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原書のテキスト - ルーマニア語 În după-amiaza acelei zile pariziene văzusem, la Centrul Pompidou, o mare expoziţie André Breton, pretext, de fapt, pentru o desfăşurare de imagerie suprarealistă cum rareori poţi vedea într-un singur loc. Mă însoţiseră prietenii la care locuiam, un cuplu tânăr, mixt în mai multe sensuri, căci reunea două rase, două religii şi două arte, dar mai ales două fizionomii extrem de contrastante. Ei îi priveam faţa reflectată în sticla vreunui Delvaux şi părea chiar de acolo, înconjurată natural de femei goale şi blonde aşteptând (pe cine?) într-o gară pustie. Era aidoma lor, cu excepţia părului tăiat violent la ceafă. Şi, fireşte, a hainelor, între care faimoasa cămaşă bărbătească, neagră, în care o văzusem de cele mai multe ori în săptămâna cât stătusem cu ei. Cum îşi găsise românca asta sibiancă algerianul cu care locuia, habar n-am. Legătura mea fusese, fireşte, ea, prin intermediul unei prietene comune, tot muziciană. El era un berber mândru de originea lui, marcată prin tichia de catifea cu ape vişinii şi cu fund de atlaz albastru de care cred că nu se despărţea niciodată. Astfel, era, ca şi ea, haios, nepăsător, cam leneş... Imposibil de spus din ce trăia. Căci mă-ndoiesc că din actorie, cum (nici măcar nu) pretindea: nu cred că Othello – singurul rol în care-l vedeam cât de cât – se juca prea des în acele zile la Paris... Din toată expoziţia mi-a rămas în minte doar o singură pictură. Cred că sunt ţicnit: uneori iubesc câte un tablou atât de tare, încât literalmente îmi vine să dau spargere la muzeu şi să plec cu el. Era „Le soir qui tombe” al lui Magritte: o fereastră spartă, cioburi lungi aşezate sub ea în picioare şi soarele de amurg răsfrânt în ele sub unghiuri diferite...
翻訳 - 英語 During that afternoon in Paris, at the Pompidou Center, I had just seen a major André Breton show, in fact a pretext for a display of surrealist imagery rarely captured under one roof. I went in the company of the friends I was staying with, a young couple, mixed in more than one sense, since it blended two races, two religions and two arts, but more specifically two sets of extremely contrasting features. She, I would look at her face reflection in the Delvaux glass and she seemed to have always been there, surrounded naturally by blond naked women waiting (for whom?) in a deserted train station. She was just like them, except the crudely cut hair on her neck. And, of course, her clothing, like the famous men’s black shirt, which I had seen her wearing most of the times during the week I stayed with them. No idea how this Romanian woman from Sibiu had met the Algerian she was living with. My connection had been of course, she, through a mutual friend, also a musician. He was a Berber proud of his own origin, marked by the purple hued velvet hat with blue silk top which he never seemed to part with. This way, just like her, he was, funny, nonchalant, rather lazy… Hard to tell how he made a living. I doubted it was acting, as he (not even) pretended: I don’t think Othello– the only part I could imagine him play – would run too often in Paris during those days... One single painting stuck with me of the entire show . I think I am crazy: sometimes I fall so madly in love with a painting, I feel like literally breaking into the museum and snatching it. This time it was Magritte’s „Le soir qui tombe”: a shattered window, long glass shards standing underneath and setting sun covering them with its reflection at myriad angles...
From „Seara care cade”, a short story by Mircea Cărtărescu. „De ce iubim femeile”, Humanitas Publishing House, 2004.
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