The sky hung high and blue; the child was staring at it, mouth open, hand above his forehead. The bright, cool morning breeze enveloped his sunburned cheeks, and dusty feet. Somewhere far away, at the edge of the plain, muffled, faded bangs were heard at times. There was no single cloud upon the clear sky, nor any smell of rain being brought on by the wind. The child stopped on the footpath near the road, openmouthed, beholding the unencompassed blue sky. He kept dragging his feet through the dew-soaked grass, to wet them. He whistled, constantly gazing at the azure sky. His father's jacket, which he had on, reached below his knees, his hands barely visible.
The child was short in stature, blue-eyed, no older than, say, seven or eight. He was returning home, from his grandmother's neighboring village, carrying, in a twig basket he could barely hold in his hands, a fat, white goose, he named Lyla on the way. He covered her in wide burdock leaves, least someone might see her. The child was whistling, to embolden himself, even though he was not particularly shy, and there was no one nearby. He was whistling out of habit, so the goose might seem less heavy.
As he passed the middle of the road separating the two villages, he laid his basket upon the grass, and took off his garment, breathing in the warm summer breeze. The goose was honking, softly flapping her wings, and making him giggle. He admired the red cloth he tied around her neck, to ward off the evil eye. After tying her wings to a hemp rope, he let her walk freely on the path before him. She treaded slowly, pecking grass, turning, from time to time, towards the boy, with her small, round eyes. She tried flying off, a few times, but the rope kept her in place.
On the road, far ahead, the child saw a dust cloud coming his way. The dusty truck drove straight past him. He found a dried up rod, and picked it up. The goose was neither answering him, nor turning around to look at him anymore. Instead, she kept on walking idly by. The knot of the red cloth around her neck reached up to her nape, looking like a bow. The sky was clear. The child was whistling, holding the basket and the rope in one hand, and the rod in the other. He wore his father's coat upon his shoulders, like a grownup. He was biding his time.
At the turn of the road, as he was about to cross the river, he saw a car, crossways before the bridge. He stopped in front of the car, to say hello. Would you let me across the bridge ?, he asked, looking at the two young, blond men, leaning on the car wheels. The two laughed, and, one of them, handing him a piece of chocolate, asked him his name. Emil, answered the boy, and her name is Lyla. — And whereto are you going, Emil, with Lyla ? — Home, if you'd let me cross the bridge. — We'll let you, but first, tell us more about Lyla.
The child started telling them anything that crossed his mind. The men were besides themselves with laughter, and Emil was glad he'll get to go home with the goose. At some point, a man came up from underneath the bridge, all smutty, and covered in mud. You can cross now, but quickly, very quickly, said the young blonde, handing him another piece of chocolate. Emil thanked him, and went on to cross the bridge. The three got into the car, setting off towards the village the child came from.
Upon reaching the middle of the bridge, Emil stopped, and, whilst still eating his chocolate, looked behind him, seeing the car now far gone. He wanted to say something, but felt Lyla flying out of his hands, and a deafening blow hitting him hard over the ears, as if the bridge itself was being lifted up, towards the sky, and torn apart. Lylaaa ! His thoughts dissipated into thin air. Far away, within another dust cloud, the car raced. Upon the field, and upon the river, like unto a faded echo, the silence of an August morning eventually fell. The sky was clear, like the child's eyes.
Dumitru Radu Popescu, August Clear
