I have no emotion any more
the poem of this street is known by him do you remember
I had begun to write it some years ago I built a tower I put
brick on another brick mortar then I laid the will
he came in no haste at first sight mysteriously I tried to live
only in the palm. the small place breathed hard for us at first we hid
from stones curiously with their hideous mugs then I learned
to hold our hands on tecuci street I hold out my hand I almost touch it
I would come here about thirty years ago…
I made snowmen
I liked walking by the small houses I looked at the chimneys full of smoke
by day I would come into wooden shops with old floors smelling of lamp oil
I liked that smell I watched the women faces they had red lipstick and
beauty spots drawn with the pencil
some would wear hats some others only gloves up to their elbows
on one window shop it was written “come to george and son – the newest suits”
around the corner there was a small shop with garnet-red curtains the lady sold fabrics
she would smile at me friendly whenever she saw me “you can come any time to drink a tea
with my little granddaughter” she had the best nut jam served on a small plate
with embroidered napkin.
then all those haberdashers
from the old centre of braila. so beautiful it was
I would press my nose on the cold window of some confectionery and I looked at the millet beer sellers yoghurt sellers crossing the street some others would pass with two-wheeled trolleys carrying
hot pretzels my mother would always buy me nougat and I drank the best millet beer
on Stefan cel mare street you could also find
the best lemonade the shop assistant kept it especially for me to drink it fresh
it was made of water and much lemon I was a child and it seemed
a true adventure to pass from one side of the street to reach that magic corner where the lemonade was waiting for me
during the long walks along the Danube bank I would look at the fishermen close my eyes and dream of
famous pirates huge ships and waves
at night in the woods nearby or somewhere in the lippovans’ villages across the Danube
I would listen to stories told at the fireside the people were calm they spoke in a low voice almost
whispering. no one was in a hurry
I understood so well every letter every face expression there are faces that
I still remember today books that I received
and read in a trice
in my mind I would play with the flames going out of the stove they seemed to
hold hands
they seemed to dance in a hora on the ceiling room they took various forms
sometimes I would talk to these mysterious forms
and in the morning pressed on the window again
I liked watching the street from its upper side with sleepy people just woken up
and the drizzle…the cold rain…
later another street rejoiced my heart I would often dreamt of myself in times past
young in a carriage on lipscani street protecting myself against the sun with
a small cream-coloured lace umbrella matching the large-brimmed hat
I have always liked shop windows terraces full of people those streets so old
Lipscani septari or covaci and blanari looking out of the window at manuc’ inn or all those old art galleries where you could meet history to hear the
shopkeepers from lipscani
to drink the Turkish coffee in a place with Turkish name
to think that everything is part of your life
well, yes,
first it was the street…
then the way appeared …and again the street and again the way
with eyes wide open you are still dreaming
you sit somewhere on some stairs - you do not hurry
downwards the street is the same the people go on their ways to their homes
you touch the cold step you want to feel it in your palm almost to breathe
at the same time with your street. then you turn towards him he was there behind you on all streets of your cities
when it was raining and when you were dreaming that you were living in other times
he would sit on the same step next to you
the clasp of the hand reminds you that it has been only one moment the rain stopped
“let’s take a picture on this street” I raise my hands like a prayer and
holidays
well, yes, here there will be our tower
we finished it
someone looked up to watch it closely frowns creases the lips
smiles and moves on
the world is more than we know I shout happily
in the hollow of the hand I keep a small shell. this is our place
for how long…for how long...
(traducere: Alina Beatrice Chesca)
