“Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără de fântână Ne rătăcim prin lume…”
It was the third well from the house—the old one, with the moss-eaten beam and the bucket that had worn a groove into the limestone rim over a hundred years. That was where her grandfather, Nicolae, went when the weight of the new world became too heavy.
He handed her the book, opened to a different poem. She read the lines aloud: Dumitru Matcovschi Poezii
“Tell them,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “that Dumitru Matcovschi said: ‘The one who drinks from his own well is never a stranger in his own land.’ ”
Nicolae stood up slowly, his joints cracking like old wood. He took the bucket and lowered it into the dark throat of the well. Far below, the water stirred and whispered. He hauled it up, the rope groaning, and brought the dripping bucket to his lips. He drank. “Fântâna nu se dă… Fântâna rămâne… Că fără
“What do I tell them?” she asked.
Ana looked up. The delegation from Chișinău was waiting in the yard, men in clean shirts and polished shoes, holding clipboards and pens. They knew the price of everything and the value of nothing that couldn’t be digitized. She read the lines aloud: “Tell them,” he
Nicolae did not look up. He turned a page, though his eyes were closed.