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

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!”

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.