Текст книги "Paris Nights and Other Impressions of Places and People: A Collection of Stories"

Автор книги: Bakhtiyar Sakupov

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Chapter 3. Ice-Cream Man

For four evenings and counting, I have been looking at a plump person of about forty years old who, in turn, listened to our stories very attentively or became an involuntary witness to their outcomes. But he never us told about himself. He reminded me of the classic Santa Claus, but with no beard. He had the same cap of wavy gray hair which went down to his shoulders, and a small snow-white mustache. His eyebrows were of a saturated chestnut color, and it made us think that they were regularly tinted. However, nature and genetics sometimes make cheerful and funny things with people. And he had always on socks of a bright red color, with white circles or strips.

The only thing we knew about him for certain, in addition to what has been listed above, is that our Santa was an ice-cream man. And not just a seller from trays or mobile refrigerators. No: he created ice cream; looked for new tastes, combinations and forms; gave his options. Ice cream was his main passion. It was clear from just a few phrases that he had dropped from all that time we were in a guest room by a fireplace. My god! Not many people would tell such things about their darlings as he told about ice cream. Throughout that time, his eyes began to shine and radiate such a light of love and happiness, kindness and creation that he became a real copy of Santa Claus.

That evening, he returned with a light aroma of cognac and expensive cigarettes absorbed by his hair. He took a seat in a comfortable armchair, led us round by his slightly drowsy eyes, and began a story. It began without prefaces, or false requests “to allow” and other. It was just as if all of us had been waiting for it for a long time (that, actually, was the truth); and he, at last, decided to tell.

Since his early childhood, the ice-cream man adored sweets. His family was poor; and the “family” itself was his mother, who worked two jobs, and him.

Unlike other mothers, his mother did not limit the little boy in sweets. Certainly, when she could afford it, the kid received candies, chocolate and, of course, ice cream. He got them not only on big holidays, although not every day, either.

In those days, the future ice-cream man decided what he wanted to be. His choice was difficult: to become a confectioner, or create frozen delicacies? The complexity of such a choice probably pulled him away from his agemates, who sincerely dreamed of becoming firefighters, astronauts or cool special agents. At the age of eight, his dream of creating ice cream was not just “uncool”; it was “a slam”, as the boys in his neighborhood said in disgust.

Time went on. The kid grew up and understood that in order to fulfill his lifelong dream, which could seem so simple in comparison to the dreams of others, he needed to take action. Having assumed as a basis of his life that theory without practice was dead, the future ice-cream man decided to begin with practice. He got a part-time job at the nearest café. I won’t tell you the details of his growth. Within half a year, the guy grew from the washerman of floors to the assistant chef. And desserts were his peculiarity. In just a few months, a simple and small café in a rather poor Parisian quarter became incredibly popular, and the prices for desserts were shamefully high.

After a while, the ice-cream man was lured away to a decent restaurant, and everything was smooth sailing. By 35, he was the owner of a café that served exquisite coffee, elite tea and delightful desserts.

Our ice-cream man was at his best. He was creating with all his heart and with ecstasy, mixing berries, fruits, and chocolate; and combining ice cream with whipped cream and even hot pepper.

Finally, a big number of Parisians were ready to go to him from all throughout the city to enjoy his marvelous desserts. The ice-cream man became extremely popular; and thanks to his surprising physical similarity to Santa Claus, he was just as well-known a figure in the sphere of desserts and dainty delicacies.

His mother was absolutely happy, but she was worried that the only love of her son’s life was ice cream. He did not burden himself with the search for his second half, completely dipping into his main passion that answered with the same reciprocity. Each new portion of ice cream, each new sort and taste became the season’s hits, the real masterpieces. In his café, there were one hundred seventy-five types of ice cream and uncountable variations of tastes combined with various fillers: syrups, creams, fruits, nuts, cookies and chocolates. The cost of some portions reached impressive sums. Of course, it didn’t go as high as in Dubai, where the ice-cream balls are served in Versace bowls that the visitor can take with him. Nevertheless, it was rather high, and it was treated as an astonishing dessert ordered only on special occasions.

Listening to our Santa, we were sincerely surprised to know what had brought him into the Parisian hostel. It was rather strange; and according to him, it was obvious that he had his own apartment. And if he, together with his mother, hadn’t bought their own house or flat in a prestigious area or the countryside yet, then for certain they had a roof over their heads that was much more comfortable than our shelter. It was a well of stories and coziness, but after all that, it remained just a hostel.

Certainly, he fit into our constantly changing circle, having shown himself not only an attentive listener, but also a wonderful storyteller. But the fact of his staying in a hostel generated a set of questions – and not only from me.

And he, in telling the story of his life, was creating a new delicacy as an artist, adding some sugar dragée or syrup, a stick of cinnamon or chocolate glaze. And what was surprising was that in his story, there was no hint of any woman, even the one who would draw his attention or would inspire the creation of the next ice-cream marvel with a surprising name.

By the way, I would like to tell more about the names. They were not too elaborate or abstruse – they breathed with simplicity and sincerity. A bit later, having visited our Santa’s small restaurant, I understood how precisely they corresponded to an essence of the dessert and the mood of the person who ordered it. “The Autumn Symphony” or “Golden Leaf Fall” with their tart smell; or “Honey Month” with the intoxicating aroma of white honey, so bright and clear… Each ice cream became a small story: at first for himself, and then for someone else, or even a couple.

Santa became silent for a few minutes. It seemed that he plunged into his memoirs or his imagining of the next masterpiece. Unconsciously stroking the snow-white mustache, he looked so far away, as if thousands of miles from us and our hostel, and having absolutely forgotten about his listeners. Then he quietly said: “And here I am.”

It turned out that his beloved mother, having grown tired of waiting for his 40-year-old son’s acquaintance with the daughter-in-law, not to mention future grandsons, just decided to arrange a private life. No, not our ice-cream man’s life; she had been trying to make that for nearly fifteen years.

No. She arranged her personal romantic life.

As soon as she wasn’t oppressed by two jobs and money flew into their hands, she grew young again, blossomed, and found an agemate. Last week, they returned from their honeymoon to the house, where she lived with her son.

Oh, of course, you can say that a man of such age should live separately, especially someone as independent and as successful as he was. Certainly – if he has plans for his own private life. If, near him, could be a woman who can make a tasty breakfast and show tenderness and care. And what if everything that interested our hero lay outside these mere pleasures? What if his comfort was circled by the smile of his mother, who had been near him since his childhood, and ice cream became his greatest love?

Mother’s marriage deeply wounded our Santa. He couldn’t imagine that he would have to share the attention of his dearest and loved mother with someone else.

Suddenly, the ice-cream man realized his loneliness. He felt so sharply, painfully, and inexpressibly hopeless that he rushed away from the house. The whole day, he lived in a magnificent hotel “Bristol”, where he nearly went crazy from the prudish foreigners and narcissistic fellow citizens who treated him like a poor little boy from the neighborhood he had quite forgotten about. Or, it seemed to him that they saw right through him.

So he ran away to hostel.

While he was telling this story, we noticed that his hands, stroking his mustache and chin, slightly shook; and the brown eyebrows over his eyes angrily knitted, not allowing a big stream of emotions to escape outside. It seemed that the dam was just about to fail, and the naked human soul hidden in those eyes would appear before everyone in its true form.

The ice-cream man deeply sighed for several times, but he excellently coped with the internal nervousness which had seized him that minute. Suddenly smiling, he told us that before coming to the hostel, he felt himself devastated, just like a piece of ice. And now, his feelings and emotions began to come to life.

Telling his story, it was as if he endured it anew. And it gave rise to new associations, and was an inspiration source. That evening, he promised that in honor of everyone who sat with him that day, he would create a unique taste of ice cream and would call it by our names. He peered at us, trying to remember. Honestly, it seemed to me that I could already see my own copy in the crackling wafer cup.

The evening smoothly came over to another set of stories. And though calm talks by a fireplace were similar to the murmur of a stream – calmed and pacified – I noticed that Santa, with a complacent smile, wrote down his ideas, attentively studying us one by one.

At this moment, I came up with an absolutely crazy idea. “You turn us into ice cream; you’re a wizard. You know all about it. You also tell so fabulously about ice cream that even those who were indifferent to this delicacy are now ready to love it with all their hearts and enjoy the taste. And what ice cream would you fall in love with? Carelessly? Don’t you still have a favorite ice cream that would steal your heart forever, having become a real diamond in your collection of masterpieces?

Our ice-cream man seemed to choke with indignation. Of course he had such an ice cream! Every ice cream was a part of his soul, but there was one he had created for himself.

And here, it became clear to our kind, dear Santa what I was trying to tell him. My God! If he could turn people into ice creams, what if he made it a backward process, and found his desired delicacy in female form?

The idea filled him with such enthusiasm that he nearly ran outside to Paris at night in search of “the one”. Of course, such ardency could be caused by the cognac, whose aroma was felt by all of us as soon as Santa crossed the threshold of the hostel; but the direction was right by all means.

The next day, Santa left us, having already packed his things; and said goodbye with a sly wink. Surely, we knew where we could find our ice-cream man, not to lose sight of him forever. But something prompted me that day that he would be presenting his new collection “Parisian Hostel” in the company of his second half, so similar to his best diamond work.

Chapter 4. The Golden Woman

Have you ever thought about the meaning of habitual and (at the same time) modified expressions? For example, if someone could perfectly craft, repair, sew, and create something by himself, people would say that he has golden hands. If a person was kind, sincerely helped everyone and responded to any requests, he was called a golden man…

Now, typically unremarkable youngsters whose vital values are very doubtful are often called “golden boys”; although it seems to me that such “gold” is fake. And it’s not even very shiny… Naturally gifted people shall enter the epic battle for a place in the sun against those whose parents have already bought it. And if there is no way to “book a place in the sun” immediately, then at least get the opportunity to take it over by means of knowledge and skills.

As for me, once, not so long ago, I heard whispering behind my back: I was a “reach kid” and “golden boy”, just because my not-very-rich mother has done all her best to provide me with a wonderful education. In the current interpretation, I would not consider myself a “golden boy”, not at all. Probably, I would even consider this an insult, given that I have already achieved a lot by myself. However, we’re not talking about me.

This strange woman appeared in our Paris hostel about three days ago. And if the rest of its inhabitants fit in very well with the space and our communication style, sharing stories and experiences with each other during our gatherings by the fireplace, this lady looked like a real Monomakh’s Cap on the table of children’s handmade items in the kindergarten.

I would like to make it quite clear (yet again, probably) that this hostel did not stay some poor devils who preferred not to stay in the ordinary flophouse because of fear of catching some kind of infection, not at all. Here lived quite respectable and well-off people, even “reach” people, who could afford many things, if not absolutely everything. Of course, we also had wonderful guys – students-hitchhikers who were just starting their way of life, frugal old people, and those who just wanted a more informal environment instead of the glossy ethics of an expensive premium hotel.

But this lady was definitely informal. Her expensive clothes were selected in profoundly poor taste: gaudy colors, incompatible elements, a style fantastically unsuitable for her figure, and… gold. She was decorated more than a Christmas tree, if you know what I mean.

But worst of all were her eyes. My God, how she looked at us as she passed by the fireplace hall! “Beggars” is perhaps the most moderate definition of us that could be read in her eyes. I have never met anyone with so much arrogance and sense of self-importance. By her appearance, she seemed to show us: “I’m not one of you; I’m better than all of you taken together!”

Well, we all came to Paris for various reasons, but they certainly did not include convincing the Golden Woman of something or proving our solvency to her. So we unanimously ignored her contemptuous glances at us; and what was really interesting was that two days later, we completely stopped noticing her.

Therefore, it was a real shock to us when the lady, smelling of vintage Guy Laroche perfume, like a perfume shop, sashayed into our fireplace hall. I don’t even remember what kind of a story I recorded then; I was that surprised by this visit. And she, with her jewels tinkling, darted to an empty chair. As she passed right by me, thanks to my subtle sense of smell, I caught a faint aroma of alcohol. Apparently, Madame drank one or two glasses of wine, which allowed her to lower the bar for a society “worthy of her”.

Graciously nodding to the narrator, she muttered: “Go on, do not pay any attention to me!” But frankly speaking, not to pay attention to the one who is very keen to draw attention was extremely difficult.

Since there were courteous French among us, they immediately encompassed her with care and attention, offering a glass of red wine, which we had been testing that night. The Golden Woman first feigned righteous anger and disgust – how could anyone have thought that she would drink at all; and that she would drink that dubious wine, which is certainly cheaper than three thousand francs per bottle? But ultimately, she gave up and, having taken a few sips of wine, seemed to be satisfied.

All of us somehow tried to get her to talk. But she skillfully evaded our attempts while not forgetting to show her expensive rings with precious stones and diamond earrings. Little by little, we abandoned our attempts and quietly returned to the conversation inside our circle, allowing the “newcomer” to just sit nearby.

What was surprising was that she took literally all the stories with skepticism. Time and again, she sardonically raised her left eyebrow; and a distrustful smile screwed her lips. We spent four nights with her. Not once during this time did the Golden Woman become warmer, more attentive, or more open. Probably, she would have left so, having arrogantly taken a look at us.

But on the fifth night, a little Charlotte, who knew how to “conjure”, approached her, boldly touched her ringed hand, and asked: “Probably, anyone hurt you much?”

To convey what happened afterward is a really difficult task. It was full of outrage and emotional explosion, wherein the woman yelled at the top of her lungs that she was richer than all of us put together, that her clothes were more expensive than all our luggage, that her gold and jewelry would be enough to buy this “smelly hostel” right now and drive us all out of there.

Well, as always, such an outburst was followed by a logical denouement. Tears gushed from her eyes. I remember that people were offering her handkerchiefs, and she was quietly complaining about her waterproof mascara, which was not sufficiently resistant to her tears. As soon as Charlotte has blown up this emotional dam; as soon as the lady, having cried and calmed down, took in her hands a cup of strong coffee; as soon as her haughty and arrogant expression faded from her eyes, she was ready to talk to us.

She told thousands of stories from her life, little novels – maybe someday, I will publish her memoirs with her permission. However, what really mattered weren’t those stories, but the thought that ran throughout all the narratives as a common thread. Neither wealth nor expensive clothes or jewelry gave her happiness. She was completely alone. She did not trust people; she did not trust in relatives; and, I think, she did not trust even herself to the full.

You know, maybe this story could have had a wonderful ending… But I would come up with that. Maybe later, when I’m back in Paris, I will be able to find out something about what happened to the Golden Woman. But right now, all I can say is that she left early in the morning, having left a very generous tip, a gold ring with a huge ruby as a gift for Charlotte, and just two words on the card: “Thank you!”

Chapter 5. One Rainy Day

For the most part, I’m a night owl. No, of course, I am able to be a weird hybrid of a night owl and an early bird, waking up at the crack of dawn and falling asleep long after midnight. But in most cases, I prefer to enjoy a normal sleep when there is such an opportunity. Therefore, waking up around ten in the morning, I realized that for me, today is a “lazy day”.

This is a day when everything your heart desires shall be within arm’s reach: a TV remote, a tablet, a phone, a good book, and perhaps a glass of excellent wine and a fragrant cigarette. However, in the morning, a glass of wine can be replaced by a cup of freshly brewed coffee, which is pretty good in a coffee house at the corner near the hostel.

Having come out to get some coffee, I realized that the weather was seriously determined to show a bad temper: the sky was whining, frowning, and occasionally either sobbing or coughing up distant roars of thunder.

The desire to walk through the picturesque places of Paris disappeared by itself, but thanks to my persistent optimism, it became possible to work on a book and a couple of recent stories that I managed to record.

So, after grabbing some coffee and records and promising the Bois de Vincennes that I would surely pay it a visit, I was armed with a pencil and conveniently settled in my favorite armchair by the fireplace in the living room, all alone, enjoying every minute of my time. I confess that I even imagined myself kind of the lord of the medieval castle, waiting for the guests or my beloved mother-in-law to arrive…

As soon as I have plunged into my records, the living room began filling up with people. That has been due partly to the worsened weather; and partly to the aroma of my coffee, which leaked with gamine wisps throughout the hostel, disturbing the inhabitants.

With a smile, I watched the half-asleep guests come into the common room, smiling affably and a bit timidly. Then, desperately gritting their teeth, they ran out in the pouring rain and came back with cups (or thermoses) of coffee. Those who managed to wake up completely turned out to be more thoughtful and cunning, playing “rock-paper-scissors”; whoever lost was to bring coffee for the whole group.

Anyway, after an hour, the living room was full of guests and stunning coffee aromas – Irish coffee, cappuccino, latte, coffee with spices. And despite the increasingly fearsome thunder “coughing” outside, the mood inside was warm and festive.

Honestly, at that moment, I thought that I should probably postpone work on the book, just like my trip to the Bois de Vincennes. What was planned here and now seemed much more interesting to me.

There was some kind of Christmassy atmosphere of warmth, wonder, and mutual understanding… And of holiday expectations. At first, I thought my subjective perception was playing jokes on me, but somehow the rest of the inhabitants began to share their feelings.

So, on an ordinary rainy day, and having gathered at the fireplace, we all headed up to the true wonderland of magical stories from real life. Everyone was in a hurry to share his own wonder, not expecting someone to believe him or something else. Everyone just shared a sense of joy and brought a piece of magic.

To the symphony of the Paris rain, I wrote down several remarkable stories that, probably, could have hardly become separate novels in this book. But they inspire an amazing sense of faith in miracles, and also convey the emotional warmth and mood that we all felt that rainy day.

* * *

Agnes got very sick. It was a disease that was untreatable and indescribable. Being a very wealthy woman, she spent an incredible amount of money and time to receive a diagnosis. As what often happens in expensive clinics, she was diagnosed, then treated, then diagnosed again. This went on for about three years.

Since then, Agnes herself and her fortune have shrunk a lot. A gray shadow with deep gaps in the eyes replaced a blossoming, healthy woman. Only her eyes continued living. Relatives delicately hinted at the testament, and she seriously thought of whom to leave her wealth to.

On some particularly unfortunate day, when she thought that she was standing on the very brink of death, an unexplainable thing happened. She dozed off; and in her dream, she had lived her entire life again: from the moment of birth until her awakening. She remembered everything clearly, with all the details, and looked from the outside. And most surprisingly, she had been dozing for at least fifteen minutes. On the same day, she donated almost everything she had to charity, which triggered a tsunami among her relatives. But, as she said, at that moment, she understood like nobody else that she was completely alone, and money was just money. If her money could help someone, then let it be so.

She had probably paid the best healer ever: the Universe. And the latter accepted the payment. The next day, Agnes woke up and realized that she was all right. By the way, it was Agnes who brought coffee for herself and several guests without taking part in the hand game, simply because she wanted to do a good deed. And she ended up in the hostel not because she could not afford a super-expensive Paris hotel, not at all. But it was because she suddenly realized that to be happy, you can be satisfied with a little. And every day is a small miracle, and the greatest gift from God to her.

I was writing down this short story about miracle healing, and watching the listeners out of the corner of my eye. I implicitly expected one human reaction, a kind of condemnation or even mockery, that another lady obsessed with charity vaguely uses to call on people to give everything to the afflicted. But surprisingly, everyone who listened to this story had no doubt or skepticism. On the contrary, I saw spiritual inspiration, friendly faces, and sincere happiness for the narrator. At that moment, I thought that humanity would survive. By all means.

* * *

Yohan was a typical road loser. The degree of his bad luck was so awful that his acquaintances and friends were already tired of making funny bets on whether Yohan would get stuck in the elevator, or his car would break down, or the subway would suddenly be deenergized when he is en route to his destination. The advantages of this dubious bad luck were that Yohan’s friends had fun and supported the guy. The drawbacks were that none of his acquaintances ever risked going with him anywhere. It reached the point of absurdity: if someone saw him at the bus stop, he preferred to wait for the next bus rather than get on the same bus with the “road loser”. And usually, even if the next bus arrived in half an hour, those who preferred waiting would have come an hour or more before Yohan.

At one party, he met a charming German girl who came to visit her friend. As Gerda was about to leave, she flirtatiously suggested that Yohan accompany her. Yohan blushed crimson and said that it was what he wanted most in the world; but if she really wanted to get home without obstacles, she would be better off without such an escort like him.

At that point, friends surrounded Yohan and Gerda, laughing and talking about what a “terrible” person Yohan was, and how dangerous it can be to go with him somewhere. Gerda listened to them with her gentle smile. When the stream of stories and jokes dried up, she took Yohan’s face into her hands and said: “So, you’re just a little Kai, who was enchanted by a wicked witch! Do you know how to break any powerful evil magic or curse?” As Yohan blinked in confusion, Gerda kissed him. “That’s all. Now you are disenchanted; there’s no bad luck anymore! From now on, you’re on a lucky streak!” she said.

Of course, Yohan walked her to her door, and then he went home. And nothing bad happened to him. Moreover, all the lights were green, as if on cue. When he appeared at the bus stop, the bus immediately got there. By the way, his favorite window seats were vacant.

Yohan and Gerda have been married for five years; and he still thinks that his Gerda is an enchantress, although it seemed to me that they both have magic within. This magic of sweet love that hovered over them and around them, their eyes, touches and smiles… Perhaps love can really save us from the most evil spells.

* * *

Little Charlotte, who came to Paris with her mother, shared that she got what she asked for every day. Her mom thought that this was amazing luck; but Charlotte, as a real magician, decided to show that she could actually get what she wanted!

First, she told a lot of small stories, where her dearest desires came true – from just a cake to a trip to the zoo or cinema. The adults listened to her with a smile, looked at the little “enchantress”, and nodded warmly at her mother who, for various reasons, granted her child’s wishes one way or another. Old mademoiselle Jacqueline smiled and, with her proven expertise, told Charlotte to take care of her mother because she fulfilled almost all the desires of her daughter.

I stopped writing and just watched them: Mother, Charlotte and Mademoiselle Jacqueline. At some point, there was a completely different creature instead of the five-year-old Charlotte, with wise eyes and an unchildish experience. And what the little girl said shocked not just me…

“My mom is the simplest person to fulfill all my desires. But she cannot do everything. For example, she cannot change the weather. I would so like to go to Disneyland! And I would so like not to leave. And now, look – planes do not fly. So, we’ll stay here for a little bit more; and if we’ll stay, why not stay a little longer? Just one day. The weather will be nice tomorrow; we will go to Disneyland and then fly home.”

As if to confirm the baby’s words, there was especially bright lighting outside, and a heavy thunder made the windowpanes vibrate. And Charlotte, smiling cheerfully, went back to being just a baby, comfortably seated on her mother’s lap and completely sinking into the contemplation of the bizarre patterns drawn by raindrops on the windowpanes.

* * *

Bridget, a giggly girl of about twenty years old, told us her magical story. It all began with a craze for esotericism, rituals, etc. It came to a logical stage: the visualization of desires. Well, it’s different for everyone: someone can get everything he wants, and someone just leaves behind his dreams of a “happy life”. There is no doubt that sometimes, well-crafted desire maps produce amazing results; except that there are a lot of recommendations on how to create the desire map, but there are almost no details on how to reach an ideal balance in the desire map. Once, I made small maps of short-term projects, and they always hit the bull’s eye. But Bridget told of a magical incident which only confirmed that the Universe is not just a Reason, but a Reason with a very good sense of humor.

All she could ever dream of was money – namely, money as the end result. And if experienced “wizards” advise to at least understand what that money will be spent on, Bridget was guided by this principle: “First, a bag of money will fall on me, and then I will take good care of it.”

So, on one beautiful evening, in a state of creativity, she started drawing her dream. Using Photoshop, Bridget began to carefully collect the components of her happiness. For starters, she chose as the background a pile of scattered coins. Then, she placed a close-up photo of herself at the center. “What else should I add to that?”, thought Bridget. She added “diamonds” – drawings of small cut stones. Then, after thinking that for happiness, she might need real American dollars, she added to the collage as many dollars as, in her opinion, a million looked like. After that, she was pleased to look at her creation and, having remembered the picture, went to bed.