The ten short stories contained in this volume each bring to life a corner of a strange world, a world whose position in time and space is indeterminate, and where things seem always to border on the fantastical. In these tales, there is a permanent tension between realism and the fantastic. The author creates parables of uncommon power and beauty. His characters are generally given generic names (e.g. the Clockmaker, the Calligrapher, the Hunter of White Wolves), which sometimes allows them be regarded as archetypes, and above all ensures their parabolic, exemplary function. Things slip out of control with enchanted ease, leaving behind them the motif for meditation that can be found at the core of each individual story. By a grammatical ruse, a calligrapher manages to stop a war. A man becomes enraged at his image in the mirror, which no longer faithfully reproduces him, and his supreme goal becomes that of slaying it. A dead husband takes revenge on his unfaithful wife by sending her letters from beyond the grave. A clockmaker presents a village with a bizarre timepiece, which chimes an hour before any significant event, be it good or bad, thereby disrupting the life of the peasants, who eventually revolt. The title story and pièce de résistance of the book concerns three siblings, triplets, each of whom is a genius in his own way : the first is a painter, the second an acrobat, the third a writer. But failure stalks all three, inasmuch as the painter-child goes blind at the age of nine, the acrobat-child grows fat, and the writer-child suddenly refuses to write. The tension of the narrative and that between the characters builds up to the point of paroxysmal fury and madness.
This collection of short stories confirms the unusual talent of one of the most important Romanian writers of the last twenty years.

The Highway

…The motorist recognised the landscape. The villages too were familiar to him, and even some of the isolated houses, a well, a watchtower, a farm. Then a plain. Yet more plain. Known, unknown, hard to say. A perfect, infinite steppe. Sometimes, he would come upon a petrol station. The pump attendants – naturally, always different – would invariably be amiable, the drinks and snack dispensers would work perfectly, and the highway would unfold smoothly and evenly, a straight line. The only abnormal thing seemed to be the fact that he did not glimpse any other motorcars. And this after more than four hours. Sometimes, he would see small flocks of sheep or herds of cattle grazing on the endless pastures, but he never saw anyone there to look after them. And, whereas before, on the steppe, a tree could still be glimpsed here and there, now such apparitions were ever rarer. In fact, for the last seven hours of the way, he had not glimpsed a single tree… The grass too had started to vanish. It was only here and there that wilted and increasingly yellow clumps could still be glimpsed. Then they were replaced by stunted thorn bushes, the only vegetation that clearly showed that this was an earthly space and had not become wholly barren. The petrol stations, situated at convenient distances from one another, were open day and night ; the snack dispensers likewise. But the pump attendants seemed ever deafer. He would ask them something or other while they were filling his tank, and they would answer at cross-purposes, or else smile bewildered, with an ingratiating air. They seemed as though they were from another planet. The motorist could, of course, have turned back, but for reasons unknown, as well as from his entire behaviour, it was plain that he would not even conceive of such a thing.
He would sometimes watch the highway that spread out behind him and he had the impression that he would never return to the place whence he had set out. In the boot he had all kinds of canned food, biscuits, two crates of fruit, and a large round of cheese wrapped in nylon. He had water too, a few canisters. He rested well. At night he slept for eight hours, and for at least two during the day. On his face could be seen nothing but determination, certainty. Only because he kept a grip on himself. For within himself he could not remain unmoved by the strangeness into which he was plunging with every mile. The first manifest sign of disquiet showed itself when he noticed that there was no longer any breeze… The dashboard showed seventy-five miles an hour. Even in conditions of dead calm, he would have felt a certain wind resistance at that speed ! Only if the wind, by some miracle, had been blowing in the direction the car was travelling and at an equal speed would there have been an explanation, but only as long as he was in motion. That would have meant, at rest stops, when he alighted, the motorist would have been met by a veritable tempest. But nothing of the sort happened. And nor could he feel anything to the right or left. Only his breathing seemed slightly more laboured.
Not long afterwards, the alternation of day and night vanished, replaced by a continuous twilight ; it seemed easy to confuse the ever more pallid sun with a full moon. It was only then that the man at the wheel felt that he should stop and turn back. The fact that he was proving foolhardy did not exclude prudence ; the things that were happening were taking on ever more unusual aspects.
He braked ; it was the first time he had really hit the brakes since the beginning of the journey, twenty-three days ago. Before him, the highway was immaculate : not a single pothole, not a single bend, not a single patch of oil or moisture. Because of the monotony of the road and the things that were happening ( ?), he had become a little agitated, and sometimes his head would ache. He braked decisively, intending to subject himself to a physical jolt, which would invigorate him. For a few moments, the inertia pressed his chest against the wheel, and the impact caused a slight but persistent pain.
He was seemingly clearer-headed now… He made a rapid decision : in another twenty-three days he would be home again !
He looked through the rear window, as if to gauge the road. He jumped onto the back seat and knelt there, so as to be able to see more clearly. Then he hastily got out of the car. This was impossible ! Behind the car it was as if the highway had never existed. Beneath the wheels it was intact ; he tested it first with his foot and then with his hand. He turned his head. In the direction he was travelling, the asphalt stretched like a line piercing to the horizon. The motorist again scanned the horizon whence he had come. An ashen desert, above which loured a bruised sky. Without a trace of cloud. Return ? Without a compass it was inconceivable. Any swerve, however small, from the exact direction – and it could not have been otherwise – would, in twenty-three days, have become a deviation with unpredictable consequences. Perhaps fatal. Of course, he would find no more petrol stations, no more dispensers… In fact, the road back would not last twenty-three days, but probably thirtythree, or months… But onwards – ever onwards – was the only more or less rational possibility. How far ? And where would he end up ? He recalled that, at the last two petrol stations, there had been no pump attendants. He had filled the tank himself, leaving the money on the counter. What if the petrol stations and food dispensers vanished too ?
The car surged forward, driven by a man more determined than ever.
“STOP !”
The lights came on in the projection room. Tired, a little apathetic, the three of them gazed at each other interrogatively. One of the viewers was the director of the film ; at the same time the screenwriter and actor. The producer. The other two were the cameraman and the special effects man : that sun in the twilight, immense and pallid, almost white, was his handiwork. And the steppe as flat as a board, cleansed of every trace of life. And that unfluttering handkerchief held out of the car window at more than seventy-five miles an hour, and the “erasure” of the highway, to make any return impossible…
The three remained silent for a long time. The director shrugged his shoulders a couple of times, and then examined his fingernails. Finally, he said :
“Twenty-eight minutes… Just over a minute for each day…”
And then he fell silent once more.
After a short while, he went on :
“I’ve been carrying this film around in my head for ten years ! And it’s as though I’ve been running for another ten… I don’t know how I’m going to end it. The script has no finale… I haven’t found a suitable one yet. In any case, the audience won’t really get it…”
“They’ll get it,” said the Cameraman. “The whole of mankind is running : each individual following his own track… They’re each on a highway, a journey…”
“Yes,” said the Special Effects Man, “each on his own journey… The audience will grasp the parable…”
“You haven’t understood anything… So how can you expect others to understand it ? My driver, the Motorist – whatever you want to call him – in fact has no goal. He has a purpose. Let’s not confuse the two : there are plenty of people whose purpose is to have no goal ! They like drifting, disengagement, chance ; in a word, chaos. My man wants to leave behind a space which doesn’t satisfy him ! That’s why he sets out on a journey ! He feels it is impossible to stay and he attempts to leave ! Where to ? Another space, naturally… Maybe moulded differently, with different dimensions. For something like that – as preparation for the passage to beyond – the known rules must vanish. Other laws probably govern there ; I don’t know which. I’m not making a science fiction film. I’m filming a metaphor. A new space demands new rules. No more people appear. The alternation of day and night melts into perpetual twilight. There is only one direction, the notion of going back no longer exists… Where it will end up isn’t known… This hypothetical space is my obsession… I’ve invested soul, money ; I’m almost broke… I can’t give up. I have to finish this film ! My last !”
“You’re tired,” said the Special Effects Man… “You’d do well to rest for a few days…”
“You say that just so that you won’t have to say I’m mad,” the Director tried to quip.
The Cameraman laughed.
Filming went on for many more days…. The same infinite highway, the same journey… The journey, aberrant for the entire crew – apart from the Director – brought nothing new. Almost identical images, which, in the viewing room, became ever more wearisome. The three were ever more irritated. One day there were even heated discussions, and the Special Effects Man threatened to walk off the set.
The next morning, the Director announced that he had at last found a suitable ending, the only one possible, and that the film would be a triumph ! He was not enthusiastic – as the other two might have expected – but it was plain that he was very sure of his discovery. Surprisingly, he hired another three cameramen !
“For one day only !” he told them.
The cameramen, now four of them, read the final part of the now definitive screenplay. They were given detailed explanations as to what they had to do. One of them, the first, in another car, was to shoot a further fifteen minutes of the journey down the highway, while the other three would film the finale proper. The film had to close with the arrival of the Motorist in exactly the same place from which he had set out. That is, next to the Castle, near the Old Town Hall. The Director wanted the images in question to be shot from three different angles, which he specified exactly, and the whole was to be done with the utmost rigour and professionalism. Without retakes. The possibility of retakes – he knew very well – would have led to superficiality.
“We’re going to ply our trade perfectly !” they all assured him.
The Director again went into details.
“The space – in the shots – will become more and more human. In the distance houses, trees, vineyards, and, of course, people will begin to come into view. Then, also in the distance, but in a close-up shot, the city from where I set out, our city, in fact, will become visible, more and more distinctly, threateningly. The factory chimneys, the buildings of banks, an aeroplane taking off, the mounds of garbage, cars – more and more cars, swarms of them – all leaving the city (the Special Effects Man will arrange it later), and above all smoke, smoke, lots of smoke rising over the whole landscape. At the moment I brake in front of the Castle, the three cameras set up there will film in detail the reactions of the man who, vanquished, is returning to where his place is, his own space ! Or else is arriving in another identical space !”
Everything went perfectly. The filming on the motorway, the shots mentioned by the Director, the entrance into the city… The crew by the Castle – although disconcerted – captured in detail the moment of impact with the wall, the concertinaing metal and the car catapulting backwards like a toy, one of the doors flying through the air. The Motorist with his open, glassy eyes, a jet of blood spattering a side window, which had miraculously remained intact, the horror of the passers-by who chanced to be in the vicinity… When the Police played the end of each reel in slow motion, it could be seen that the images were of exceptional quality, the work of true professionals, which much facilitated elucidation of events. Examining the wrecked car and reconstructing the events of the final day of filming, they established – beyond any shadow of a doubt – that certain components of the braking system had been disassembled by the Director himself, shortly before arrival, when he had made a rest stop.
…A few months later, the film – entitled The Highway – was shown to the public. The Special Effects Man did everything possible so that the final form of the film would match the Director’s vision, the vision he had, at certain moments, hinted to the crew. In every theatre, the audience – after the first quarter of an hour – accompanied the projection with whistles and catcalls, and, as time elapsed, most would leave. Those who remained, whether interested or merely more patient, were, in the end, if not completely disappointed, then in any case left bewildered…
After a short while, however, things changed. A central television studio included the film in one of its schedules under a new title – The Road of Perdition – giving beforehand a presentation that included details about the making of the film, the death of the Director, and the meaning of the metaphor explored. The initiative stirred enormous interest among audiences all over the country, and the theatres where the film was shown were now packed. A number of specialist outlets recorded the finale on video – illegally, it would seem – allowing film buffs to watch in the comfort of their own homes, with dozens of rewinds, the manner in which a man can die for an idea.
In the end, it was a case of a huge cinematographic success.

Translated by Alistair Ian Blyth