I was really glad to find again this book. It is the most beautiful ode that Vlad Mușatescu dedicated to the people that inspired and helped him throughout his life. I hope there are a lot of honest-minded people out there!
I wanted to leave, when he suddenly asked for help, which was to read the final draft of the manuscript. A thing that I delivered with real delight and abnegation. Without, actually, doing him a big favour. Considering that I, literally, ruined his text, changing the poet's name, which was annoyingly repeated in all its length. Therefore, I corrected it wherever I found it to be in excess. And reduced it to P. Sandor. Which sounded lovely. And even saved some space.
When he noticed that I destroyed his manuscript by distorting the reality, Iancsi-baci grabbed his hair. Which wasn't so much, after all. And told me as gently as he could, at that time:
"Muș, you such an idiot! The poet Petofi, surname, and Sandor name... What for devil we to do now?"
"No problem! I will fix everything... Keep calm!"
"Impossible! You with I cannot calm..."
In a week, from morning until evening, I redid the manuscript. I re-typed all the pages that I corrected. Having the best and noble intentions at heart. How was I supposed to know that Hungarians recite their names backwards, like they do when they read the names from the gradebook?! It seemed abnormal. But, in order not to offend Iancsi-baci's national feelings, I didn't say a word. Well, just like Romanians always say: every bird sings its own known trill."