Winter

A snowflake slowly slides down from my forehead. Like a child on a slide. With joy and restlessness.

Honest-Minded People by Vlad Mușatescu

“…

Octav was at home, a little drunk, with the bottle and the iron next to him. He had singed his corduroy pants and now he was crying with tears as big as cantaloupes.

Doru, quick of apprehension, examined the breeches and, looking at me, he said:

’They’re fine, really! They smell of sheep’s hair, but it doesn’t matter. Come on, pop Octav, everybody’s waiting...’

’Dodoru, mmmy ffeett are shacking... Because of all the emotion!’

’No, because of all the wine!’

Asking me to help him, Doru put Octav in his trousers, I arranged the tie at his neck and put his frock coat on, after which we carried him to Doru’s car. On the way, coming out of his alcoholic melancholy, Octav told us:

’I forgot my shoulder straps. What if my pants will fall off?’

’You’ll be sure to keep them up with one of your hands, and that’s it!’ Doru darted at him.

And Doru was right. All the time that Octav had stood next to Onglița, during the time the snuffly priest conducted the ceremony, Octav has kept his arm under the frock coat, looking like Napoleon Bonaparte. Mamamoașa, beaming with joy, could not make out why Octav looked so haughty.

Doru and I, bestmen, were standing stiff with candles in our hands, as if we were squires at the court of a great king. I was so focused on pop Octav, waiting for the climax, when the trousers would fall down, that I didn’t notice that all the wax was dripping on the low seam of the coat and on my trousers.

When it came to the exchange of rings, Octav forgot about his pants. And, kissing my mother at the firm comand issued by Mamamoașa, I think I was the first one to see, knowing what would happen, the slow but certain falling down of the corduroy pants. Not even pop Octav really realized what was going on, because when the whole thing was over and directed himself towards aunt Mili, to adequately kiss her hand, he tripped over his fallen pants and, remaining only in wollen johns, that fortunately covered him up to his ankles, he fell at the witness’ feet, rubbing the floor with his nose. Even though there was still some alcohol in his cells, at the last moment he was spry enough to clench the low steam of the dress that Mamamoașa wore. Who quickly found herself without the back part of her luxurious dress, disentangling with noise. Hearing it, Mamamoașa realized the disaster, and yelled at Moișeanu:

’Titi, get in the rearguard!’

The withdrawal of the witness was a solemn moment. Titi, walking very close to the back of Mamamoașa, led her to the bedroom, where the changing of clothes took place. During the reverse gear footsteps, taken at double command, she told me:

’You, child, come. You must change your clothes since they are so full of wax!’

’ Mamamoașa, I can promise you that I haven’t even touched the honeycombs in the store room’ I ensured her, holding my hand on my hear and having it stuck to it due to the wax.

’Fool, I was referring to the wax from the candle!’

Smile, please!

Illustration by Cristi Vecerdea-Criv

She loves me... She loves me not...


(At ease! Let's laugh!  by Cristi Vecerdea-Criv, published in 1990 at the Military Publishing House)

The handle

A metallic creak broke the silence in the house. I slightly turn my head to the entrance door. It’s a familiar sound. Somebody standing in front of the door is pulling the handle. But not the one from our door, but the neighbor’s.  I sit there still and smile. As I always do every time when, in a horror movie, a door handle is presented, moving up and down. The tension does not rise with the music. At least, not for me. When I used to live in my parents’ apartment this metallic sound could mean only one thing – one of my grandparents was in front of our door.  Since they lived in a village, they couldn’t make out the concept of locked doors. So, every time they came to visit us, they would pull the handle up and down, being convinced that the door will finally open and that they could enter the apartment. It was no use my mom explaining them that we, the people living in the city, feel the need to lock each and every lock our door has and, moreover, that the poor spring of the handle suffers badly after each struggle it endures. No use, like I’ve written! Not even to convince them to knock at our door. But, it is true, that they had kept their right to yell my mom’s name when in front of the door. They knew that it would always work. And not only in the village. But also in the town. Especially, for people living in houses.