Wednesday, 4 May 2016

My dear Vlad!

Today, we celebrate 94 years since the day Vlad Mușatescu was born. And what kind of celebration is that without one of his wonderful texts?!

Vlad Mușatescu – The Games of Detective Conan


If I was admitted, actually seized, in room nr. 2 to the Clinique of the Institute of Endocrinology, everything is due to my desperate attempts to find an oasis of peace in order to finish my so long dreamed novel. The magazine I work for, for over two decades, had approved two creation holidays. That I wasted in hopeless searches that resulted in disasters. Because, during the aforementioned holidays, if I did not manage to write anything remarkable, at least I totally made use of my detective inclinations. Except for the almost total demolition and disintegration of ‘Bombitza’ (my 600 D Fiat), now in reconditioning, under the direct supervision of my nephew, the engineer, at ‘Cyclops’ workhouse, from Drumul Taberii, everything turned out just fine. That is, without me writing my novel, and a surplus of weight. Bulgarian Penke, my wife, together with aunt Ralitza, the craziest representative of my family, from my father’s side, were both scared by my successes in this area, and convinced me, almost forced me, to accept being scientifically explored by the eminent doctors from ‘Parhon’. Fed at gram and by feeding bottle, only with diuretic and laxative teas, with unidentifiable vegetables and fruits (5% carbohydrates), I was no longer capable of thinking straight, let alone write a single line at my dream novel. Or, my good friends, Doru-the doctor and Sandu- the big guy ensured me that I will become a kind of super-writer. Once my body was toxin-free, coming from unreasonable nourishment, I would have the capability of an astronaut, able to create genial pages. That’s a good one! Even from the very first day, I felt a permanent state of dizziness. If the night shift janitor of the Institute hadn’t taken me to his heart, the next day I would have been dead. So, because of him, I came back to the normal life. And to my favorite food, that I could never consider harmful. What could be so dangerous in a slice of well-done bacon, a little brown just enough to become crunchy, accompanied by 16 fried eggs, and a couple of strong coffees, well-smoked by some quality cigarettes? After all, let’s be serious! Had Balzac been a bag of bones? Or Alexandre Dumas- the father? No way. Just look at their photos and you will be convinced of the contrary.

No comments:

Post a Comment