Writings

Half asleep, I hear a loud bang from outside. An engine revved to its limit, the squeal of tires on the road and then, at last, the violent crunch of metal. My money's on car versus motorcycle, but I've only just woken up. By the time I get out of bed and reach the window, the biker will be lying on the ground, alive and glad of it; the driver will be standing beside him, also alive, but dead inside. This is how a new day sometimes starts on Kossuth Street. Still, a thin ray of sun is slipping in between the curtains, so the chances of a good day – for me, not for the driver – aren't entirely lost.

The coach has us kicking the bag — 5 times, then 10, then 15, then back down to 10, 5.

"Am I doing this right?"

"Rotate your hip forward too."

"Okay."

I can tell I'm not hitting it the way I should, but I keep going. I get to the set of 10 and something starts to click — the movement starts to feel natural.

I live in a town in Romania called Zalău. It has everything I could possibly want, and I think it’s enormous. I’ve only walked a few of its streets, but Dad says it has sixty thousand inhabitants. I can’t quite grasp what that means, though once I counted to 120 and I could have kept going if I hadn’t grown bored. I’m very good at counting.

La cocaïna, la cocaïna a pris ma famille
J'suis une clandestina, une clandestina à Miami

The track was blasting through the speakers, and it made me want to drive recklessly, weaving through cars, pushed by the bass. Back then, I didn’t know what cocaine felt like, but I didn’t need to. I had more energy than my car had horsepower, the bass was on my side, and Szofi was in the passenger seat…