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

Paris Nights is a collection of short stories united by the theme of “fireplace stories” told in the cozy living room of a hostel. It’s where at night, people who come from all over the world to Paris, and are imbued with the romance and sensuality of this city, begin to share the most unusual or ordinary love stories and experiences.

We are not just storytellers. We are listeners, partners in some way, discussing, prompted by, and sharing our experience if there is something in the story that’s consonant with our past.

That is why this book is valuable. Everyone will find here one or more stories that would remind him of his own experience and, perhaps, prompt a brilliant solution for the situation.

This book brings hope to all those people who have lost faith in love and its magic, who stopped believing in their own strengths and good luck.

In each line, I convey the unforgettable atmosphere of these nights in the hostel’s living room so that you, sitting in a comfortable armchair with a book in your hand, immediately move there, inhaling the aroma of good coffee and listening to the leisurely speech of the next narrator.

Chapter 1. Jean and “She”

Jean belonged to that category of people who managed to become adults and escaped the youthful age with its passions, delights, heart dramas and other fascinations, which he considered obviously doubtful. In spite of the fact that he was born and had grown up in one of the most beautiful towns in Paris, the suburb of Bougival, where even Turgenev was inspired to write his new masterpieces, Jean was skeptical about everything that, according to him, “didn’t exist”.

At what moment of his life he suddenly decided that “love” is a myth, undeserving of his precious attention, was a mystery. But the fact remained the fact. Love was an abstract thing for Jean; it was from the field of a fiction, a parallel reality. Certainly, he belonged to those who outlived similar feelings, slightly scornfully, with a sneer.

And of course, Jean considered himself the Parisian. It’s such a light snobbery that made him feel better and create an ideal image.

Jean was always planning. He planned all his life; and if he knew precisely how many years were destined to him, he would schedule every day down to the second, pedantically following the plan. However, Destiny adores laughing at such pedants.

That morning, Jean was hurrying to Paris for an important meeting. As usual, he dropped by his favorite café in Myurzhe Street for a cup of tasty coffee and to look through the morning papers.

But he was unpleasantly surprised. His “booked” table was occupied by a young woman who was excitedly eating croissants, and apparently wasn’t in a hurry. She enjoyed her breakfast; the cozy atmosphere; the aromas of coffee; and the sun, which was lazily stroking her left cheek and a lock of nut-brown hair, creating a “nimbus” effect.

Being a sensible person by nature, Jean nevertheless wasn’t deprived of some scrap of superstition. Now, this scrap was persistently integrating into his brain a thought that the woman sitting at his table was a very bad omen. As one may say, it is a signal that the meeting to which Jean was hurrying and which he had been trying to obtain for more than half a year would fail. In other words, “his” place will certainly be taken by some other person.

Of course, being a purposeful person with common sense, Jean was not someone who gave in to difficulties. If the Universe “gave the sign” not to hurry to the meeting, he was sure that any sign can be changed.

Jean called up the waiter who knew him well enough as a regular customer, and ordered a meringue for the stranger. It was his form of an apology and request for her to move to another table, “if it doesn’t bother a mademoiselle.”

He kept an eye on the woman, who looked at the cake with a slight amazement, then shifted her gaze to him.

As soon as their eyes met, Jean’s reality ceased to exist. Work, career, life experience, his attitude toward love and feelings – everything became illusive and unreal, not deserving even a 100-h of his attention. Everything that was important in his life was at “HIS” table. And though reason desperately tried to reach it, feverishly unveiling weighty arguments against “love at first sight” and giving proofs that it doesn’t exist, Jean didn’t hear or see anything but those milk chocolate-brown eyes.

It took ages – an entire moment stretched into millions of time intervals in parallel Universes. For some time, Jean went through such a stream of emotions that he had never experienced in his life.

Being in a daze, he observed her friendly smiling and nodding at him, simply paying her bill and heading for an exit. Even her pace was absolutely unearthly: Jean wasn’t sure if she walked or floated.

The delicate aroma of unfamiliar perfume wrapped him in its captivating veil. The stranger left the café, having taken with her not only the cake, but also Jean’s heart.

On unbending legs, Jean passed the table and, having ordered a coffee, he thoughtlessly stared at the newspapers. Lines strangely jumped up, the letters all confused; and in his head, something unimaginable was happening. His brain tried to master shock and put in thought order; but his heart was ready to sing serenades, exult in love and sob with despair as the subject of his inspiration disappeared into an unknown direction. Frankly speaking, even if SHE stayed in the café, Jean would never know what to do next.

It’s a funny thing – an interesting and successful man, practically a Parisian, who could fascinate any pretty lady by his manners and talk, now couldn’t even imagine what he could do if the stranger who was at his table stayed there. And now, as she vanished among the people in the autumn morning, there were no any hope for future with her.

Jean was hooked on this thought, but returned to reality with difficulty and more essential prospects – for example, the forthcoming meeting, for which he was awfully late. It is not so far from Bougival to Paris, but this makes the route difficult as many of the residents of this town consider themselves the capital inhabitants and prefer to work in Paris, and to wind down – uptown. But, being an absolutely unromantic and undreaming person, Jean didn’t hope to come in time. And very often, hope can work wonders, especially if it works in consent with a head and a heart. But it wasn’t in Jean’s case.

He was late for a quarter of an hour. But when speaking about the project, he lacked focus and was absent-minded, and his thoughts constantly returned to that moment when the stranger looked at him. Deo gratias, Jean had enough ingenuity to refer to indisposition when he noticed that the meeting is becoming a failure. Nobody doubted that he had caught a virus.

One shouldn’t think that in the world of business, all people are sticks and stones, especially if there’s potential profit. That’s why Jean was given time for recovery and a second chance.

The week after, Jean wandered like a ghost down Myurzhe street, hoping to come across the stranger. But he was in vain. He literally saw the features of that young lady in every woman, those chestnut ringlets causing in him a sensation of real happiness, hope and fear.

For the first time, he didn’t think over what he would do if he met her again. The only thing he knew was that it was necessary to meet her again.

It didn’t look like him. It differed a lot from his way of life, his thoughts, his essence of being, so much that these changes were noticed by all the people around him. However, Jean continued his fake excuse of weakness, which more or less worked also in Bougival, among his friends and family.

After a week of fruitless searching, Jean grew thin, lost weight, and even looked slightly older. However, his emotions and feelings became more faded against the background of another project meeting. When he crossed the threshold of the office, it was evident that he was sick – he looked like that. But that didn’t prevent him from delivering a brilliant speech, and he received the long-awaited carte blanche on the project’s realization.

* * *

We were sitting by the fireplace and looking at the person who had never believed in love and, of course, love at first sight.

He experienced the strongest blow of his life. And now, he says, smiling sadly: “I am not sure anymore that it was love. Some delusion. And, probably, it has passed. If it were love, Destiny would have surely presented me with – us – a second chance. But now – I don’t even know her name.”

He entered our hostel by chance, just for tonight, because his car broke down. The mechanic promised to repair everything in the morning. Jean, obeying some internal feeling, chose our hostel, giving it a preference among many similar ones, to say nothing of luxurious Parisian hotels. Here, when we were sharing our stories, the old Jean’s wound opened; and he understood how it was important for him to tell someone his story, to share his emotions, right up to the moment when even his nearest and dearest didn’t know what was the problem with him and what he was recovering from. Telling the story now, he re-experienced all his feelings, emotions and shock from his own irrational behavior, so unusual for his nature.

The listeners’ reactions weren’t the same, but all agreed that it was one of the saddest love stories in the world. It’s a love story that died without having even managed to begin.

We were sitting with Jean and thinking over the possible variants of his behavior. What would everyone else do in his place? And it is possible to do anything, and it is worth doing now when it has already been more than half a year?

The only thing Jean was sure of was that it was silly to deny love, and particularly to explain it with chemistry and physics. But he couldn’t take it for granted, either. He had received a lesson, and perhaps this lesson wouldn’t have been so cruel if Jean was ready for sentiment. Relationships were always a simple game for him, and he had never thought until this situation that he could hurt somebody’s feelings. Now, he was undergoing a phase of loneliness; and still subconsciously tried to discover in his girlfriends’ features that only ONE who went away in the autumn morning. The women felt it; and slowly, the circle of his girlfriends melted…

* * *

At about 2 a.m., Jean smiled guiltily. He noticed with surprise that he was holding not a cup of coffee, but a glass of wine. Referring to the fact that he has an important meeting with a great number of questions in the morning, he asked for permission “to take a leave”. Our friendly company wished him sweet dreams, having prepared (to tell the truth) to “pick him to pieces” with doubled enthusiasm as soon as he left the living room.

But suddenly, the doorbell tinkled soundly; and the next visitor of our hostel turned up. Thin and a bit clumsy like a teenager, she was wearing a yellow chiffon dress, a knitted striped jacket with a knitted striped hat, and caramel-colored flats. She had big eyes in a milk-chocolate shade.

Doing up her chestnut ringlets, which flipped out from the heading, she charmingly smiled and said: “Hello, I am Marie. Is there a place for me by the fireplace? I’m awfully frozen!”

The ring of the broken glass that dropped out of Jean’s hands seemed like a prothalamion. And when the eyes of these two met again, I swear that in the whole drawing room, we could hear only the beating of hearts; and we literally could see how Marie’s and Jean’s eyes met somewhere in the middle, giving a rise to the biggest electric wave that flew up and burst into multicolored fireworks.

This love story can have a magnificent continuation, and let it never come to an end!

Chapter 2. Betrayal

We really enjoyed Luke’s company. He was an elderly Frenchman living in the hostel for the third day. And if he was at his best every evening, brimming with various stories from his life, today he was simply irresistible. It is probably because today, his company was shared by a young blonde girl: slender, pretty, giggly and, contrary to popular opinion, definitely sensible.

Luke was about sixty years old and homely: average height, with some excess pounds and some gray hair on head and hands. But his eyes and his charm could captivate any woman. He had an exquisite sense of humor, tremendous talent for mimicry, and a constantly positive temper. That all made him the pet of society and one of the favorites of our “sit-round the fireplace” routine. It seemed that the atmosphere became warmer and nicer with him around. At once, we wished to share our thoughts, feelings and experiences.

That’s why nobody was surprised when we saw a young nymph-like lady in his company, about 25 years old with a model’s appearance, and who seemed to be absolutely fascinated by the elderly gentleman. They looked so perfect together that nobody felt jealousy or scorn, or desired to give Luke a lecture about good morals or anything regarding his family hearth, which he had mentioned several times before.

Hey, yeah. Luke was married. Unlike many others, he had a lucky marriage, as he told us himself. He loved his wife, with whom he had lived about thirty years already and who (again, according to him) was a real godsend and perfection. And here, against the background of those telling their stories, we watched Luke, who slightly embraced his young companion at the waist, and made an absolutely crazy tea mixture from a set of herbs. He listened to our talk, occasionally inserting a remark or laughing with his slightly hard baritone.

It was strange, but it had never come to our minds to suspect him of infidelity – he was so sincere in describing his wife and his feelings. None of us could even think of reproaching him about obvious adultery. It was evident that he wouldn’t put the beauty in a taxi after all, being limited only by talks at the fireplace.

At that time, we were discussing the story of Yen and Olga (the Russian girl) when the door of the hostel suddenly opened, and a Fury appeared on the threshold. No, not literally, of course. It was a beautiful woman; but at the peak of rage, she was unearthly! My French is not bad; I can talk without barriers. But the tirade of this madam was so calorific and fast with a truly Italian temperament that even I, with my knowledge, could understand only the essence of it and imagine the possible aftereffects: a visitation of God and other measures of punishment which will be applied to her husband immediately.

I swear, I couldn’t even catch sight of her air inhalation to utter everything that she had in her heart. At the same time, she had a sonorous voice, a voce piena that wasn’t grating on our ears, but enjoyable. We derived a pleasure in studying Luke: he looked scared, confused, and was carefully hiding his young girlfriend behind him, who was frightened and out of her wits, and timidly cooing something in her gentle voice. Meanwhile, the look of a Fury obviously deserved more attention. She was elderly, but a very beautiful woman with a shock of blonde hair and clear brown eyes, sending bright lightings, and with quite a sporty figure.

Compared to her, Luke looked like a bear cub. But nobody had any doubts that they were a single whole. It is astonishing that people who’ve lived together for more than thirty years, in spite of their different features, have a certain similarity that is so obvious that you can guess at once that they are a couple, a real family.

Meanwhile, Luke’s spouse went on the offensive. Luke said a few words to Ellen in his mellow baritone (Ellen was the girl’s name; surprisingly, nobody even thought of asking for her name). The girl quickly ran away and jumped into the first taxi that appeared. Having put some money in her hands, he murmured “Merci,” quickly kissed her cheek (in front of his furious wife!) and, closing her by his back, let her go.

As soon as Luke didn’t have to keep his wife at outstretched arms’ distance anymore, he obediently threw them down. A hail of reproaches, shouts, slaps in the face and so on fell upon him with a double rage. We felt ill at ease, being at the epicenter of events but not being able to do anything.

We could only watch as Luke, our cheerful, good-natured and surprisingly softhearted person, grew darker by the second. He then said in a quiet and harsh voice that he didn’t wish to see his wife anymore. He took his coat, which was hanging on a back of the armchair next to the exit, and went forth into the night.

The doorbell softly tinkled. Against it, the bang of a door sounded like a shot into the heart of a family, which was breaking up in front of our eyes.

For a few seconds, there was a stark silence in the hall by the fireplace. Then “a spiteful Fury” fell into the nearest chair. Her shoulders drooped, and an aggressive break of eyebrows absolutely got another outline. Here before us was a simple woman: beautiful with a very exquisite appearance. She was sitting and hid her face in her palms. It appeared that she didn’t care about the others who became witnesses to this scene, her emotional state and the rest.

She did not even cry. She was just wearily hiding from it all. Such a childish eccentricity when a kid closes his eyes with his palms, and he is sure that nobody will see him. I, and all who were nearby, had a desire to console and help her somehow, taking into account that we had been discussing only love stories for the last few days. Couldn’t we find a solution to this problem together?

The bar glass slightly tinkled. I turned and saw Annette, a red-haired bar girl who had a day off today. As a bartender, she knew what was important for such moments; she filled one-third of a glass with Scotch whisky and gave it to Luke’s wife.

The latter didn’t realize at first that the bar girl came up to her. She stared at the glass with surprise, carefully took a sip, and suddenly had a coughing fit… Yes, of course, all of us understood that those tears were only because of that burning drink.

We knew that today would be an evening of a remarkable love story and treachery. And despite quite a late hour, nobody was hurrying to their rooms. Everyone was looking forward to her story.

It was a very terrific story, indeed. The story of their whole life, filled with very touching and invaluable moments, began from their very first meeting up to the firstborn’s birth, and then the second son’s. Their common plans, objectives, which they achieved, attention and keenness day by day. Millions of small stories acted as mosaic pieces on which was built a perfect picture of life. But there was a slight problem. Luke’s wife, Katharine, was hopelessly jealous. Her precious husband was not a saint at all. And if he was having an affair, she began to feel it by instinct.

“You must love him very much,” said Annette, imperceptibly refilling Katherine’s glass again, “if you forgive him for a minute’s weakness.”

Katharine slightly shrugged her shoulders. “He is my life,” she said. “I can’t even imagine my life without him.” Her voice trembled, and she brushed away the next teardrop with a slight movement of her hand. And right there was a new flash of indignation, which changed her so much she went on. “But it is unbearable! All his unfaithfulness! Did you see this girl?! She is twice younger than he is, the same age as his granddaughter! Why does he carry on like that with me? We had lived together all our lives; we have common happiness and grief; and he can give a lark to catch a kite, a minute’s weakness!”

She exhaled; looked around for the first time; and saw our hall with a fireplace, saw all of us. There was a slight bewilderment on her face that formed a very nice wrinkle in the middle of a very aristocratic forehead.

“Hostel?” she asked. “How surprising! I’ve lived with Luke for many years, but I would never think that he could stay here. Sometimes, it seems to me that I do not know him at all.”

We sat up until four o’clock in the morning and were about to go to bed when the doorbell tinkled, and there was a guest. It was Luke, our Luke who came in with a huge bouquet of freesias – Katherine’s favorite flowers. We expected anything: the next scene or scandal; Luke falling on his knees, without paying any attention to us, and pleading with his incomparable half for forgiveness.

But everything turned out much quicker and more unpredictable. Coming to his wife with a vigorous, elastic step, Luke handed her the bouquet, strongly kissed her and, picking her up by the waist, left the hostel with her. However, Katharine was too tired to resist because of fatigue, the Scotch whisky, and her nervous breakdown.

It goes without saying that our dream vanished as if by magic. We began to discuss what would happen next: whether they would make up or not, whether Katharine would be able to forgive Luke, what sweet people they were and how perfectly they were matched.

It’s a story in a story, a real drama that happened in our presence and excited our minds and hearts. We wanted Luke and Katharine to be together! They really deserved happiness and peace, and the love of each other.

The next evening, Luke dropped by our living room. Slyly smiling, he said that everything was just wonderful: he came here for his belongings, and they were heading for Barcelona for the next honey week with Katherine.

As for our questions on whether Katherine forgave him or not and what happened after they left the hostel, he smiled and said: “I’ve always loved and will love the only woman in my life: my incomparable Katharine. She is my ideal. But after the first ten years of happy marriage, our relations became not as vivid, a bit quiet. And she began to lose her inner fire. It was still warm and quiet with her, but she turned from a desired woman into a sister, friend, the mother of my children…” Luke told us that he stopped feeling himself a man; but with her, he felt madly attractive and sexual. Now he became such a family man, or rather a father of a family, than a beloved and desired husband.

Then he thought of a unique plan. He decided to “betray” Katharine. Within twenty years, he invents various stories and situations that allow his wife to suspect him of infidelity. As soon as she “calms down”, he thinks of more complicated schemes, never repeating them or making a mistake. He calculates everything down to the smallest details, and leaves “hints” so that his spouse could “suspect” and “catch” him.

Ellen, the beautiful blonde, perfectly played her part. From the very beginning, she was ready to escape as soon as Luke’s wife appeared at the hostel. He did not doubt that she would come. Katharine had such a quick temper.

And here, the fading flame of passion flared with the doubled force. Luke and Katharine are again captured by their feelings, flavored with affection and experience from their lived years. They spent an unforgettable night together, and are now going to Barcelona to enjoy the moment of pure happiness with and love for each other!

Luke has become a devoted and loving husband again. That is, until the next time he has to awaken a real tigress ready to fight for love, to overcome distances and make the real rows in a Spanish style.

Having turned back from a threshold, Luke softly laughed and said: “Honestly, sometimes I am tormented by doubts on whether my wife is so naïve to believe in such stories. The main thing is that these stories do the necessary thing. But sometimes, after all that, it seems she knows what game I started, and accepts these rules because she needs it as well as I do.”

With these words, Luke left the hostel. We, sitting by the fireplace in the living room, plunged into a deep reverie. Is it really possible? The grief of his spouse was too sincere when she was sharing it with us. Or maybe those tiny, shining sparks in her eyes, which did not fade for a second, were a fruit of our imagination?

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.

The next morning, the Universe responded. Having opened the locker, Bridget, as usual, wanted to get a glass of orange fresh. But for some reason, the bottom of the glass was slightly stuck to the glass shelf. We don’t know how this happened, but the shelf fell, incidentally breaking a piggy bank and dropping a photo of the girl. The result was simply amazing! Bridget looked at her “wealth map”: a photograph laid on the pile of coins from the untimely broken piggy bank, a scattering of “diamonds” turned into splinters of the ill-favored shelf, and a million dollars from the same piggy bank. And a million dollars was painted, too! Long ago, Bridget put a dollar bill into the piggy bank, having previously drawn the number of zeros necessary for a million.

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