Cand eram eu mica de tot, foarte mica de tot, nu stiam ce sunt portocalele. Nu vazusem decat una la Craciunul cand aveam un an. La trei ani, cand ma uitam la o poza alb negru de la acel eveniment, tata nu a putut sa ma convinga nicicum ca ceea e tineam in mana in acea poza nu era o minge, cum strigam eu entuziasmata, ci o portocala.

De curand, tata mi-a spus o alta poveste cu portocale, una ce mi-a sfasiat inima intr-o mie de bucati. Am pus-o apoi pe hartie, in limba engleza. Mi-as dori ca cineva sa-mi spuna ca nu e asa, ca acela e un caz particular, ca lumea era de fapt altfel. Mi-as dori de fapt, mai mult, ca lumea sa fie azi altfel. Aici, la noi, si acolo, peste tot!

De sperat… nu voi inceta niciodata 🙂

My father later told me a different orange story. My neighbor was pregnant when she heard the news that a shop nearby had brought oranges, and they were selling fast (through the back door, of course). She grabbed the little money she had in her house and rushed to the store, belly sticking out through her overworn dress. She was so tiny, so skinny, so fragile. The queue was immense, and as she struggled to move through the people, a man observed her and her belly. In his extreme generosity, he offered to help her, took the little money she was holding in her hand, and told her to wait just behind the queue, so people didn’t hurt her in their frantic efforts to get in front. She listened and she stood there quiet, excited, thankful. She was craving for an orange so badly, so very badly.

At some point, she saw the man coming out, bag full of oranges in his arms. She started smiling, she could almost feel the smell. She began walking towards him excitedly… but, to her huge surprise, the man got out of the queue and started walking in the opposite direction, quick pace, head down. Unsure of what he was doing, my neighbor quickened her pace, breath shallow and heartbeat high. She walked as fast as she could, but her belly was so big, and her legs were so tiny, so skinny, so fragile. The distance between her and the man was constantly growing. She tried to shout, to shout something to him, so that he would turn back and see her. He knew she was there, limping behind him in despair, no doubt he knew, no doubt she was there. She shouted, but all she could let out of her chest was a whisper.

There was no shout in her chest anymore.

After the man turned the corner, she kept walking behind him, tears now rolling down her cheeks. “One”, she said to my father afterwards, “one orange, that’s all I desperately wanted. I kept hoping he would throw one to the ground for me, like you’d throw it to a dog, I didn’t care. All I wanted was one orange to calm my craving. I kept following him because I hoped he’d throw one to the ground for me”, she kept saying. At the corner she stopped, as the street that continued was bare, no man, no orange, no hope. She stood there and she wept from the bottom of her heart, she wept for the oranges, she wept for her baby, she wept for her life in a country that had become soulless.