Liviu Florian Jianu: The story of the man who helps the justice (trad. Mirela Teodorescu)

The story of the man who helps the justice (trad. Mirela Teodorescu)

 de Liviu Florian Jianu

We live with the confidence that we are immortal.

Sometimes, immortality is saying that you die.

In that event, you look after and try to find moments when you were happy.

Inevitable, you remember the moment when you kissed first time a girl.

Once upon the time, a man who remembered he couldn’t kiss the girl who fell in love at 16. They made date, to a dry run, to theatre, in park, on a block of flats, to a tea, they talked, they danced, but they knew that something is missing. Until when she told him: I think that’s the time to break up. And then, he would has cried out so loud, so the whole world was defeated inside of him. But instead of cried, he closed the eyes, and from lips got out words “kiss me!” The girl came up next to him, and their lips touched so quickly, that their teeth cut, but he has no time to wonder, because the block of flats, the sky the world, all of them disappeared, and he waked up only after 36 years.

When he open the eyes, he was married, had two boys, also the girl was married, she had two girls. “How are you?” He asked her, in mind .  “… Imagine a day like this: 41 folders, 1000 pages minimum, a new specialisation, new codes, new challenges. Everything is made against the clock, and the day has only 24 hours, waking nights, additional a rebel viruses. That’s about all! I can’t feel anymore my palms. I have rotated around the sun, until now,  52 times. Are you? I quite dizzy, but my younger colleagues are dizzier. Saying this, I am not arrogant, only conscientious of responsibilities that I have, and the fact that I have to keep my head bright…”  she answered him.

Instead of answer, he wrote her poems. Also in mind.

He has worked and time to time, he has written her. He was thinking how much have to read, and to judge, to share the justice in the world. Let me do something to help it, said himself the man. He bought the book “Is speaking us Father Cleopa”, volume 7, and brought it at maximum safety penitentiary from the town. For inmates. Then, time to time, bought another Father Cleopa Ilie’s spoken volume, and  brought it, hobbling, to penitentiary. Nobody can make of the world in which we live, a better one. Not even God. But, somebody can: a kindly word. How much time I wasted until now, wondered the man. How much costs a volume “Is speaking us Father Cleopa”? 4 breads. How much costs an apple kilo? 2 breads. How much costs a pack of tea. 2 breads. How much costs a potatoes kilo? 1 bread. How much costs 3 toilet paper rolls? 1 bread. How much costs one litre of gasoline? 4 breads. How much costs the cheapest chance ticket at Lottery? 3 breads.

Each price, with its justice, thought the man. A Ion Creanga book ’s , the paradise of this world values  quite as 2 apple kilos, or 2 tea packs, or 4 potatoes kilos, or 12 toilet paper roles, or one gasoline litre, or  a lottery ticket and a bread.

 

How expensive is for possibilities of a human being from the Earth. And if the volume is neither read, nor measured, nor appreciated, nor kept for attention and read again in special moments of the mind, as much expensive is, as helpless it is, also in front of only one man.

And the man closed the eyes. When he opened his eyes, he was with 36 years back, on the same block of flats. In dark, he had seen the girl’s pearly eyes, scintillating of happiness. Also he would had had to know, even that time, everything that was talking a life Father Cleopa Ilie. But he didn’t read. If he would had read, he had knew how to do, as much he can do, the world, paradise.

It is not too late even now, was saying the man. With thousands of pages and hundreds of folders, new specialisations, new codes, and new assumed challenges by the once girl, he has bought a  “Is speaking us Father Cleopa Ilie” book. And he has brought to penitentiary.

Eternity is long, he was thinking. In the end, we all learn how to make it paradise…

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