive small packages tied up with string, slivers of light escaping from them.
I first read his name on the marble cross and was astounded by how pompous it sounded, especially in gold lettering, like a book title. His full name was Ioan Paul Octavian Stănculescu. It looked like a long, dormant snake awaiting its end. To this day, it’s beyond me why they’d given him such a useless and pretentious name. Gică didn’t say a word; he seemed cut off from reality and indifferent. As the years passed, I began to suspect he wasn’t even his father. Tavică had been conceived during the war. I imagined Mițulica in various scenarios: caught up in impossible affairs, falling in love, getting raped, and even selling herself. Then there was the priest, who also had a son called Octavian. That, of course, didn’t mean much, but my dislike for him kept me on guard. The first time I spoke with the priest, I was seven years old. Mițulica took my hand and led me to the gate, from where the priest took me with him. I no longer remember his name. In any case, being as somber as he was, he didn’t need one. We spent some time in a cramped room that smelled of church. He spoke slowly, without enthusiasm, and had the face of someone who’d never smiled. He explained what confession was and how important it was to tell him about my mistakes. The whole thing felt fake, from his voice to the concept of confessing. “I’ve got nothing to say. I haven’t done anything wrong,” I told him, quite pleased with myself. He was obviously irritated. I had to return after completing 100 prostrations within a week. As soon as I got home, I made it clear to everyone, but especially to Mițulica, that I didn’t like the guy and had no intention of ever confessing. Gică seemed content. Unsurprisingly, he never went to church or had any dealings with the priest, which reinforced my suspicion of a connection between Mițulica and the somber guy. Years later, when I finally confronted her, the conversation turned out terrible for me. Whatever the case, Tavică was Cornel's brother, and Cornel was my father, and all three of us shared an insatiable need for freedom.
One afternoon in that first year without Tavică, when everyone in the house was asleep, I buried Clara. I wanted him to have company and know I was thinking of him.
Tavică's death was Mițulica's main topic of conversation for many years. She’d go into the yard, seeming cheerful, only to suddenly freeze in place for a second or two before the wailing began. She’d cry for an hour just because a particular memory of him still lived on in that spot, whether it was a fragment of conversation or a word clinging to the walls, especially those of the storage shed, from whose roof he’d often threatened to jump to his death. I’d recall many events from my early years, and it amazed me how the same memories, so crystal clear in my mind, took on a different form when retold by Mițulica. Of course, he hadn’t really intended to jump off the roof; it was merely his way of seeking attention. He was quite the character. She alone was to blame for not letting him go to Frații Buzești, where he’d have been with his brother, who would’ve looked after him. I‘d begun to see my father in a different light, short and bald, with his foppish hats or that worn-out cap, hovering around Tavică like a satrap, making sure nothing happened to him. And while she reshaped reality as she pleased, I meandered through the village, where the facts seemed much clearer. Tavică had swum across the Jiu many times until some stonecutters tried to pull him out by force, as they noticed he was exhausted and wouldn’t hold out much longer. “But you know how crazy he was,” one of the stonecutters recounted, drawing on his cigarette. “No offense, miss,” he said to me, “But he was a bit nuts. Everyone knew that about Tavică! Say the wrong thing, and he’d go for your throat.” Nevertheless, the man had warned him not to cross the river again, and others had called out to him, too, from their boats. They were stonecutters who were on the water from dawn till dusk and knew the dangers of the Jiu, where the water ran deep, or where the whirlpools lay in wait, too strong for even the best swimmers. And Tavică was, after all, just a kid. He passed by the large vortex again, perhaps for the twentieth time that day, and never resurfaced. Either the water swept him away and dragged him into its churning depths, or he had a seizure. They didn’t see him again until two kilometers downstream, and shortly after, he was brought home, lifeless, on a litter made of tree-of-heaven branches while his soul went on to travel to who knows where in the Danube's waters and beyond.
You couldn’t talk to Mițulica about any of this. To her, Tavică’s death was a punishment, brought on by a cursed wingbeat, and a never-ending series of “what ifs” would’ve kept him alive until now. One evening, she grabbed me by the hand and took me to the Ghosts’ room, where, not long before, Tavică had slit his wrists with a sour cherry liqueur bottle I’d given him. In this room, they laid out critical plans and whispered secrets and mysteries while the eerie light from the mill crept through the tulle curtains. “I need you,” Mițulica said in a hushed voice, and her eyes, which you could scoop out and drink mixed into a cup of milk, told me without any doubt that I was her last hope.
That night, I got into bed around eleven, waiting with my ears pricked. I was almost seven and knew plenty about life, keeping a secret, and, most importantly, what a pair of eyes was really trying to tell you. The moment I sensed her at the door, I was already on my feet. I slipped on my sandals, grabbed the green jacket, the one I never went anywhere without, and followed her out into the yard, then into the street. A dark silhouette was visible in the distance. Mițulica signaled me to stay silent, but I already knew; she had explained what I had to do. We came closer, and the giant pressed a finger to his lips. In the effervescent light of the night, it seemed to me that he was smiling. It was Mitină, Tavică’s hooligan friend. Mițulica carried a leather bag that brushed against her ankles. Mitină, tall and lithe, walked at the front of the group. Mițulica trailed behind him, dragging her bag, and I brought up the rear. I knew I wasn’t supposed to turn around, although I thought that somewhere nearby, maybe just a couple of steps behind, Tavică was also with us. And for years, I never stopped believing it.
The trip felt endless until the last of the houses disappeared. We stepped into the total darkness of the cemetery. The grass was getting into my sandals, and I could hear the stones crunch beneath our feet. We stopped, and I knew the meeting was beginning, which filled me with a sense of joy. Tavică’s grave was covered with concrete, jasmine tobacco blooming all around it. Mitină took out a knife while Mițulica rummaged through the bag. A hen was clucking faintly. They cut its throat. I knew what would happen next and waited silently for the blood to drain. It was a black hen I had raised from a chick. I knew its whole life; I could even recognize its eggs and distinguish its clucking from the rest. At that age, I’d seen many birds slaughtered and plenty of blood spilled, so I could picture the surface of the grave getting stained. Then, the figures turned towards me; it was my turn. I had to say three or four words that were etched in my mind forever, words I could never utter again or tell to anyone. They belonged to that night alone and were meant to open the gates of happiness only for Tavică and me.
I don’t remember the walk back, but we remained just as silent as on the way there.
The problem was that Cornel was waiting for us in the parlor when we returned.
Even though he’d moved into the new house and had no way of knowing about our little adventure, even though it was long past midnight, he was there, sitting in a chair. A smoldering cigarette rested on a crystal ashtray, which, misshapen as it was, made me think of a bowl someone had stepped on. He was waiting quietly, one hand cupping his cheek, glasses perched on his nose. Overhead, a few oil lamps flickered in the chandelier, which would end up in the storage shed in a few weeks, left to gather dust. I took a small piece of it with me and have kept it to this day. But on that endless night, when the black hen had died on a grave, the chandelier cast a soft light, and I imagined Cornel climbing onto a chair and lighting two or three oil lamps so he could see us clearly as we walked in, our faces those of murderers, two beings who had taken part in an ancient ritual.
For some years, I tried to picture Cornel as a child, a witness to a history before my time. He struggled to break free from the upbringing he’d received at home and distance himself from Mițulica’s teachings, but it was hard because her words would catch up with you no matter where you hid, like missiles locked onto their target. Muc also played a part in this, often making pointed remarks about Cornel’s bourgeois life before she came along. And for some reason, whenever she mentioned it, my mind would conjure up the sofa slumbering on the balcony, the one we’d move to the yard during summer, placing it by the pathway leading from the steps to the gazebo. It wasn’t anything luxurious, but I can’t imagine Comoșteni without it. When I think of my family, my childhood, or the abandoned mill across the road, the first thing that comes to mind is that sofa. It was a wide, spacious bench painted green, made from thin, expertly polished slats. To some extent, it resembled the benches you’d find in parks but also possessed the aura of an antique crafted by a gentle hand, a quality I’d later recognize in all interwar furniture. I wasn’t particularly knowledgeable, but I could always tell when an object was related to this piece. Longer and more worn than park benches, nestled between white bookcases when it sat on the balcony, the sofa became a threshold between the pathway and the rest of the garden in the summertime. Hollyhocks stood tall behind it, and a fragile little table lay asleep in front of it, one of the many dotting the yard—intricate weaves of rose and brier branches. That rickety table gave the sofa a certain nobility, transforming it into a divan of delights, made all the more inviting by the piles of small cushions in old silk cases, whose colors, bathed by the light and muted by the passage of time, matched those in our house. A carelessly tossed white throw often hung over the sofa, half on the ground, and nestled to one side, I can see myself reading, knees tucked up to my chin.
That sofa wouldn’t have fit anywhere else but on the pathway or the balcony. It would’ve been completely out of place in the new house, especially in the yard, where the only acceptable way to sit was on blankets, either lying on your stomach or cross-legged, because Muc never missed a chance to praise nature, "The grass is there for you to enjoy!” In contrast, the sofa was like a coat of arms of a world before I was born.
For Muc, moving into the new house was a kind of liberation. Although it had become crowded with old furniture and painted beds, there were now spaces that reflected her taste, marking the break from Mițulica and the green sofa, which in her eyes was nothing more than an ugly, rickety bench you wouldn’t want to sit on. She bought kitchen furniture straight from the store, refusing to even consider the chairs Gică built out of passion but also because they’d forced him to work in a Russian carpentry workshop while in the camp. One day, she brought home a small, locked cupboard, just like a safe, where she kept her valuables, including condoms wrapped in gold-colored foil. A lot about the new life was thrilling, particularly with the arrival of items like a radio and a sewing machine elegantly inscribed with Ileana. I’d started exploring our little world, made friends at school, and found out I enjoyed visiting other people’s homes. It was the 1960s, and most houses in Comoșteni looked similar: a bed with a built-in shelf headboard and under-mattress storage for clothes, sometimes a chaise longue or a kind of bookcase with hinged glass doors, crammed with terracotta trinkets and school notebooks. Some folks had canvas armchairs. For interiors, brown and light green were the popular colors then, while blue was the dominant color for clothing. I learned all this by poking my nose around, going into almost every house.
Compared to them, we were gaudy, different, and cringeworthy. I'd begun taking a variety of objects to the storage shed, intending to leave them there forever; they were things that had seen better days, such as decorative lamps, enormous paintings with thick, ornate frames, and various statuettes, including a one-meter-tall plaster figure. It even had a story. Cornel had brought it home one day, a gift from his workplace. “What is this?!” Mițulica exclaimed. “A reward from my bosses.” Instead of money, they’d given him a statue celebrating socialist victory, something so ridiculous that they placed it on the balcony by the door. Anyone who came over would either salute the plaster statue or leave their hat on its head. They dumped it out there, so I had to move it to the storage shed, where it sat for years. It was a kind of socialist nymph, painted in pastel colors, holding a red scarf and a handful of flowers. Whenever the topic of Stalinism came up, especially once I got to college, my mind would always drift to the statue and Mițulica's laughter, maybe even her voice and words: “Cornel, do you remember when you returned from Craiova with that statue in your arms? I wouldn't have carried it to save my life,” she declared, and he shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? It was a gift from the comrades. Don't be absurd!”
People often asked me to show them the house, and while I felt embarrassed, they were invariably astonished, which only deepened my disdain for our values. Nothing I wore back then was store-bought; it was all sewn by hand by Dobreasca, sometimes by Milica, and occasionally by Irina, the seamstresses of my childhood. Muc was the only one among us who wore clothes bought from the store, but Tavică had been a true proletarian, perpetually in his school uniform, with his badge in plain sight, and his cap fitted tightly on his forehead, like hooligans. He was also the only one to wear sneakers, which Mițulica viewed as a global menace. Tavică had no such hang-ups whatsoever; he’d help himself to money from a purse or a drawer, hop on his bike, and before long, he’d be back with a new pair—blue, with pristine white laces. I never wore sneakers, not even in high school when I had total freedom. In gym class, I wore a pair of ballet flats with silk uppers, a hand-me-downs from some aunt who was worried I might wear sneakers. “What are you wearing for gym class? Here, take these. Alice wore them when she danced at some festival or other.” Of course, I really wanted sneakers. Even more than that, I wanted those trendy black rubber flats, some kind of pumps with a slight heel and a low-cut design. When brand new, they looked like patent leather shoes. But they were forbidden too. “Don’t even think about it,” Mițulica would warn, and Muc would pull a long face, “You’ll regret it if you wear those things. Rheumatism and other diseases will eat you up.” Shoes had to be leather, without exception, even if they were clunky—a habit I struggled to break for a long time.
One day, about two years after Tavică had passed away, and the numerous pairs of sneakers he’d worn threadbare were gone, a new pair of sneakers came through the gate. We were all sitting on the green bench, surrounded by oleanders and hollyhocks, engrossed in reading when the gate opened, and Gică walked in, wearing a pair of unusual brown sneakers. The color alone made them stand out, and they grabbed everyone's attention, from Predeasca, craning her neck for a better look, to Muc, blushing at this sudden appearance.
He’d gone fishing in Copanița and ran into some Bulgarians, either relatives, friends of relatives, or just random Bulgarians, who sold him a pair of sneakers. He was obviously pleased, so even Mițulica kept quiet.
The new house was small, so it soon became the little house, while the house where I was born was the big house. I was already noticing the world of adults, with its central points of activity and the life on the edges. And on the night the black hen breathed its last, Cornel took my hand and told me it was time to go home.
He had picked out my bed and was delighted with the dark metal headboard decorated with a striking painting: a Spanish woman dancing and a young man playing the guitar, along with flowers, a dog, and the moon. “You put your pillow right here so you can hear the song at night, and if you have a bad dream, the dog will protect you. So don’t be scared!” On the footboard, there was only a waxing crescent moon with flowers spilling from it. He’d bought the bed from Chelăreasă, Florence’s mother, and planned to get a few more things from her the following day. “Artemiza, from now on, you’re not going anywhere without telling me first. It doesn’t matter where, even if it’s just to the gate,” he said. “It would make me very happy to know your whereabouts at all times.” He didn’t scold me about the night in the cemetery and never even mentioned it again. But he was definitely upset, and I suspected he’d argued with Mițulica.
He gifted me a thin sweater, the knitted kind children usually wear. “Look what I got you! Do you like it?” I didn’t, so I told him, sensing his sadness grow with each word I uttered. “All gifts are precious,” he said, and I regretted not liking the sweater. Still, I thought it was only right to be honest; if anything, I was doing him a kindness he didn’t know how to appreciate. What had made him buy me that sweater when I already had the green jacket I never took off? A soft little garment with a generous, rounded collar I could turn up. It was a rich green, the color of an apricot leaf, and had a single large button. I also had a matching ruffled skirt that I didn’t bother to touch. The jacket was my favorite piece; I simply loved the fabric, a thick, soft cotton, pleasant to the touch. Needless to say, it was the work of the legendary Buțescu, crafted from an interwar dress. No one else owned a jacket like mine, which made me feel important. To complete the look, I wore a hat with a bow in the back, just as unusual.
It had gotten cold enough for a coat, but it wasn’t yet time for the fur collar that I only attached when the first frost arrived. Bundled up and strangled by a scarf I hated, I set off with my father to visit the Cellarwoman, Florence's mom, who was also the sister of Gică's mother and a Macedonian from Montenegro. She had been married to the cellarman at the Royal Estates, which is why everyone called her the Cellarwoman. She was on her deathbed and selling her belongings but didn’t want to give them to strangers, preferring to entrust them to family and friends. The Cellarwoman had three children: Florence, a pharmacist; Mioara, a teacher in Bucharest; and a son, a lawyer in Craiova. They were all grown up and had each taken what they considered useful.
The Cellarwoman was sitting in the parlor on a white sofa. The place was incredible, like our storage shed, filled with antiques, but among them were countless bits and pieces that deserved a thorough examination.
Gică’s aunt was a woman with white hair left unbraided, wearing a white dress and covered with a white throw, just like the one we had. She was related to Gică and yet remarkably different. She was slender, with an air of elegance about her. We exchanged a few words, but she skipped the usual curiosities, not asking my name or age. Instead, she complimented my jacket, thus strengthening my attachment to it.
Cornel seemed completely at home; I remember him settling onto the divan close to her and their voices dropping to whispers. They drank tea. I can still see her holding and stroking his hand as she recounted some stories from his childhood. Then he gave her the money for what he’d bought while I sat still, not touching my tea or taking even the tiniest bite of a biscuit. The Cellarwoman noticed and told me I could take one thing, whatever I wanted. An item I truly liked. That “truly” made me stop and think; it was an important decision. I glanced around for a while: there were small objects, silver slippers, dolls, metal figurines, and numerous lamps. Then, my eyes landed on a painting. It was hanging on the wall some distance away, in the dark, among other paintings. It was a simple painting depicting an Arab with a camel in the desert, probably based on a postcard image. I pointed a finger at it, and the Cellarwoman nearly choked on her tea. They both laughed, clearly expecting me to choose something small. Cornel threw in some more money, and we left. The artist’s name was on the painting too, likely a woman, a family friend: El. Bundaloiu. I later discovered an unfinished portrait of a woman in white and red on the back. In a corner, it said Eleonora. I’ve kept that painting to this day. Even though I’ve seen that reproduction in other places since it was a fashionable theme in the interwar period, the painting meant more to me than just that—it was my first glimpse into a dying world whose end I witnessed.
Mițulica had a gallbladder attack, and the ambulance took her away. She spent a few weeks in the hospital, and the big house fell into a state of neglect. The place seemed deserted, not a single soul in the yard. I remember one afternoon when everyone else had left, and only Gică and I stayed behind, wandering back and forth between the houses. “What do we do now, munchkin?” he asked as if the fate of our family rested on my shoulders. We went down to the basement, where the autumn light filtered through the windows. I could see the street and the feet of people passing by and make out the mill across the road. He poured himself a mug of wine, and I opened a jar of marinated catfish. Whenever I imagine the apocalypse, I picture myself in the Comoșteni basement, starving alongside Gică. The room was stocked with jars of goods, but I didn’t like preserves, and the meats needed warming up. “Let’s get the cheese,” he said. “At least we can eat that right away.”
This moment was something the whole family looked forward to. Let’s get the cheese was a special event and a significant part of our family’s history. “Tomorrow, we’re getting the cheese! He’s sent us word that it’s ready. On Friday, we’re going after the cheese!” All faces would light up, and our culinary plans would change drastically.
We never bought cheese, nor did we touch what Cornel brought home. Since he was an inspector for state dairy companies, he’d often buy small wooden barrels of cheese, sour cream in plastic bags, yogurt, and sometimes butter at a discount, which Mițulica would pass on as gifts to other relatives. We enjoyed our own cheese, unmatched in flavor, crafted according to an ancient recipe from the milk of our very own sheep breed. And Pavel was in charge of making it, a somber shepherd who wouldn’t tolerate any substantial changes that could compromise the quality of his products. We kept eight sheep and a few goats, an old breed we’d inherited from before the days of the Canine Schoolteacher, and we made sure to preserve the breed and increase the flock so as not to upset Pavel, the shepherd renowned for his cheese. He knew every sheep breed in the village like the back of his hand and didn’t work with just anyone; he chose his people and sheep. He tended to them and kept them in a fold over the Jiu in the middle of nowhere. He knew how to shear them, milk them, and mix the milk with his secret ingredients. Then he’d set the pickup dates: every few weeks, our turn came to collect the cheese. And I’ve never found anything like that cheese since. Whenever I buy some, I'm always left disappointed.
The journey to Pavel’s was long. First, we’d cross the Jiu by boat, then walk what felt like forever to me, though it was probably just a kilometer or so. Once there, we’d wait in a pen at a safe distance to avoid the dogs tearing us apart. To ensure we understood, Pavel would warn us by recounting how his dogs had chomped off a visitor’s nose and ripped off his ear. So, we took our usual seats in the pen. Gică said nothing and didn’t even seem to be listening, but I, on the other hand, was fuming at the shepherd’s boorishness. He rambled on endlessly while he prepared our order. He was a thin man with a somewhat unsteady hand, but his cheese was unparalleled. He’d give us a cheesecloth sack filled with fresh cheese, another with urdă, and a bucket of whey. We’d pay him and leave.
When he’d send word that it was our turn, we’d be over the moon. In winter, he’d return our sheep and the few goats, whose milk was essential for Pavel’s craft. He’d take a vacation, and we’d have to do without his cheese for several months. It wasn't until around Christmas that we'd open a small barrel we'd set aside. In winter, we’d put the sheep in what used to be the horse stable, a ramshackle building a little ways from the storage shed, right next to the summer kitchen and the woodworking shop. Behind it lay the icehouse and the sour cherry orchard. Every time Pavel stopped by, his voice would ring out across the yard, angry and commanding. Once, I even heard him from beyond the orchard. If we didn’t take proper care of the sheep through the winter, we could kiss the cheese goodbye the following year because Pavel wouldn’t let our animals back into his pen and his care. And, indeed, the sheep required a special diet: a specific type of corn stalks, tender and dried but not overly so; small portions of dried alfalfa, hay, and a clean salt lick. “Watch out that the dog doesn’t get its tongue on it! And give them water from a tin-lined copper bucket held up to their muzzles.”
And we followed these instructions religiously because that cheese was unlike any other. Buttery, but with a subtle tartness, refreshing, perfectly soft, and a flavor that hinted at kefir, wild herbs, and the fragrance of the Jiu. It held something of the summer rain and instilled in you the fear that you were indulging in a pleasure you’d never experience again.
One afternoon, Mițulica returned, utterly transformed—paler, more silent, and smelling of the hospital. For a week, she talked about how terrible it had been. She had a large bag of medicines and little hope for the future. Despite her attempts to slip back into her old, restless rhythm, things just didn’t come together like before. A dark wing shadowed the window of the Ghosts’ room, and the family’s center of gravity had moved to the small house.
Cornel brought over all sorts of friends, colleagues, and bosses, men very different from anyone I’d met. One in particular, a lanky guy named Negrilă, grated on my nerves severely. The moment he walked in, his eyes bulging as usual, he’d ask me who I took after to be this ugly. “Hey, monkey,” he’d call me, “who did you take after to be this ugly?” Muc and Cornel looked amused, and their guests laughed. So, I once asked Mițulica her opinion of Negrilă. Was he some epitome of beauty? “Want to know? He’s a gawking beanpole,” she said with absolute certainty. Satisfied, I crossed over to the small house and waited for Negrilă. I confronted him as soon as he entered, “Hey, ugly! Do you have any idea what a gawking beanpole you are?”
The room went still. No one laughed, and a god of danger seemed to creep in from somewhere in the shadows. He never called me ugly again, but something heavy and pitch-black grew between us. To this day, I’m unsure how to put an end to rudeness. Responding in kind means you’ve drawn your sword, too.
Once so cheerful, Cornel was becoming more and more absent-minded and quiet. Sometimes at night, he’d have hushed discussions with Gică, hidden away in the Ghosts’ room or the gazebo. They often mentioned Niculescu-Mizil, a high-ranking party official, on whom Cornel appeared to have pinned much of his hope. “Mizil has to step in! I wouldn’t trust the others, but at least this guy’s got brains. He’ll do something.”
I’d started school and was in Gică's class. Most of the time, I stayed at the big house, and only around lunchtime would I cross over to see Muc. One day, as soon as I stepped through the gate, the house, despite being new, its windows still sparkling, felt abandoned. A soft sobbing drifted from somewhere in the back. I approached cautiously. Behind the house, Cornel was crying, leaning against the wall. It looked like something grave, something irreparable. He sat crouched on the ground, his cap in his hands.
Usually, Mițulica would’ve been the first person I turned to, but she was also sick, her gaze distant. I dashed to her and told her what I’d seen, how I’d found Cornel crying, but, unlike other times when she’d have rushed like mad to see what had happened, she just gestured with her chin at the outdoor oven, where some loaves of bread were baking. “Over there, by the oven,” she uttered, “they burned our books.” It wasn’t a story but a text she recited from time to time, a break in her daily routine during which Mițulica detailed what had occurred in front of the oven, from the books' titles, dimensions, and covers down to the flames consuming the pages. I knew everything by heart and could even predict what she’d say next. If she forgot a name, I’d fill it in for her, having heard the story so many times. Though sometimes, she’d surprise me with something new. She’d hurry toward the oven with a loaf of bread, then stop short as if telling me for the first time. “Right here, in this exact spot,” she’d say, “they burned our books. About where you’re standing is where the first edition of Eminescu’s work crumbled.” Each time, she’d add more details until I knew exactly how they’d made her carry her books, set them on fire, and watch them turn to ashes. “They even burned the correspondence with Haret!” When she reached the Haret part, I knew it was the final note of the story, and then she’d abruptly switch to a different topic. The episode from The Ghost in the Mill is drawn directly from those moments, from my daily life spent amidst pies, roasts, and sufferings; it includes Tavică's death, Cornel's failures, and my discoveries, all unfolding before the outdoor oven, in the very spot where the fire had devoured our books.
Cornel was crying behind the house, and Mițulica listened to me as if I were an old friend. She didn’t ask any of her usual questions; she didn’t want to know how hard Cornel was crying or what he was wearing. Instead, she started talking about the burned books, reciting the vanished titles; she described the covers and the songbooks, then hummed a bit from a song of the Sentinels of the Motherland. When she stopped, I thought I was finally free to go, but she held me in place, her gaze boring past my eyes and into my skull. “That’s it! Tomorrow, we’ll put an end to this story. Enough is enough!” I had no idea what she meant, but I was sure that whatever she had in mind would set things right.
The following day, Polixenia, a petite old woman with a grave expression, made her appearance. Some relatives brought the large table into the yard, placing it on the pathway in front of the gazebo, and set up a tripod they’d retrieved from the storage shed. Someone lit the fire and put a small bucket of fresh water over it.
Mițulica lay supine on the table, her eyes shut, as tendrils of flame flickered close to her head, rising from the trivet. Wisps of steam spread out through the hollyhocks and oleanders. Polixenia muttered words known only to gods and tossed plants into the water, some familiar, others I’d never seen before. The concoction bubbled lazily. People had lined the fences, and no one dared speak. I had the best seat in the house, perched atop the gazebo, sitting on the sun-warmed metal sheeting, partly covered with grape ivy. Gică passed by the scene and stared briefly in disbelief, then walked away, a hesitant curse escaping his lips.
I didn’t move all day. No one did.
At sunset, as the sun dissolved into the horizon, Mițulica sat up. Only about a cupful of the miraculous concoction was left in the small bucket. She drank it and, for a while, remained motionless on a stool I also remember well, green and three-legged. Then someone brought the faience washbowl from Mițulica's room, an antique white piece used for morning washing before a curved wooden washstand complete with towel hooks, a soap dish, and space for the water pitcher and the washbowl—a unique vessel with faint lines across the bottom. Polixenia muttered on, addressing someone invisible, maybe her gods, and at one point, she placed a hand on the back of Mițulica’s neck. She must’ve known some trick, or maybe it was just coincidence, but right then, Mițulica expelled the illness out of her body, a green liquid, exactly one cup’s worth. The onlookers by the fence breathed a sigh of relief. They knew what that signified: black meant there was no saving her, while yellow meant she needed surgery. Green, on the other hand, was great news. They showered her with congratulations and well wishes. Polixenia was escorted home with much fanfare.
From that day on, life returned to normal. The parties resumed, with tables laden with food, and at night, while everyone snored contentedly, Gică and Cornel stayed up making plans. I could hear them whispering and make out their figures in the haze of cigarette smoke. The scent of alcohol filled my nose, and sleepy murmurs echoed around me. I was burning with curiosity and itching to know what was going on, so one night, I snuck into the hat wardrobe and waited.
And speaking of hats, Gică had four, each carefully matched to his suits and other clothes. One was a milk chocolate brown, another beige, then a taupe, and—his favorite—a faded olive, the color of a duck’s egg. He never wore black, not even for shoes. His hats were camel-hair fedoras with high crowns, ribbons, and expertly crafted brims. They sat on the top shelf, out of my reach. The rest of the wardrobe was crammed with Mițulica’s hats, mostly felt, but also straw, some with veils, others with feathers, and a massive black one woven from a material so strange that I spent weeks trying to unravel it to see what it was made of. Eventually, I found a fine thread that felt both like plastic and a vegetal fiber, similar to a cherry stem. The black hat remained a mystery to me. From beneath it, I listened to Cornel and Gică’s conversation until late into the night, when I fell asleep. Then, lost in the comfort of my dreams, I stretched and stuck out my legs, pushing the door open and sending a few hats tumbling towards the window. Startled, Cornel dropped his glass and knocked over the pedestal beside him, waking every soul in the house.
For weeks, the talk revolved around Cornel, who was in trouble. Something serious had happened, and two names kept surfacing in hushed tones, sometimes as part of curses, other times tangled up in a convoluted story. “If I could just speak to Diamandopol,” Cornel murmured, but Gică was quick to shake his head. “He can’t be trusted. He’s a charlatan with an aristocratic face, bought and paid for, rotten to the core.” Meanwhile, Negrilă, the other name I knew very well already, was without a doubt a snitch. “Telling him anything,” Mițulica elaborated, “is no different than shouting it out loud in the Old Square, next to Herzog’s workshop, where people yell out the prices of candles.” They also mentioned individuals who might’ve offered a helping hand, including Mițulica's high school sweetheart, a man holding some office, and one of those bastards you have to put up with. That dwarf, whom I had only regarded with contempt, was beginning to reveal another side and bare his fangs like a guard dog. With time, his backstory filled in. I could picture him in the ‘50s, his white collar folded over the lapel of his jacket, nestled among other comrades; Mițulica, a young woman with three children to raise, and Gică, locked away in a labor camp. The war had come and gone. We had an album full of photographs of Gică in uniform: content, a dandy young man, sometimes alongside Mițulica and the children visiting him near the front lines. Then, a shot of him with one foot on the boundary marker at the border with Bessarabia. In a group. Alone. Holding a cigarette between his fingers. In another series of photos, I saw Mițulica looking chic draped in furs, wearing a green three-quarter length coat that saved her when the legionnaires were around, as she’d sometimes recount, or decked out in a Sentinel’s uniform, self-assured and ready to build a good life for herself. When the Germans came to Comoșteni, needless to say, they ran into Mițulica. They established their base in her home, so she moved with her children to another house, the one before the small house, whose three white concrete steps I’d also walked on. The Germans stayed for three weeks, enjoying the spacious rooms and the curtained doorways. They paid Mițulica and offered their thanks. What transpired between her and the Germans remains unknown to me. As the war drew to a close, the Russians, too, arrived in Comoșteni, and, as expected, they picked our house, which they occupied for several apocalyptic days. On leaving, they took everything they deemed valuable, including the carriages, horses, and other sundries, to remind them of Comoșteni. Somewhere around Zăval, they discarded the carriages, and, as it was common knowledge to whom they belonged, people helped us bring them home, where they’ve been lying in the storage shed ever since, useless, horseless, and simply serving as fuel for my imagination.
The war ended, and famine began. People were talking, and everyone knew that tough times were ahead, but no one could’ve imagined how dreadful things would become. Mițulica went to school to teach, and her children grew. She sent Cornel to high school as an out-of-town student. For a long year, he lived in a bawdy house at Matilda’s until the woman was taken away one night, disappearing off the face of the earth. The police arrested Mițulica in ’49, but the Dwarf was her saving grace. He was one of the many cogs of the new society. He got her out of detention after a few days. She protected her land by fabricating multiple purchase agreements, dividing it among seventeen trusted families. In addition, about five hectares, which I reclaimed in ‘90 but abandoned a year later, became the foundation of the new agricultural cooperative. Mițulica donated this plot of land and joined the collectivization. Without hesitation, she agreed to have her books burned in the yard beside the oven. She handed over the agricultural machinery, except for a few they’d painstakingly hoisted onto the storage shed roof using a pulley, which I’d later see rusting away. Mițulica readily accepted to be part of the new world. She did what she had to keep her house and the carriages. In ’52, Gică returned and was relieved—he would’ve done the same. And maybe so would I. The Dwarf had his hands in many affairs from the very beginning. In ’46, he knocked at her gate, then called out at the door. He went through room after room, but Mițulica was in the basement. I pictured the Dwarf descending the stairs, searching for Mițulica. Just the two of them standing in the scant light by the lime pit. Perhaps she was perched on a small stepladder, trying to reach the sherbet jars. I never found out. But I couldn’t shake this image out of my head. The Dwarf had come to tell her that the winds of change were blowing. She had to vote for the Sun, and all would be well. She agreed. The situation was unstable, and the world was shifting under their feet. But inside the voting booth, there was no point in keeping a hasty promise she made in the weak basement light. Yet, he certainly knew what had happened at that time. The rest of the story unfolded in the teachers’ room, where she had to vote again. And again.
The Dwarf was a regular at our house throughout my childhood. He’d visit for a day or two, mainly in the summer. When I met him, he was nothing more than a retired activist, wearing the same shirt from his youth, its collar folded neatly. Cornel loathed him, and Gică thought he was scum. Nevertheless, I can still remember him always coming back, together with the other former classmates from the Normal School. He was an arrogant guy, the kind you felt like spitting squarely in the face. All he ever talked about was Gică: “You acted like some grand boyar at school! You were the only one wearing a suit and living off-campus in a villa while we were starving in the boarding school.”
Gică listened to him, tapping his cigarette, not saying a word, and eyeing him like a sick fly. Sometimes, it crossed my mind that the girl, sister to Tavică and Cornel, might not even be their full sister but just an accident that involved the Dwarf. It was a thought; if I’d ever voiced it, Mițulica would’ve gunned me down with three shots, rapid-fire.
So, when Cornel’s situation went south, they called for the Dwarf. They welcomed him into the parlor with fig wine and walnut cake. He learned about the “situation” and declared that the best course was to do as he was told. But surely, he, the Dwarf, would try to put in a good word, not for Cornel’s sake, but in memory of the good old days when he was a student at the Normal School and loved Mițulica with undying devotion.
During that time, everyone and their dog came by and gave their two cents.
To all of Mițulica's schemes, all of Cornel’s ideas, and even Muc’s stifled murmurs, Gică responded with resignation that there was little they could do. “That’s it, Cornel. You have to understand they’re never going to accept you. You hear me? Try to look at the big picture! You couldn’t even get into the Faculty of Letters, so what makes you think they’ll hire you for a job that pays good money?” The word purge began to permeate the discussions, and my father’s grim future became more apparent by the day. He was facing demotion, being ousted from the socialist trade system, or worse, being sent off to Strehaia or Filiași, a one-way ticket with no chance of coming back. Fired or relocated, especially for disciplinary reasons, it made no difference. He’d gotten the state dairy companies up and running, so he hoped to reap a reward: perhaps to obtain an important position involving more agreeable work at a statistical research institute, to publish his poems, and fool around with women. But in the meantime, the first phase of forced education had ended, resulting in diplomas for the comrades and the emergence of the first classes of newly literate, part-time graduates with accelerated degrees, taught in short order. The former officials were replaced, sidelined, or laid off if necessary. And whether it was necessary depended on many factors, mainly the overall agenda of our socialist society, where one’s social origin could be either healthy or unhealthy. Ours still bore traces of the bourgeois disease, which gave the Dwarf sleepless nights.
Cornel was assigned an accounting job in Filiași, and off he went, lugging his green suitcase and the briefcase, which, among other things, held a small packed lunch Mițulica had made, including Pavel’s cheese and two fig-stuffed pigeons.
I remember the town and the trip with Muc, wrapped in her voluminous coat, carrying a cheap tote bag, holding my hand, and taking small steps. “Maybe Filiași won’t be so bad,” she said, “At least we’ll finally be rid of Mițulica.” It was raining, and puddles dotted the street. We opened the gate. The rented house was a shack with a dirt porch, and lying in a heap on the beaten earth floor was Cornel—or what had remained of him. His checkered jacket was smeared with mud on one sleeve, and his cap looked like it had been through the wringer, all soiled at the back. Not far away, a cognac bottle lay abandoned in the rain, appearing to have been there for ages. “Go play with the children,” Muc urged me, pointing to some wide-eyed kids huddled under the trees near a gate.
Instead of playing, we just talked. I was nervous but didn’t want them to notice, so I asked them who they were and what they were doing there. They didn’t have much to say. Eventually, they turned the questions on me; none had ever ridden a train. Satisfied with the answers, they started sharing stories. “You’re the accountant’s daughter,” they commented. “He’s a good man, even if he’s usually drunk or at least has a buzz on. But he gives us money. We even get to go inside sometimes. He doesn’t have a key and doesn’t even bother locking the gate.”
I wasn’t surprised; I would’ve left it open, too. One boy, with four tiny teeth spaced far apart, kept grinning at me. He wasn’t recounting so much as drawing me into their world, where Cornel was the main event. “We snag a few things now and then,” he admitted. “He’s got ten-lei bills in every pocket. And the place is filled with half-finished bottles, handwritten notes, and chocolate.”
I could easily imagine being one of them—a little gang coming home from school at lunchtime. They’d drop their backpacks and quickly cluster by the gate to the boy’s house, where they’d just wait for the hours to pass until evening came, and the accountant appeared, wobbly on his feet, disheveled, his pockets bulging with money and leaving bottles, cigarette packs, and his cap in his wake.
A lot has slipped my mind, but I still remember the teeth of that boy who was telling the story. Whenever I think of Cornel, I instantly see that mouth; I can’t help but recall the jaw of the storyteller from Filiași, because, try as you might, you can’t overlook the author and hold onto the events. As the narrative unfolds, the narrator’s presence inevitably grows, and you think about them, support their story, add your own details, and even put words in their mouth. This kid is still alive and talking to me even now. When you write about yourself, you’re earnest and swear it’s the truth, but if this grinning boy enters the world you’re recreating for yourself, his story and truth often transform into literature. His teeth are no longer his alone; they become part of your individual suffering, a suffering that seeks out echoes in others. An autobiographical novel is, I believe, literature; it’s more than a confession for which the speaker is accountable or a first-person narrative the author pretentiously disavows.
The trip to Filiași left an indelible mark on me. I was quiet and didn’t feel like telling Mițulica about it. Muc, on the other hand, was blubbering. She, who usually didn’t talk much and had wanted to leave Comoșteni for anywhere, even for awful Filiași, was now yelling hysterically, demanding they go and get him out of there.
She was crying, her coat still on but unbuttoned, looking like a painted goose, and I didn’t know how to calm her down and make her let things as they were.
Gică lit himself a cigarette, and Mițulica turned a page in her book. A gray, foul slime seemed to be enveloping us.
“The best thing,” Gică said, “would be for him to step back, to lie low. Why else do you think we’re sitting around here?” he asked, drawing on his cigarette. Muc stared at him in bewilderment; she hadn’t a clue. And as they talked, recalling events from long ago, giving the impression they’d forgotten about Filiași, about Cornel and Muc's tears, a reality I hadn’t even considered was rapidly taking shape: sticky, rooted in a distant time, in a different history, the significance of which finally dawned on me after many years.
The house in Comoșteni was a kind of refuge. Had war erupted, we would’ve easily held out for a long time, and if the siege wasn’t intense, maybe even in comfort. The yard contained life in miniature. Everything had its place and reason, working like a perpetuum mobile according to an ancestral arrangement. My favorite corners were right by the entrance—the gazebo, the enormous lilac bushes, the hollyhocks and oleanders, the well, and the fig trees—and then came the basement stocked with supplies, the chicken yard, the stable, the storage shed with enough to outlast three lifetimes, the kitchen and the outdoor oven, the sour cherry orchard, the icehouse, the castor bean plantation, and the high wall of the cultural center that sealed off one side like a fortress. At last, there was the house, a bastion with several doors, each guarded by an unshakeable iron bar.
Gică was right: there was no place like home. He’d been away, too. I imagined him changing carriages along the way in the stories told by others, raising his pistol in the air, crossing the Russian steppes, and finally returning home. Bolting the door. Unleashing the dog.
“It’s not just a house,” Gică said, and Mițulica agreed. I could tell she’d left her guard down; her eyes, which usually begged you to hold them, looked like waters overrun with flowers.
They talked about the house, the doors, and the barred windows while I thought about the people who came and went and the guests who spent their holidays with us. Whoever had set foot there had felt its pull and wanted at once to protect it, to make it part of their lives. I could see myself closing the gate, running after Muc to catch the bus or go to the train station. Flags fluttered on the lamp posts, and we were losing our form and turning into little wool tufts, tiny clumps, lifeless creatures abandoned on the streets in Filiași.
Gică looked at Muc, and our minds brought forth, maybe not all of this, but at least a part of our future lives, us at the long table in the Concrete room, on the spacious beds, in the parlor protected by doors and curtains.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” Muc mumbled, “There’s also the garden…” Gică finally smiled; the garden was his paradise by the Jiu, with grapevines, vegetables and herbs, alfalfa, and hemp, not to mention the steps leading straight into the water, over which Gică had control. “Our house isn’t exactly small either,” Muc added, and the vast front yard, where Cornel was going to plant Sudan grass, flashed through our minds.
They didn’t talk much. Gică took the train to Filiași, and Cornel became a collective farm accountant. Our lives slowly started to move towards Dej’s socialism. The ‘60s were dawning: exuberance and rejection of the status quo, even there, in the camp of our daily lives, where echoes of the Western world reached us in distorted forms.
torted forms.
Trans. Alina Gabriela Ariton
(excerpt from the novel Ferenike)
Translated into English by Alina Gabriela Ariton
