Bogdan Munteanu was born in Arad, on April 28, 1979. He has been living in Timişoara since 1997.
He published three short story books, the most recent one being Ai uitat să râzi (Nemira Publishing House, 2016). Also, his short stories appeared in several magazines and anthologies. He collaborated with articles to Hyperliteratura online magazine and Bună dimineața, București! newspaper.
He organized cultural events to promote the literature and Romanian contemporary authors and held numerous lectures in schools. He coordinated, along with Marius Aldea, the project Scriitorii sunt pe Facebook, which won the award for the best campaign of PR/Marketing/ CSR at Book Industry Gala in Romania (3rd edition, 2014), as well, the best experiment of the year, awarded by Tiuk online magazine.
Bogdan Munteanu was one of the guests of the 3rd edition of the International Literature Festival in Timișoara (FILTM 3 – 2014).
He is currently working on a novel, collaborates with articles to Bookaholic online magazine and chairs the series of events Ce mai faci, scriitorule?, organized by Cărturești bookstore in Timișoara.
I’m standing like an idiot in front of Gigi’s house, wrapped in his new overcoat. It’s December, it’s cold, and the wind is blowing.
Gigi is dying and I need to get my hands on a thousand lei.
How the hell could I say no to him? He’s dying! And I don’t have the money, where am I supposed to find it? And I’m also talking to myself on the street. Enough, hush, calm down!
It’s not working. I want to let it all out, I want to forget about this stupid visit, I want to scream, scream at someone. I’ll call my wife. The phone, Laura, here we go. Fuck! Out of credit! No job, nothing. Only debts. Oh man, Gigi, my man, what are you doing to me?
I’ve known Gigi since we were yay high. He lived in B11, and I’d recently moved into B12. I stayed in the house two weeks before I had the courage to go outside. I’d seen Gigi through the window; he was the biggest and fattest of all the kids our age, and he’d slap anyone if something didn’t feel right to him. One day I mustered up my courage and went out. Nobody paid any attention to me, except for this fat boy. He came straight at me. I was shivering, I didn’t know what the deal was. Was I likeable, was he sniffing me out, was he just curious? This block belongs to me and my dad, he grunted, and pushed his finger into my belly. What are you doing here? I muttered something about having just moved into the building and not having anywhere else to go. He wasn’t pleased. He scowled at me, got close and burped in my face. This was what saved me! Before moving to the city, I’d been in hundreds of competitions against the guys in my old gang, so I was able to burp anytime, anyhow. I took a step back, a deep breath, and I unleashed the most beastly burp in my entire life. And so Gigi and the other guys were seduced. First they froze as if they’d heard a dinosaur. Then they laughed their asses off. Do it one more time, again, again—they kept asking me to do it, and they were dying laughing every time and kept asking me for one more, one more, and we’re done! I was treading on air! Gigi immediately took me under his wing. Whoever picked a fight with me picked a fight with Gigi. All I had to do was burp whenever and however he wanted. It was an exchange that suited me perfectly. Football, tag, team leapfrog, little secrets, then later, booze, gambling, women, more secrets, but bigger—it was a friendship impossible to break.
And yet, for a time, we cut all ties. We didn’t speak to each other for years. We were both a little over thirty. What happened was:
1: Gigi badly, really badly fell for a girl, Loredana. I’m getting married, he said to me one day. I thought he was joking and I let out a light burp to defuse the situation. But he wasn’t joking; from his chest pocket he took out an invitation crowded with hearts, balloons, and little birds. Congratulations, I’m glad, I said, and pretended I was glad.
After the wedding I saw him less and less. He was pissing me off, kept going on about how well he was and how awesome Loredana was, but not only that, because he wouldn’t have married her after only three months for nothing; Loredana this, Loredana that, and get your mind together and marry a woman like mine—he didn’t say like his, but that’s what he meant, or at least that’s what I thought he meant. He was so in love that one day he forgot to ask me to burp—that was a first. It hurt a lot. Hurt so bad that I was incapable of saying anything at all.
2.1: On the rare occasion in which Gigi remembered I existed and invited me over—only to preserve appearances—in their love nest, Loredana would laugh harder at my jokes than at Gigi’s, would look me in the eyes more often than she looked at Gigi. She was awesome. Had it not been for that friendship, I wouldn’t have even given it a second thought.
2.2: The third or fourth time I visited, Gigi remembered our old habits. Yo, man, burp!! he shouted. I perked up at once, but then immediately slouched—there was a woman there, I didn’t want to be rude. But they both insisted—the wine had gone to their heads. I said OK and let out a common-sense burp so I wouldn’t get anyone upset. They applauded, I felt great, I took a shot of pălincă; that’s not important though—the fact is when Gigi went to the toilet, Loredana snaked her arms around me and whispered you pig, and bit my earlobe, and this made me forget about tag, team leapfrog, gambling, friendship, and all the Gigis in the world. You’re the pig, I said, and I pinched her ass, and she burst into laughter and—because Gigi had just flushed—she slapped me, and it was the best slap I ever got.
3: A whole month hadn’t even passed, and Loredana became insistent and hysterical, and she kept terrorizing me with I love you pig, if you don’t come here I’ll tell him everything and you’ll see what happens then. I started avoiding her, but it was too late. Gigi called me and shouted you piece of garbage, you lover-boy, how could you, man, how could you and so on. Loredana had gone rogue and she’d even told him about the earlobe, and what happened next was pretty clear. I reacted as innocently and naturally as I could—what, Gigi, my man, have you gone mad? Shut up or I’ll come over and stab you, he shouted between gasps. And from that day on I didn’t exist to him. I shut up and regretted that I’d hurt my friend. He didn’t come to stab me, but he got divorced immediately—I was expecting that, he’d been the impulsive type since he was a boy.
We made peace after some five years, when I invited him to my wedding with Laura, with whom I’d fallen in love just because she wasn’t awesome. I froze when Gigi showed up—I wasn’t expecting him to come. We both pretended we forgot what had happened. He’d remarried a woman, Sanda, got into business, made a lot of money—he bluntly told me all of this while having a cigarette in front of the church. After that he wished me, even more bluntly, congratulations. I awkwardly said thank you, and, ummm, I’m very glad you came, but I kept thinking of asking him if Sanda was as awesome as Loredana—a stupid thought that made me feel more and more pathetic. After we finished our cigarettes, Gigi slapped me so hard that every guest at the wedding just froze, and then he said ok, it’s done, I’m over it. Now burp! I gave a grunt in front of the church. Loudly. My jaw hurt, but that wasn’t the reason for my tears.
After the wedding we began to meet on a weekly basis. We played backgammon, talked dirty and laughed. We ate and drank like jerks, always with Gigi’s money. Gigi was rich, I was poor. Gigi was high and mighty, I was a small fry. Gigi was an XXL, I was a poor L.
Now Gigi was dying, and I was sound as a bell, and just as poor. I’d known for two months that he was in bad, bad condition, they’d discharged him from the hospital, they weren’t able to do anything for him anymore. I visited him often enough that his imminent death became a casual thing. My legs didn’t even shake when I saw him. He’d lost about 40 kilograms, he looked terrible. Frog-like eyes, popped out of their orbits, sunken cheeks, a pile of bones almost piercing his skin. In his last week he didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed, he was just lying there, his only concern appeared to be the morphine dose. The moment I stepped into his room I started chattering, I couldn’t stand the silence, it seemed like every moment of silence sucked a bit of life out of Gigi, I was rambling on and on about childhood, do you remember when, what about that time when, I was gesturing, making faces, and when I let out a burp, seemingly by mistake, he smiled too, but ghostily. And just like that a half an hour had passed, alright, homie, I’ll let you sleep, your eyes are shutting, he begged no, I can stay awake, look, and he kept his eyes wide open just to show me he wasn’t asleep. He touched me with his skeletal hand, I felt pity for him—I didn’t want that, I didn’t want him to blackmail me and I was lying to him, my boss is going to scold me for being late to work, what, didn’t I tell you I found a job at a newspaper, come on, Gigi, I told you. We were laughing, I touched the blanket in which he was wrapped, but carefully, I didn’t want to feel his bones. I snuck out of the room and forgot about him at once. I had my own problems, they’d laid me off right after he got sick, I couldn’t find a job, we were having a hard time, we were living off of Laura’s money, little as it was, in short, it was bad. Gigi was dying, I knew he could solve my problems in the blink of an eye, but I didn’t dare ask for money precisely because he was dying! The only debt I could pay was that of being a good friend. I paid him visits, I told him stories, I left. I didn’t even have to entice him, he knew he was dying. It’s done, he rattled. It’ll be done before Christmas.
I want to cry, I want to scream, I want Laura to calm me down, I want to forget about this visit. And look, I don’t have any credit left! I begin to walk, damn, this cold is annoying me. I get to the bus stop. I light a cigarette, I need to try to calm myself down, to rewind, maybe things will come together.
The overcoat, Gigi said weakly, and made a sign to his wife to get it. I was confused. What overcoat? What’s the catch? Sanda brought the coat and put it in my arms, it’s new, he doesn’t need it anymore, she whispered, what’s he going to do with it? And then he: Does it fit? Try it on! I made a gesture, oh, no, it’s not necessary, but in fact I was thrilled, it was a good moment for a present. And really, what could Gigi have done with it? He gave it to me. I would have done the same thing. I tried on the overcoat, it was big on me, I’d known that from the beginning. He is, or, you know, was, an XXL, I—an L at best. But still, it was a good gift. I said thank you, I smiled, wanted to make a joke, I have to put on some weight (God, what a stupid joke), I’ll be back tomorrow or the day after, and I made a sign to Sanda to put my old coat in a bag. I was about to turn left towards the door, take care, Gigi. And I hear him rattling again: twenty million, that’s what I paid for it. Hugo Boss. I froze. Why was he saying this to me? What’s the price got to do with anything? You take the price tags off of presents. You don’t make someone feel bad and indebted. And then he dropped the bomb: I’ll leave it at ten. Brand new. A steal.
Was he selling it to me?!?!
I helplessly looked towards Sanda, maybe she could contradict him, maybe she could confirm this was just a sinister joke, people make this sort of joke when they’re dying, something, she has to say something! And there she was, not saying anything, she’d stuffed my old coat in the bag, and she looked at me like an idiot. And she also smiled! My legs were shaking like the time I found out Gigi was dying. I was standing in the middle of the room, dumbfounded and ridiculous, with the Hugo Boss on me, I was sweating hard and I couldn’t look Gigi in the eye. I was imagining myself withdrawing a thousand lei in small bills, fives, tens, and throwing the money in the air, I could see how the money would fall over Gigi and cover his skeletal body, how he’d rise happily from the pile of money and started counting it, and how I’d announce, burping triumphantly, every hundred. But I didn’t have that kind of money. Gigi was dying, and, because he was dying, I had to indulge him. No comment! Ummm, I’ll get the money to you, ummm, next time, I mumbled, and I took off, wearing that stupid overcoat. On the street I realized I’d forgotten the bag with my old coat. They hadn’t said anything, Gigi or Sanda. They saw the coat and what did they think about? What a steal. Or maybe I was disturbed.
Nothing came together in that cold. Only stupid things were going through my mind. Gigi loved money, I knew that. He loved me too, sure. Let’s play some backgammon! Let’s. Let’s drink! Let’s. Let me tell you a secret! Tell me. Burp! Boajahjgfoifdx. One more time! Gmanpsosaea. I too loved money, but I didn’t know how to make it. Maybe that’s why I loved Gigi. I started to do the math, how many times we’d gone out together, how much money he’d spent with me on pork chops and duck and turkey and beef and whiskey, and other things we’d stuffed ourselves with and drunk. I came to the conclusion I owed him ten overcoats, not one, and I felt bad because everything I had to offer wasn’t measurable in his currency. Nonsense. I’ll get my hands on a thousand lei and that’s that.
It’s New Year’s Eve. I’m at Gigi’s funeral. My autumn coat and two sweaters are no match for this cold. I’m waiting for the priest to start making the sign of the cross, I’ll make ten, fifteen each time, maybe then I’ll thaw out a bit. But the priest just prolongs the service and gets on my nerves. I look to my left. My wife should be there, but she got sick. Nothing bad, it’ll pass. I look to my right. Loredana is crying. She leans into me, and that livens me up a little.
Oh, the overcoat. I sold it. For five hundred, I don’t know how to negotiate. Half of the money went to medicine for Laura and the funeral wreath, I drank the rest when I heard Gigi died. I burped an entire day in bars, but it didn’t have the same charm.
Translated by Tara Skurtu and Tiberiu Neacșu