By Alina Nelega

Translated from Romanian by Jozefina Komporaly

Hotbed Festival Cambridge (UK), 19-21 July 2024

Alina Nelega’s Traffic Jam (În trafic) received the UNITER Award for Best Drama in 2013, and the author herself directed the text with the Romanian company of the Târgu Mureș National Theatre in 2014. The play consists of the monologues of six women and a dog—the fragmented dramaturgy reconstructs the action from the different perspectives of characters, showcasing a wide array of female destinies. An abused housewife, a businesswoman, a PR manager who had lost control, an insensitive doctor, a humiliated policewoman—they are all random participants and characters in an event that stops the traffic. Life comes to a halt for a moment, and this stillness gives rise to a series of monologues that offer a cross-section of society. In Nelega’s play, the events are triggered by a woman who rebels against her marriage: she communicates her decision to divorce while sitting in the car, and her action leads to a series of reactions from other people as if the crisis had forced everyone to reconsider their own lives, there and then. This script-in-hand performance was directed by Paul Bourne, with a cast including Afia Abusham, Vanessa Ackerman, Cassandra Hercules, Bethany O’Halloran, Catherine Walston, Susanna Wolff.

The aim of this project, supported by the Romanian Cultural Institute in London, was to give a flavor of Romanian drama, in the context of contemporary writing for the stage in the UK. Showcasing an instance of Romanian playwriting in translation as part of a festival dedicated to new writing in English, has the potential to break down barriers between translated and indigenous work, and to introduce audiences to some of the specificities and themes that preoccupy the Romanian stage at present.

Hotbed Festival, started in 2002, is an annual festival of new writing for the stage, curated by Menagerie Theatre Company. In over 20 editions to date, the festival has showcased the work of a wide range of emerging and established artists, including commissions, original plays unseen before and work developed in-house. An archive of past festivals is available here: Hotbed Theatre Festival 2024 — Menagerie

Since 2000, Menagerie Theatre Company has been nurturing, producing and developing new plays, having worked with hundreds of playwrights, putting their work in front of audiences.Always open to new forms, new ideas and new challenges, Menagerie have toured work regionally, nationally and internationally: as far away as India and California, and as close by as Cambridge Junction and Storey’s Field Community Centre.

Alina Nelega is one of Romania’s finest playwrights and authors, her work being translated, published and performed in Romania and internationally. She is a winner of the UNITER Award ‘Best Play of the Year’ (2001, 2014), holds the ‘European Author’ accolade from Heidelberg Stückemarkt (2007), and is an Honorary Fellow in Writing at the University of Iowa. She founded Dramafest, the first new playwriting festival in Romania, that ran between 1997-2000, also working extensively with independent companies. Between 2010-2012 she was a columnist for the scena.ro theatre magazine, running her own column ‘Adverse Reactions’. She won the 2020 Prose Award of the cultural magazine Observator Cultural for the novel As If Nothing Had Ever Happened, the ‘Sofia Nădejde’ Award for women’s literature and the Best Novel Award for A Cloud in the Shape of a Camel. As a professor at the University of the Arts in Târgu-Mureș, she runs the Playwriting MA, a course most accomplished young Romanian playwrights have graduated from. She was a mentor on the Drama5 playwriting residency, developed by the independent ReActor company in Cluj-Napoca, and between 2012-2017 was the Artistic Director of the ‘Liviu Rebreanu’ company of the National Theatre of Târgu-Mureș. She also acted as the co-ordinator of the Romanian partnership in the Fabulamundi. Playwriting Europe project (2012-2023).

Jozefina Komporaly is Reader in Performance at the University of the Arts London and a literary translator from Hungarian and Romanian. She is editor and co-translator of the drama collections How to Explain the History of Communism to Mental Patients and Other Plays (Seagull, 2015), András Visky’s Barrack Dramaturgy (Intellect, 2017) and Plays from Romania: Dramaturgies of Subversion (Bloomsbury, 2021), and author of numerous publications on translation, adaptation and theatre, including the monographs Staging Motherhood: British Women Playwrights, 1956 to the Present (Palgrave, 2007) and Radical Revival as Adaptation: Theatre, Politics, Society (Palgrave, 2017). Her translations were produced by Foreign Affairs, Trap Door, Theatre Y, Trafika Europe Radio, Menagerie Theatre, and were among the finalists for the EBRD Literature Prize, longlisted for the Dublin Literary Award and recipients of PEN Translates Grants. She is a member of the UK Translators Association. Website: https://jozefinakomporaly.com/

Director of Menagerie and The Hotbed Festival, Paul Bourne has directed and produced over sixty professional productions in ten different countries. His work has ranged from productions on the fringe through to major international touring. Highlights include Guignol (Tennessee Williams) in New York and the UK, the world touring production of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare Abridged (out of Washington DC), and the European premieres Oleanna and The Secret Garden. Previously Artistic Director at the Frankfurt Playhouse and Center Stage New York, his focus is on creating and developing new work for the stage, offering appropriate productions that entertain, challenge and inspire. Paul also runs the corporate training for Menagerie and has delivered training and support for companies at all levels, including Liverpool F.C and the BBC.

Traffic Jam

By Alina Nelega

Translated from Romanian by Jozefina Komporaly

1.

IULIA

Holding a heelless shoe, barefoot and dishevelled.

Fuck these shoes!

Of course, I haven’t chosen the right time. We have been married for thirty years, and he keeps repeating almost daily that I don’t know how to pick my moment. For him, it’s never the right time.

So, it’s all the same. Right or wrong, now’s the time. It will be thirty years. In three days. Except that instead of an anniversary, we’ll have a funeral. Thank you! And if I end up burning in hell forever for how I feel now, it has still been worth it! It can’t be worse than the last thirty years.

To feel him every day,

even if I don’t look at him,

to smell him every day,

even if I don’t touch him,

to be reminded of him against my will,

several times a day,

to have sex with him,

three times a month on average,

without as much as thinking of him.

Otherwise, I can’t complain,

our sex life

was put to good use.

We have four children.

All male,

and that makes them feel

superior.

They are right.

You can’t rely on arithmetics –

in reality,

one is of a higher order than two.

So, all this time, I’ve been saying to myself:

I’ve done my duty.

All my life so far

has been nothing but a form of debt,

which has been paid back,

well over its net value, with a high interest,

my husband, my personal banker,

keeps asking for his instalments all the time,

the instalment ‘no-matter-what-I’m-still-your-husband’

the instalment ‘your-body-doesn’t-excite-me-anymore’

the instalment ‘the-children-are-fine-this-is-all-that-matters’

the instalment ‘you’re-good-for nothing-anyway’

and especially the daily instalment

‘I’ll-smack-you-if-you-don’t-shut-up’

and the weekly instalment

‘shut-it-you-slut-or-I’ll-smack-you-again’

and the monthly instalment

‘I’ve-fallen-off-the-chair-while-hanging-the-curtains’

and some major, annual instalments

‘your-wife-has-suffered-a-shock’

or

‘don’t-worry-we’ll-release-her-in-three-days-but-the-plaster-cast-will-come-off-in-a-month’

Yet, over all this time, I only cheated on him once. The day before yesterday.

He was very young

and a little drunk.

He wanted to take some money out

of the cash machine at our branch,

but had nothing left in his account.

And then he offered his services.

For a fee.

Why not, after all

it was my payday.

So, we did it in the staff toilet.

I had to celebrate somehow

that I finished paying my instalments.

It was the right time.

While driving, you can’t hit out with both hands,

and with both feet,

We were coming back from work – he from his bank,

I from my bank,

we’ve been coming home together for almost thirty years,

at first, we had a Dacia 1300,

then a Dacia Solenza,

then we got a Logan

and now we have a Duster—always a Dacia, of course,

for thirty years, he has been driving me home from work,

he, and no-one but him.

You’d say this is love.

And maybe it is.

Love is when you take care of her

so, she doesn’t take a detour on her way,

to have a bit of fun

staring at the clouds or at the sky

or to hook up with some man,

because she enjoys swinging

like a coat on a hook

or like a stray bitch,

whoever finds her, she’s theirs,

like I was his, too.

We’d drive in silence

for thirty years, every single day,

we’d drive in complete silence,

except for him mumbling under his breath,

look at that arsehole pulling out,

fuck you, man,

and this other one, look at that parking,

as if in a farmyard,

obviously,

there’s a blonde cunt behind the wheel,

for fuck’s sake, accelerate –

signal, arsehole,

death is looking for you at home, Santa

pull over to the right.

But today was different,

today, I told him,

in the middle of the rush hour,

as he was swearing most profusely.

I simply told him, there and then.

I’m leaving you.

But he says nothing.

I’m leaving you, did you hear?

And he, what the fuck

hey, just go back to the kitchen,

and honks for a long time.

I’m leaving you, I’m telling him one more time,

much louder,

to outdo the woman who’s yelling,

she winds down her window and shouts:

Fuck you, idiot

stupid arsehole,

who on earth has put a steering wheel in your hand?

I’M LEAVING YOU!!! I scream,

and he puts on the brakes, so I hit my head against the windshield

and he slaps me, just like that,

shut up, you hysterical bitch

is this the best time you could find?

Are you blind, you cow?

Can’t you see that you’re blocking my way?

I was on the roundabout.

As for her,

well, she’s driving a Dacia, shut up and keep your eyes open,

he says, suck my dick,

she goes, you suck, you wanker,

he retorts, cocksucker, slut,

I’m-leaving-you-I’m-leaving-you-I’m-leaving-you –

he slaps me one more time, even louder, over the mouth,

blood gushes out of my lower lip,

while the upper lip swells up in an instant.

I’m leaving you,

I tell him, again and again, though this time it’s harder to speak,

I’m-leaving-you-I’m-leaving-you-I’m-leaving-you,

today, was the last day.

He stops all of a sudden,

and I’m freezing,

he’s going to kill me, I must run,

must call the police or something –

but he’s getting out of the car,

red like a lobster,

she has an SUV twice the size of ours,

but can’t get past,

so she stops, too,

in the middle of the pedestrian crossing.

Someone is screaming,

but I can’t see anything anymore,

because of my tears,

and I swallow the blood flowing out of my lip,

I think I swallowed a tooth, too,

who cares,

it helps with digestion. I’m trying to get out of the car,

I just want to run away,

I’m never going back home again,

never ever,

let him give an explanation

to our neighbours, kids, friends,

that’s it, all over.

I’m going to sit here by the roadside,

I’ll hitchhike

no matter where,

I’ll find some place,

where no-one knows me,

I’ll wash dishes, look after kids,

I’ll be a hooker,

why not,

I’m used to it.

Just don’t hurt me anymore,

thirty painful years

no beaches, no short skirts,

no bare arms.

Thirty years to contemplate

how skin colour turns from bruised purple to yellow, and then beige

until nothing can be seen,

as if nothing had ever happened.

But it happens, again and again

Regularly, not a day goes by without pain,

I want the day to come

when I can put my finger anywhere, press down

and no longer hurt.

He rattles the car door,

it’s black and huge, nickel-plated,

he kicks it,

he screams – I remember those words,

having heard them before so many times.

He’s not looking at me,

now is the time!

But she, she’s watching.

And she sees the blood trickling down my dress,

as I get up from the ground because I tripped over and broke the heel of my shoe,

to hell with these shoes,

I can run much better barefoot.

Then I hear the gunshot.

The bullet hits him squarely in the face.

Don’t come looking for me.

I’m fine.

I’m celebrating.

I paid all my debts.

Thank you!

2.

PIP

Wielding a gun.

I told him I hated guns,

so, he took me behind the house

and put a gun to my head.

Do you feel fear? – he asked me. Wouldn’t you like it to be in your hands?

He then taught me how to shoot.

It wasn’t hard at all,

much better than playing strip pool

with him,

during the long nights when he couldn’t sleep,

and would drink a whole bottle of Chivas – Regal, no other kind.

Let him cry in my arms

until morning.

I have already found out quite a lot

about the art of leadership.

Right from the horse’s mouth.

I found out how many Government ordinances

are issued in exchange for political support,

how to build a motorway,

how much a gold mine is worth,

for how much a factory is sold

be it chemical or not,

and I found out

how a phone call works,

when given at the right time in the evening,

or what the word ‘protocol’ really means:

it means

black cars with soft leather seats,

personal jets and hostesses, all under the age of 25,

grace-and-favour homes with seventy rooms,

scantily dressed girls, two per room,

and it also means

barrels of wine poured straight into bellies,

and hundreds of corpses roasting on the meadow

in the moonlight,

the dead bodies of wild boars,

rabbits

and deer, all impaled,

that’s why it’s also known in certain circles as

Vlad – although it’s actually called something else,

I’m not telling you what,

it’s a secret. A state secret.

However, from your eyes I can tell

that ‘protocol’ means something entirely different to you.

It means the daily monitoring

of your bank balance,

the need to carefully plan the purchase of new children’s clothes:

I’ll buy it for you when it’s your turn,

and I don’t want to hear another word about

that video game,

computers do your head in.

And anyway,

I have already told you, you’ll get it for your birthday

or for Christmas,

from your grandpa.

It means

saving up for a cheap vacation

in Bulgaria,

or to the monasteries of Moldavia.

And it also means

being unable to buy a bigger house,

your credit card,

the car loan instalment,

the monthly mortgage payment,

the interest on your personal loan,

remember,

you stayed a whole week

at that private hospital near the maternity ward –

Back then, you wanted the best,

stem cell harvesting

and doctors who didn’t expect bribes,

nurses to take care of you

not to humiliate you,

this is why you took out that loan,

it was all good,

you had the right medication,

you tapped into my savings,

you didn’t suffer,

you felt like a human being.

But everything has a price.

And you’re going to pay for that week

until your child starts school.

See, I know,

I have my own sources of information.

Protocol also means

a 70-hour work week,

pressure and relief,

as job cuts are being made,

restructuring and reshuffling.

It means to ask yourself what tomorrow will be like,

what ideas will

the head of protocol

come up with?

Head of protocol – now that’s really something,

that’s a truly important role.

How does it look like to you,

just seeing me in this role,

what do you think, did I deserve

to be named his head of protocol,

only because I’m always there for him,

I understand the hardships the country’s struggling with,

and I struggle along.

I’m going to make tracks now,

sorry I can’t talk anymore

I’m called away on important business, 

of a protocolary kind,

I’m going to get in my car,

in that classy Infinity parked just over there,

kind of blocking the traffic.

Isn’t it gorgeous,

with all those nickel-plated bits and bobs,

not to mention the interior!

He bought it for me. One weekend,

when I didn’t make it to the meeting on time,

in Sinaia –

the police stopped me for speeding –

I had a fuzzbuster and was trying to slip

under the radar

but it didn’t work.

Until I explained who I was,

and why I was in a hurry,

an hour had passed.

So, he says, fuck it, never mind, Pip – that’s me,

B-84 PIP

Here are the keys, from now on,

this is your car,

don’t go slower than 175 per hour,

and when I call you,

don’t even think of keeping me waiting.

Just make sure not to have an accident,

because then we have our work cut out for us again,

like when my son ran that little girl over,

right on the pedestrian crossing

after she got out of school,

goodness, the parents kicked up such fuss –

he’s just a kid, and you guys are young,

you can still have another child,

but they would hear none of it.

He should pay, the woman was yelling,

pay, not get away,

but when they were offered some money,

they started to scream even louder,

they threatened us,

and made a huge scene.

Well, it’s not nice,

these are people who don’t know what they want,

no wonder they vote the way they do.

To our luck,

the woman went completely ballistic,

killer, killer, she kept howling,

they had to check her into a loony bin,

and she never recovered.

Well, how’s such a thing possible?

Not to be able to hold your temper

not to control yourself,

and simply allow emotions to take the better of you?

Then I sorted it out with the man,

I got him out of his depression real fast,

using a technique I’d known

ever since I was working freelance,

not as a public official,

with the help of a young girl, by the name of Nelly,

the mther of all bombs

that no-one can resist.

This sort of thing doesn’t happen to me,

I don’t cause accidents,

hence I expect to be respected,

to be given priority,

because I’m out and about on business,

I’m not just going to the shops

or hanging around the street.

The key is to act without violence.

Without ugly words,

swearing or insults,

I’m very sensitive to these,

I’ve never heard so much foul language in my life

in one place,

spoken all at once.

He was flying like a castrated dog,

meddled with, and panting,

I recognize the howl,

I spent some time at a friend’s house, who’s a vet,

right next to the dog shelter.

I could hear them yelp

after losing their balls,

anaesthetics are expensive,

and it’s over very quickly,

it’s easier without,

after all, they are only stray dogs,

no-one’s to blame

if they give up their ghosts.

Except that this one wasn’t castrated,

I swear,

he had the wife by his side,

she could only be his wife,

I recognize that, too,

by the way she holds her head,

never high,

but slightly tilted to the right,

dodging away.

I saw her, and could sense her fear,

I recognized her.

I see all kinds of fears, ten or so a day.

I could also see his fear.

I see it every morning,

I listen to it at night,

from our protocol venue,

where I sleep without him knowing,

it’s always locked, always,

no-one’s allowed in,

because one can hear everything that’s going on in his bedroom,

but every night,

I listen to him breathe,

and we carry on like this, nights on end, wall-to-wall,

I listen to him breathe, I listen to what he’s talking about in his sleep,

I listen to what he says

when he wakes up and thinks that no-one can hear him,

no-one can see him,

but I have to see him, haven’t I?

I need to know about everything that’s going on with him,

after all I am the head,

his head of protocol.

All he has is me.

And it.

Fear and I

are his girlfriends,

he calls it Power,

but it has a secret name,

longer,

and more complicated

it’s called

the fear of looking at yourself,

that shatters mirrors,

it’s called

the fear of asking yourself,

that prints schoolbooks,

it’s called

the fear of thinking,

that votes for laws,

and it’s also called

the fear of receiving,

that makes you punch,

and the fear of loving,

that makes you hate,

and, above all, it’s called

the fear of life,

that actually makes you live.

We’re best friends,

us two,

and we must be with him at all times,

me – there for everything, ready for anything,

she – indestructible,

deep, sweet,

and murderous.

I told him I didn’t like guns,

especially firearms,

I hate violence.

But his fear put a gun in the glove compartment.

I found it by accident,

when I was looking for my cell phone,

the one I’m meant to be calling him from,

a safe phone,

that can’t be tracked,

it’s protected from tracing,

reserved just for him.

I wanted to call him,

to let him know I’d be late.

but I had to deal with this,

I had to stop this man,

he was holding me back.

Now I must go somewhere,

I always have to be somewhere,

look, he’s calling me,

I think he already knows what happened

and is upset that it took me so long to solve the problem,

thanks for the chat,

I haven’t chatted to anyone in such a long time,

but now I must leave at once,

you know very well

that he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

3.

IOANA

Letting go a heavy shopping bag. She’ll hold this position throughout the scene.

Fucking arsehole! My heart was about to jump out of its place!

What if she ran me over?!

She’s off her head!

She was blonde, right? I know. These blondes…

You can’t cross the street without one of them honking at you.

That person was run over by her, too?

May the Lord forgive me!

Good thing I got away!

And she’s allowed to get away just like that?

Where’s the police, where’s the ambulance?

And that dead man at the junction – someone should attend to him!

Maybe you guys, ’cause I’m not going to get any closer.

Look at the state I’m in; she broke all my eggs!

Goodness, and now what?

I have enough on my plate as it is.

Farewell, Auntie Virginica’s special,

my mother’s favourite home-made cake,

which she baked at every opportunity, and especially for my birthday –

today is her birthday and I wanted to make this cake for her,

it’s expensive but well worth it:

has chocolate cream

and the best base in the world.

You only need two hundred and fifty grams of ground walnuts,

I already have this, left over from Christmas,

plenty of flour, a pack of butter – it’s in my handbag,

the cashier put it in a plastic bag for me,

so it doesn’t melt over the documents from the notary –

and ten eggs.

Well, the eggs are now gone

and we’re left without dessert

at the festive table.

I’ve tried my best –

with all these dishes,

appetizers as well as fancier courses,

not just cabbage à la Cluj,

aubergine salad

and roast with pickles,

like everyone else –

no, they now want complicated things,

as seen on television:

cheese puff pastry,

stuffed salmon,

duck à l’orange

avocado sauce,

chocolate cake.

I simply don’t have any eggs whatsoever.

And now I don’t have time to buy any, either.

I’m going to order a cake from somewhere.

Why should I agonize over such a thing?

Thank you, my Lord, today is the day when it all comes to an end!

May they all leave at once,

never to see them again.

For the last week, I’ve been cooking, polishing and tidying,

I took time off work,

luckily, my boss is quite decent,

he let me off without too much fuss

but still,

I’ve done overtime,

handed in the balance sheet,

finished with the payroll,

took all the documents to the bank,

everything’s in tiptop shape,

can I take some days off?

Now, in the middle of the year?

Yes, right now, it’s been 7 years since we lost our mum,

and finally – we managed!

We sold the house.

An old house, but in a good location,

right in the middle of the village,

by the church,

across the street from the school.

We sold it for a good price,

to a neighbour – she’s three years older than my daughter,

but already married, with a four-year-old daughter,

who’s super sweet.

Porca miseria,[1] she says,

you’re really setting a high price!

She’s based in Italy,

her Marco’s in love with our plum brandy,

who needs grappa, plum is holy – he laughs like a mascalzone¸[2]

like a mobster, or else how could he have so much money?

It’s my mum’s house, I tell her,

the house we used to come home to every week

from boarding school,

where I grew up,

where I spent my holidays,

me and my brothers, as well as my children,

and their children,

but now we want to sell it,

because we have bank loans

and student fees to pay.

Please don’t tear it down.

I beg you.

Sure, she says, we’ll keep it

as it is, with these shutters,

it looks like a Tuscan house,

only uglier –

in any case, in front of it, we’ll build another house, with ten bedrooms,

a loft,

two garages,

and central heating

we’ll knock down the fence and the gate,

we’ll cut down these dwarf trees, too,

as they only yield sour apples,

we’ll pave the yard,

build an artesian fountain

with swans,

and install an intercom and alarm system

linked to the mayor’s office.

In short, we sold it,

and it’s now in good hands.

They all turned up for the last supper:

brothers, sisters-in-law,

cousins and grandchildren.

They came from all over the world.

They didn’t lift a finger.

My brother from Germany

showed up dressed to the nines,

in a Hugo Boss suit,

you should have seen him walk up and down the yard,

with his hands in his pockets,

giving orders.

My sister from New York

turned up a little later,

she’s sick, the poor thing,

has got diabetes,

finds it hard to move,

and has memory lapses, too,

so what can you expect from her?

The grandchildren went to the orchard,

the girls were crying,

hugging, and looking at photos,

my sister’s little Marion doesn’t speak much Romanian,

Karina and Kurt even less,

but they all speak perfect English.

Luci, the boss’s smartarse secretary, asked me –

well, aren’t your sisters-in-law helping out?

They’re helping out fuck all,

one didn’t even turn up,

the other suffers

from kidney failure

and is trembling like a leaf all day,

as for the third one,

I don’t even want to see her,

deaf and lazy that she is, she needs a whole day

just to make some mashed potatoes.

I’m better off without their company!

Look at you,

Puiu, my husband, pointed out,

although you’re quite petite,

you’ve taken care of absolutely everything,

even to the notary you went all by yourself,

you made the reservations –

seeing that we ate at the restaurant, albeit just one time,

on Sunday,

after the church service.

You did absolutely everything,

everything, everything…

I was the one closest to her,

and held her in my arms when she passed away,

I chose her casket

and the clothes in which they buried her,

after the funeral, I went back to the house

and stayed there until the next morning,

all by myself,

as in a torture chamber,

waiting for the break of day.

I cried, then I didn’t cry,

I shouted, then I didn’t shout.

What else could I have done –

ask for help?

Who could have possibly come?

I was alone,

for the first time in my life,

there was no-one there,

except for mercy and fear,

two hungry bitches rummaging around the place,

and fighting over every little thing in that house.

Over the gold earrings and the pendant,

the engagement ring,

the 12-people dinnerware set

from Alba Iulia,

over the Biedermayer furniture,

and

the willow rocking chair

made by my dad from that tall willow tree just around the riverbend,

where we used to fish and bathe in the summer.

I just sat there

and could only think

about grandpa’s fork.

Where could that fork be?

He ate with it his whole life,

it was made of stainless steel,

and he brought it back from the front,

after the Second World War.

In our village,

this was the first fork,

people kept coming round to marvel at it,

they grabbed it and tried to figure out how it worked,

later, grandma and mum wanted to put it on display,

next to the china,

but Grandpa took it back and continued to eat with it,

even though he was no longer on the front.

Wars can be good for something, too,

he kept laughing,

to which grandma replied: well, husband,

you certainly like war, don’t you,

give that fork a break,

throw it away so I won’t see it again.

But he laughed and didn’t want to give it away,

he was wearing it like a kind of keyring

hanging from his belt,

he’d never go anywhere without it,

and would have much rather done without grandmother

than that the fork.

He left it to my dad,

pulled it out from under the pillow

on his deathbed –

but when my dad passed away,

my brother didn’t want it,

seeing that by then, forks had become the norm

for all and sundry

and we all got some,

even some knives,

we didn’t have to take food to mouth by hand,

and get our fingers dirty,

so my brother didn’t want that fork anymore,

it was rather bent and crooked,

I want it, I said,

but they didn’t give it to me,

it was a war fork,

and girls don’t go to war.

Nobody wanted it anymore,

and my mother continued to eat with her hand,

especially when she thought that no-one was watching,

she took pleasure in this,

and the fork was tossed into a drawer

with a bunch of other useless things.

I’ve been looking for it all night,

until dawn,

but couldn’t find it.

I’ve been looking for it again,

I’ve plundered the past,

together with the eighteen members of my family

who are all gone,

I looked for it with my daughter,

who came back from Spain for the occasion,

she lives in Barcelona,

and writes soap scripts, you know,

she learned Spanish,

and speaks it better than Romanian,

nobody wanted her here,

but over there, they really liked her,

she’s happy there –

she came with her boyfriend

a nice, quiet guy – who doesn’t sniff at our food,

all three of us were looking for that fork,

then others came, too,

they were laughing and searching,

they stopped, cried, split up, got together again and kept talking,

and then it occurred to me,

to put on a big feast,

for everybody,

the last supper,

just like my mother wanted to see us all

on her birthday,

with ten courses,

including starters,

and at the end, that cake,

auntie Virginica’s special,

and who knows, during the meal,

that fork may come into view, too.

But now, it’s all over,

that woman with the fancy car

opened my eyes,

good thing she didn’t run me over,

somehow, nothing makes sense anymore,

here we are, the fork’s gone.

Done and dusted!

I’ll just throw this bag with the broken eggs away,

and take a taxi,

I’m not wasting any more time,

I’m going straight to the notary,

to sign the papers,

then we’ll all gather in our apartment,

I’ll order some pizza from the corner,

the owner’s Italian, so the quality’s decent,

and we can eat with our hands.

My mother’s dead anyway.

I was stupid enough to do as much as I did.

But take note that

I’m not going to bury this one, too.

How can’t anyone think of giving him a hand?

He’s alone, all by himself –

Is he at least well and truly dead?

Isn’t there a doctor around here?

We’re talking about a human being, after all…

I’m not going any nearer, not in the mood for trouble – but maybe a doctor –

they get paid for such stuff,

it’s their job, right?

No doctors around?

4.

CARMEN

A doctor, smoking.

He’s dead. Can’t you see?

And even if he wasn’t, I’m not touching him.

I just stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and I’ll be right back.

My patients are waiting for me, some have been waiting for three to four days.

There’s no way you can convince me.

None of my business if he’s dead.

If he’s alive, even less so.

Call the emergency rescue service.

What if the traffic is congested, they can come by helicopter.

And if he’s still alive and kicking, let the nurse book him in for an appointment,

he amy be seen in three to four weeks.

He’s dead, it’s pretty obvious even from here.

You don’t have to be a doctor to work that out.

And I don’t want to hear about the Hippocratic Oath,

who believes these days in oaths

invented three thousand years ago by some naturist woodsman,

living in a warm country, feeding on roots

and not needing a house, a car, or fashionable clothes?

Don’t get the impression that I owe you anything.

Do you know any mechanics who repair cars for free?

Do lawyers work without charge?

Do you know any programmers who work pro bono,

a handyman who tells you on the phone

how to fix your fridge yourself

or your television?

Is there a priest who buries, for nothing,

your father or girlfriend?

Why is then everyone expecting doctors to jump to the rescue

at the smallest complaint,

to listen to all these stories of human suffering

without cracking up,

like a bottomless sack where you throw all kinds of rubbish,

to poison their brain with the pain of patients,

to find remedies and solutions,

and to know everything, and do everything, as well?

At parties or when I go out with friends,

I haven’t told anyone I’m a doctor in a while,

so they don’t start confessing their fears,

telling me about there issues,

revealing their most intimate side,

like beggars showing their

deformed and sick bodies,

with the supplicant voice and gaze of battered animals.

I don’t want to hear

of people’s headaches when there’s a change in the weather,

of stomach burns after benders,

by the way doctor, what shall I take to get rid of piles?

And how about hiccups, or this dizziness when I get out of bed,

my urine is green,

my joints are hurting,

my legs are swelling,

I get cramps when I eat,

how do I go about artificial insemination,

can you recommend somewhere for liposuction,

please pierce the ears of my six-month-old baby girl,

shall I take Xanax or shall I not,

is it okay to drink beer with antiobiotics?

Is vitamin C harmful?

But sometimes, my imagination

is playing tricks on me,

I’m talking to a guy I like

and I begin to see his orbicular muscle,

his buccinator muscle,

the procerus muscle,

then I lower my gaze

to his pectoralis major,

the coracobrachialis,

his biceps, triceps, round pronator,

the great dorsal,

the subscapularis,

the serratus major and even lower

to the pelvis and the iliacus muscle

and even lower,

and I realize that I’m counting muscles, bones, tissues,

instead of thinking about what I’m saying,

I don’t see people anymore

just muscles, bones, tissues,

organs, fluids,

and flesh.

No, I don’t want to be a doctor anymore, except at the surgery,

otherwise

I say I’m an actress,

everybody talks to me about theatre then,

or books

or movies.

It’s great that nobody’s making me diagnose

sophisticated games

poetic subtleties

or directorial visions,

nobody asks me if the diction, gestures, posture,

are correct or could be improved,

I’m a specialist in emotions,

but nobody wants to know if their feelings are sick,

maybe suffering from a virus,

covered in red boils

or small greenish-black spots.

If they wanted, I could tell them they had

dangerous feelings and emotions,

which spread through the world

at the speed of a deadly virus.

Without knowing,

we contaminate one another,

directly –

but also

through other means: communication, for instance –

such as literature, film, theatre, television.

This is how the most terrible diseases are spread,

they lead to mass murder,

they destroy us and leave us empty, poor, barren:

the epidemic of indifference,

swathes of arrogance, blinding greed,

chronic self-discrimination,

acute envy,

this inconspicuous deadly love, pink, sweet and full of shit,

which breaks up in splashes

when touched,

it can’t cope with the slightest of blows,

being ever so fragile.

But the fastest of all,

the one that leaves you powerless,

that kills you softly and annihilates you completely,

worse than multiple sclerosis,

more painful than stage 4 cancer,

more contagious than flu,

the one that pollutes all human relationships,

and intoxicates everything that moves,

is the herpes of mercy.

You must watch out,

to keep apart,

not to touch others,

not to breathe the same air as him

or her –

not to feel pity,

because if you do, you’re lost in an instant.

Have no pity for the elders,

for children or pregnant women,

treat all these bodies without mercy,

they are nothing but bodies,

they fret about,

making a great effort, promising and regretting,

then they recover and carry on,

they work, dance, have sex, reproduce,

give birth, urinate, defecate, vomit,

go to school, get into politics,

fight wars, go on strike and make grand discoveries,

and do everything that’s in their power

in order to keep on living.

Mercy is perversity,

only good for telenovelas,

the church or when commemorating the dead,

but here, at the junction,

there’s no place for it,

as there’s no place for it in medicine,

except perhaps in forensics.

So, in case he’s not dead, all the worse for him.

As for me, my ciggie break is over.

5.

DANA

Talking on the phone, handsfree.

Dana. Yes, I was the one who called you. I left it on your desk, under the folder. Yes. Let’s leave it until next week. Ciao… What? Fine, fine. How many? No, you’re not exaggerating. Okay, for him, too. Bye! (Answering a call) Dana. Yes, it’s me. I’m on my way, Corina. I’m caught in traffic. Yeah, it’s crazy around here. I don’t know, some people shot themselves. No, I’m not joking. No, I promise you, I won’t be late. We had an emergency, YES, Corina. I told you that I’m not going to be late. Okay, you can’t trust me. Yes, it’s on me. And the documentation, too. Up to ten percent. It’s a lot, I know. But this is the market. Okay, I said okay – read it again. As you wish. (Long break, she nods and takes sips from a mug of coffee) Leave it then, we’ll discuss it on the way. At once, didn’t I tell you? (Beat, she drinks) What should I drink, coffee, I’m behind the wheel, as I told you! All right, go through security and walk up and down the duty-free. Okay. Make sure you don’t…! I’m on my way! Bye!

 (Hangs up. Still handsfree)

Hey, Axel. Sorry, I was talking to… it doesn’t matter. I look forward too. Oh, Axel…are you trying to …hm, youknowwhat me? Ha-ha-ha… of course, a joke. Ok, now – seriously: is there anything I can do you for? Ha-ha! Absolutely. Tonight? Dinner? I don’t know…no, tell me. YOU tell me. Hold on a minute.[3] (Switches between lines)

Yes, Corina. What do you mean you don’t know what to do? You mean, you’re bored? Well, go to Victoria’s Secret and buy a set of that lingerie, you know. In black, for me. Buy one for yourself, too. Just for the heck of it. Okay – try to have some fun. I’ll be there in no time. Bye. (Handsfree.)

Yes. Yes…Let me check my diary. Yep. Great. Let’s do that. See you there. Sure, bye. (Silence. Drinks some coffee. Sighs. Another call.)

Dana. Sure. Yes. Of course, that’s where I’m going. What? No, no. Everything’s under control, don’t worry. Yes, I know. Yes. I KNOW. …seriously?! (Beat) Yes, I’m drinking coffee. What do you mean by improved? No, it’s just black, no sugar. Yes, I did those yoga exercises. Yes, grandma!!! I do them every day. No. Believe me, no! I keep my fear in check. I control it very well. I’m okay, can you hear me? Please don’t keep me, I’m going to miss my plane, and I’m going to lose out on the project. Yes, Corina’s already there. She even has the right underwear for this project. That Axel has a soft spot for her, I’ve seen him looking at her. All the executives look at her like that, nice piece of arse. Sorry, I do know you’re not a speaker of English. It means she’s a looker. Yes, a very fine one. (Beat) You’re cute. Come on. Leave it. (Yelling) No, YOU KNOW WELL that she’s one fine piece. Stop playing the innocent. (She takes a sip) Please don’t insult my intelligence. (Beat) You really want to have this conversation now? (Beat) On the phone? (Beat) No, I’m not accusing you. You know what, let’s just forget it. (Beat) Listen, I’m stuck in traffic, and I’m going to miss my plane if you keep me very long. (Beat) You’re right, it’s not you holding me back, I can’t make a move anyway. (She drinks) Okay, let’s talk then. (Beat) I know. I know. (Beat) Since last time I missed my plane. I didn’t tell you… because I didn’t tell you. Anyway, you thought I was in London at that executive meeting. But I couldn’t leave. It wasn’t just fear of flying. It was my birthday. I was thinking, there’s no harm done, I’m coming home and he’ll be happy. But you weren’t home, were you? You were in the country, in our cottage, on your own with the Swiss geraniums and garden lanterns. Or so I thought. I’m not being sarcastic. Let me explain, what the hell? (Beat, she produces a hipflask from her bag and takes a sip) Are you still there? All right. So, I went there, to surprise you. You didn’t know, did you? (She drinks) It’s not alcohol, how many times do I have to tell you! What do you want, a breathelyser phone? (Beat) No, I wasn’t checking on you, I simply wanted to surprise you. Yes, exactly three months ago, to the day. I’m telling you now! Imagine who had the surprise – I’m parking the car in the garage, as quietly as I can, and am about to go into the kitchen. Good thing about that little window and luckily, I peeked before I went in. It seemed to me that I heard some unusual sounds—I was saying to myself, my man can’t be shagging the cook, ha-ha!—and indeed, it wasn’t the cook, it was Corina. Over the dinner leftovers, some meagre sandwiches, you didn’t even have the decency to order pizza or something. Hold on, someone’s calling me. (Switches between lines again.)

Dana. And you’re telling me now? You realize I have no choice. Okay, right. Yes, I understand. Okay, we’ll sort it out somehow. Send them by email. Yes, I know. I know, I told you I know. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it. Okay. ALL RIGHT. Cristina knows? No? So I told you not to worry. Seriously, I’m going to miss my plane. I don’t think I’m going to leave here today. Listen, I think I’m going to leave the car here, can you do something for me? Okay, thanks…Send a car to Revolution Street. Yes, there – formerly known as Lenin Street, near the hospital, I shall walk to the station – and send someone to collect my car from here? At that roundabout by the Ambassador Hotel. The other side. Okay, I’ll call you when I get there. It’s going to be just fine. Me too. See ya. (Hangs up)

Are you still there? Okay, let me continue. (She drinks) So… well, she was very good. She was whimpering like in those XXL movies, and kept producing a piece of salami, a cucumber, a slice of lemon from everywhere – so I could see how young and great she looked, no cellulite, no stretchmarks, no fat on her belly, firm breasts, it was a real pleasure to see how well she moved. She was beautiful, with tanned thighs and narrow hips and that lingerie from Victoria’s Secret. (Beat) Of course I’m telling the truth, why do you think I’m lying? (She drinks) Yes. Probably. Excuse me – one second. (Switches between lines)

Yes, Corina. Yes. Mouthwash, chewing gum, intravenous vitamin C and a strong coffee. Dorin will send a car. In…five minutes. There, yes. Yes. I’m doing my best not to be late, as you heard. Do you have any other questions? Corina, damn it, I’m coming right away! (Beat) What? You knew about it? You forgot… Okay, we’ll fix it. Yes, I know, Corina! Do what I said. Okay, sure – me, too. (Switches between lines)

Yes. What was I saying? (Beat) Well, what was I supposed to do, I got the car out of the garage again and went back to the airport, because there’s a 24/7 solarium there, with massage and fitness, and I’ve been boosting my endorphins all night. Then, when I came back from ‘London’, I brought you some duty-free whisky as it were, and you were really sweet. Since then, Corina has been coming with me on all my business trips. I guess you noticed thay, didn’t you? So, I’m not in the mood for surprises, I can’t miss this plane. (Beat) Sure, now I’m the perverse one. Yes, I did drink – and so what? I wasn’t behind the wheel. You know very well that I get quite anxious on the plane. (Beat) No, seriously…? You’re such an idiot. (Takes a deep breath.) Look, I get plane sickness. I’m not an alcoholic, I’m just stressed. Hold on. (Switches betweens lines. Beat, takes a sip, sighs. She’s not talking, she just obviously needed a break in the conversation.)

Sorry, it was your friend Corina on the other line. I’m not being sarcastic. What’s the matter with you? I was just saying. No, leave it, don’t even try. Sure, I also think it’s a stupid subject. There’s no need to talk about it anymore. No, I’m not upset, why should I be? Same to you. Off you go, bye! …big kiss! Yes, I know. Me, too. (Beat, drinks. Handsfree.)

Dana. Hey…sure, I’ll get it. Anything else? No, everything’s just fine. I’ll be there. Sure, look forward to. We’ll have a great night. Bye, Axel. Take care. (Switching between lines) Dana. Yes, Corina, well go. Did you take everything? And the receipts? Of course, it’s all reimbursed. No problem whatsoever. On offer? Bravo! Listen, if you have nothing to do, call Dorin one more time, so he doesn’t forget to send someone to pick my Ford up from here, or else it will be towed away after traffic resumes its course. I’ll be there in ten minutes. If not, there’s another plane in a couple of hours. You’ll manage, don’t worry. I’m coming. Bye, I have another call, I think it’s the driver. (Switching between lines.)

Dana. What do you mean you couldn’t stop? Did you just go through without stopping? And I wasn’t there? Well, of course I wasn’t, I don’t have wings to fly! Can’t believe this…What police?! Fuck the police – I’ll pay the fine. Go back right now! Come on, you can! Turn right and… Yes. Yes. What do you mean you can’t? Okay, I’m not shouting, sorry. Ex-cuse me. Okay. Did you make it to the corner? Wait there. What do you mean you can’t? Put on the emergency lights. Let them honk at you, so what? Okay? Just stop there and wait for me! So what – I’ll pay the fine, didn’t I say so? Wait for me there, I’m telling you! Wait until I come! I’m on my way.

6.

LELO

A she-dog.

All I want is to cross the street.

What’s the big deal?

But this one’s standing in the middle of the road

and the traffic lights aren’t working anymore

and I can’t cross the street alone,

surrounded by so many eyes,

so, I wonder

which one of you is going to throw the first stone?

I just want to get to the other side.

For this, I must move forward,

in order to get closer.

To you.

Which one of you will hang me by the ear,

dangle me with my feet down,

stick a knife in my belly,

kick me,

while screaming, get out of here, you mutt, scumbag, straydog,

smash me against the tarmac,

joyfully,

wrap me in barbed wire,

hang me from a tree,

so I die screaming, as slowly as possible,

howling like my puppies that you drowned,

suffocated,

blind puppies,

who can’t even cry,

you threw them in a pit and covered them with earth,

because their fathers weren’t of pure breed,

because their mother wasn’t of pure breed.

And because we were born strays,

we deserve to be euthanized.

We dogs recognize about four hundred words:

Shall we go outside?

Be a good dog –

come to the table –

want it?

Down, down, as I say,

sit,

lie down,

well done,

lovely, what a cute, handsome dog,

marvellous,

No, I said NO.

Come here.

And we also recognize:

kindness, gentleness, humanity,

legal, moral.

And compassion.

But people – people are really complicated,

they don’t recognize these words,

when they’re LEGALLY rounding us up in shelters,

when they shoot us, poison us and starve us on a MORAL BASIS,

and when they burn us in crematoria,

I call that

EUTHANASIA.

Well yes, that sounds familiar,

You recognize this word, don’t you?

Thousands of starving dogs,

mere skeletons, killed out of COMPASSION,

and burned.

And those who are caught wandering about freely,

without an Ausweiss,[4]

are killed on the spot by well-meaning people,

who just want their street to be neat.

And after you’re done with the abandoned mutts,

the mongrels, the strays, you’ll move on to dogs who may have owners,

but have run away or got lost.

Even though dogs with a master are generally of pure breed.

Genetically selected. Aryan, so to speak.

Guard your dogs – or better still, if they get sick

or grow old and become a burden,

let them loose on the streets.

The dog catcher police,

will clean up this country.

And after you get rid of dogs, beggars will follow.

They’re nothing but stray dogs, 

full of diseases, limbless, what frauds!

Calling upon your COMPASSION.

They think they have rights.

What, you treat them as people?

No way, they’re much worse than dogs.

It’s time to show them what COMPASSION really means.

To give them HUMANITY.

To hoard them in shelters, castrate them and force them to work.

That’s why they’re poor, because they are stupid.

Idle, not working. 

They need education, from youngest to oldest, women to men.

Dogs should be working.

And if they don’t want to, then that will be it.

You guys have done your best.

The next step: to clean up this country, once and for all.

To have peace of mind, to sip drinks al fresco,

And not to be harrassed for small change, daytime or night,

To stop finding filth in most parks and green spaces.

All this is a must for the good of us all.

Next, you’ll move on to gypsies.

What Rroma, who do they think they are, before you know it, they’ll want to be Vikings.

When in fact, they’re nothing but dogs.

Dogs that broke free from the leash and are rambling through Europe,

pretending to be Romanian,

what insolence,

they don’t hail from our ancestors Decebal and Trajan,

they’re actually canine,

worming their way on the banks of the Ganges.

And multiply, like dogs.

Illiterate dogs, defying all rules,

Refusing the harness,

they reject any master, are dangerous, they steal,

they loiter round houses,

they rummage through rubbish.

They’re dangerous mongrels.

They’re dogs, that’s what they are.

Even if the law hasn’t been passed yet,

it doesn’t quite matter, it will be, so do listen up.

You’ll have the right to kill dogs,

No matter what kind.

They may well be gay-dogs, depressed-dogs,

or young-dogs, pups – with malformations,

They are of the same ilk, dogs one and all.

Know what? I’ll tell you a secret.

Of all the species, none are more like humans than dogs.

None are so promiscuous.

They don’t forgive lightly, don’t go back to those who hurt them,

don’t run away only to return,

don’t eat so much shit

with such extreme pleasure,

don’t shag around

with whoever’s on standby,

then roll up their feet,

looking all virtuous, ready to play.

No other species

are such good mates to humans,

none so affectuous,

delightful, or fake.

But humans don’t resemble dogs.

They resemble wolves instead.

All I want is to cross the street.

Which one of you will euthanize me?

7.

NINA

A cop.

Can somebody tell me what exactly happened here?

Can you?

You didn’t see anything?

Were you here when it happened?

You don’t know?

What car was he driving?

Which way was he going?

It would be great if at least one of you opened your mouth. Was there anyone else in the car with the victim? That’s his car, right? The blue Duster with the engine still running that the boys are towing away right now, yeah? Please understand, I need you to be honest and tell me everything you know. This is a serious investigation here.

I need to find at least one witness,

an anonymous call was made to the station,

from some office,

someone called in and said,

you must clean up here,

assess the situation so

everything can return to normal,

traffic’s been halted for an hour,

but the traffic light cameras aren’t showing anything,

they are out of order today,

as usual.

Send Nina over,

said the somewhat absent-minded boss,

the big cheese –

we have serious business to handle,

let her go,

seeing that we have no work to give her anyway.

She’s no good at directing the traffic,

the other boss, of lower rank,

observed,

during the one week she was in charge,

there were more collisons than in an entire year.

It’s not my fault, I say,

all men were staring at me,

and even some women.

Women aren’t any good,

the boss says,

the big boss –

neither in the army,

nor in the police,

and yet, how strange, how interesting, we’re being allocated more and more places for them at the police academy,

it’s a decision from above,

you must do something with these poor women, after all.

While they’re young

we send them to carry out fieldwork,

always accompanied by a man,

who tells them what to do,

where to look,

where to park,

what to write,

he’s always of a higher rank –

This is great,

in this way

we’ve also created some extra jobs,

for officers to be on the beat with our women,

who can then have the satisfaction

to role-play being a cop.

If so,

why are you sending me

to a crime scene?

Why shouldn’t I just sit at my desk, like I used to,

to prove myself useful

doing paperwork,

like a secretary,

filing documents

or turning up at schools,

to talk to young people about juvenile delinquency?

I should stick with prevention and education – where I can’t go wrong,

and mistakes have no consequences,

prevention isn’t worth a thing,

who cares about education these days?

Because this isn’t a murder case,

the boss says,

the big cheese,

young lady, I hear you’re ambitious,

you want to progress your career,

listen to me then,

there’s nothing for you to solve,

you just turn up there, do your assessment,

then, the forensic team arrives, removes the victim,

we call the family,

there was an accident,

with a fatal outcome,

and the perpetrator fled the scene.

We don’t know who,

we don’t know how,

we don’t know why,

we have no leads to pursue,

so the incident is classified.

So off you go, get on with this assessment,

come on, compile the file,

it takes three days to do this,

your desk is crying out for being used!

What do you mean, someone got shot,

there was a homicide –

well, what can I say! it was a blunder,

a traffic accident,

because it happened while stuck in traffic,

I don’t want to hear about ‘murder’,

what murder – where’s the manslaughter?

You watch too much television,

those American movies, you know,

with all those sexy women wielding guns,

in charge of an army of men –

who can possibly believe such a thing?

This is a tough job, young lady,

stinking of sweat,

cheesy feet and sperm,

we’re not playing games here,

young lady,

we don’t treat things with kid gloves,

and, above all,

this is not America.

Over here, if girls want to be cops,

they get deployed at most on the drug squad,

and when we stage the odd arrest,

we dress them in short skirts,

give them some seized perfume,

we also like to see them without their uniforms,

because, bless them,

some are beautiful as hell.

We may also use them on the vice squad,

to catch some bigger fish,

making them work undercover.

And let me tell you one more thing,

says the boss,

in case anyone tries,

or as much as dares,

to insinuate that a woman has fired

some kind of gun,

registered or not as a firearm,

laugh in their face,

and make them give a statement straightaway,

saying exactly what that girl looked like,

the make, numberplate and color of her car,

as well as the gun type,

and if something’s amiss, it means they’re trying to mislead the authorities,

which is punishable by 3 to 5 years in prison.

So let me ask you,

in all honesty,

has anyone seen anything?

Did anyone fire a gun

or it was just a traffic accident,

the guy got out of his car,

perhaps had heart problems or something

and collapsed in the roundabout,

where he suffered

a fatal injury.

More than likely, this is what happened,

but if anyone knows otherwise, it’s best to say it now.

If not, please sign here –

I wrote everything down exactly as it happened.

And now, please make a move!

There’s no reason for you to stay here.

There’s nothing to add – the press will embellish

and spice things up, as they do,

but you can confirm that nothing of note happened,

only a fact of life, a mere fact of life.

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[1] Holy shit! (Italian)

[2] Scoundrel, villain (Italian)

[3] Sections in bold are in English in the original.

[4] ID (German)