Waiting: Stories
Dumitru Tsepeneag
Language: English
Pages: 94
ISBN: B01A1NJD12
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Though best known now for his novels, this collection of pre-exile short stories by the renowned Romanian author and "onirist" not only show Dumitru Tsepeneag at his best, but provide a glimpse into the secret history of surrealism uunder the brutal regime of Nicolae Ceausescu. In these stories, life is both banal and bizarre, on the verge of breaking down, like a film loop played once too often, with the hot glare of irrationality always waiting to burn through. Looking forward to Vain Art of the Fugue and back to Breton, Waiting is a subversive delicacy.
at me, of course, at my contortions and the fit of coughing that had come over me. “Go to hell!” I croaked, the drink burning my throat. I could feel it pass into my stomach and set everything on fire. He called over the waiter and asked for another quarter-liter. There was no more doubt in my mind: he wanted to have some fun at my expense. I got up to leave. “Please don’t go! I want to tell you something.” His voice was clogged and rasping. I wasn’t the least bit curious, but I sat down
noses, and the white togas in which they were dressed. I shrieked. The telephone was in its place, alert and hostile in its stillness. It seemed to be lying in wait for something or demanding an explanation; it was like the eye of a creature from the Great Beyond, cold but watchful, inert but pitiless, registering everything and weighing it up, so that one day . . . There was a single orange in the fruit bowl. The light was still too dim to make out the picture on the wall. For now all that
lights, for sure. He had just finished shaving one cheek when he heard the plane. To hell with it! But the droning grew louder and louder and he couldn’t stop himself, he said sorry, just a second, bending over the ear of the customer, who seemed asleep, and dashed to the window, one hand holding his razor, the other smeared with lather. The plane wasn’t visible. He hesitated for a moment, then pressed on the door handle, went down the three steps, and hurried across the yard, almost losing his
feeling his usual self . . . Mihalache stopped working too, raised his scissors to ear level and pretended to tap his forehead a few times: the guy’s crazy. Lic laughed, and the others did too, a big joke. The droning of the plane grew fainter and old Leo came back, puffing slightly, razor in one hand, lather covering the other, everyone remained silent and looked at him. Did you see it, Leo? Lic asked, because the silence was becoming awkward. Yes, I saw it, and he wiped his hand with a towel,
The girl’s father collected postage stamps and was probably shacked up with a shop girl who lived right at the top of the building, in the attic. There was an oppressive atmosphere throughout the house; it was filled with corridors, hallways, and assorted nooks and crannies, which looked positively sinister when no one was around; the doors had been white once, but the paint had peeled away and left them looking dirty; their handles were shaped like the heads of animals. Relationships between the