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

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!”