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