Бесплатный фрагмент - Parisian chocolate can be bitter

“People are divided into two types.

Some spoil the air, and then look around.

Others first look around, then spoil the air.

And he didn’t look back at all.”

Luke Trenton.

— Animal

A pleasantly light snow was drizzling. Funny weather for shopping lovers, when the whole world was flooded with paper bags without handles. And when a rather tall monsieur in his thirties, wearing a smart Cardin hat, emerged from the Avenue Jeune, it was worth a look. He simply walked straight ahead, his pace quickening every now and then, as the grocery bag that he had wrapped around in a choking gesture and propped up on his knee turned into jelly. Opposite the square of Joel-Le-tak, a man slipped and by some supernatural miracle kept his balance, supporting all this with obscenities that were not clear to the French ear. But that’s not why the passers-by making their usual Saturday afternoon promenade shied away from him. Well, as you can! In the center of the city, but without a mask, when around for every free breath they beat on the ridge with clubs!

“Well, at least put this on, my son,” one compassionate old woman said, pulling a handkerchief with ear slots out of the basket. She was selling roasted chestnuts from a stall.

“He’s crazy, ma’am,” the customer warned her immediately, unfurling a sophisticated, very elegant umbrella over him. It looked like an inspector of some sort. He had just come out from under the awning of a cheese shop, and after brushing spores of blue mold from his bushy moustache, he put an expensive respirator on his neat little face.

The old lady sighed.

“Crazy, maybe, but not immortal,” she said, shoveling a handful of chestnuts into her bulging pocket. She suddenly ran out of newspapers.

“Fuck you, you half-wits! Monsieur snapped as he passed them with the package, and if the inspector was quick to follow the advice, the elderly chestnut vendor was clearly flattered by the attention.

“Oh… what a beast…”

Everything about the brute, the sinewy neck, the prominent brow ridges, the low forehead, the sloping unshaven chin, and the fluttering butterflies in her stomach, appealed to her. She simply adored “Monsieur Animal”, as she affectionately dubbed him, and even waved after the rejected mask. And he really was very different from all the pompous umbrella dudes who had been flooding Paris lately. A typical descendant of a cave bear, dangerous, primitive, but easily predictable.

— Beau cul, madam! (Nice ass, madam!) he paid a compliment to a lady in an astrakhan coat who got in his way, and then he laughed, forcing a cough out of his throat. — Gulchitai, open your face!

“Oh, it’s you, Basil…” she squinted through her foggy glasses. — When will you come to the light? My husband is in intensive care.

Monsieur Animal shifted his weight expertly and looked down at his left wrist. He wasn’t wearing a watch.

“Maybe one of these days…” he said, frowning. — I’m expecting someone this evening.”

The package was falling apart right before my eyes.

“The other day?” You bet on the wrong card, “the lady said angrily, poking a finger through the snow-soaked paper. — Everyone in Paris knows that your Ellen is hanging out with the Moreau brothers. The wall.

Some of the onlookers cheered and clapped their hands. And hell, they’re right. The Montmartre wall was the name given to a pile of loose bricks in the Rue Saint-Vincent, behind which was the gravediggers ' lodge.

“You fucking morons…” he continued on his way with the dignity of a booed ballerina.

And what the hell had made him want to hang on to this bespectacled fool whose husband had decided to take some time off on a ventilator? It doesn’t have a tongue, it has a sting!

The snow had increased in mass and was hitting my eyes. As they say, the truth of the eye colitis. Ellen is the cheapest prostitute who occasionally came to see him at the light and confessed her love. He’d been waiting for her all those dreary evenings, and she’d been stuck with Moreau for a week. What will they do for her there?

Basil even stopped walking. Judging by the still readable logo on the package, it was overstocked in the “Troika” … the mood is at zero. And that fight with the security guard… ugh! How disgusting! Out of habit, Monsieur spat on the asphalt. So the bottom broke through.

“Ugh! And praline to the same place…

A brisk little Arab cub, who had evidently been watching him from the shop itself, deftly picked up the first thing that came to hand. Basil whistled loudly after her, urging her on.

“Hey, take the candy! With nuts!

Something tinkled suspiciously in the jelly slush. Oh, right! Two bottles of dry bread served by Madame Pompadour, the owner of the Troika. She always treats Basil to something to appease his far from gentle disposition. So you can get drunk!

“Imbeciles! he sighed, nibbling on a French loaf that was peeking out of the bag and not tasting the fresh bread at all.. — E..e!

All this Basil said about the Freemasons, blaming them for all the troubles here. He didn’t believe in the virus, or that the city had been invaded by lizards. He had just carefully packed one of them in the store, turning it upside down and poking at a package of eggs. Don’t make the remark that people are not wearing masks! This is everyone’s business. And if it hadn’t been for Madame Pompadour’s shrewdness and her two bottles of wine during the meal… or maybe she wouldn’t have Pompadour. What made him think that was her name? Basil frowned.

“Your ma-a-t!”

The contents of the bag spilled out onto the slippery cobblestones… only the loaf hung between my teeth. Fortunately, the neighbor’s little boy was trotting by. He was coming home from school, dragging an empty beer can by a rope.

“Hey, Mosh,” Basil whistled, overwhelming the child with his hypnotic gaze. “Come here!” Your bearded Lord must have sent you to me!

Mosh approached with bowed head, uncomplaining and irrevocable, like a monkey approaching a boa constrictor. His mother taught him, first of all, modesty and never argue with adults.

“What do you want, monsieur?”

“Whatever you want, monsieur,” Basil mimicked. — Where’s hello?”

— Hello…

Basil suddenly noticed that Mosh had a black eye.

— Olya-la-la-la! Who calls you that? Lefty, a little taller than you, eh? Tell him he hits you like a whore.

— And who is a corrupt wench?”

— If you take a gold piece from your mother and go to Saint-Denis, you’ll find out.

The boys were already yanking the satchel from their shoulders.

— How do you open it?” Basil swore. — They made locks …! Oh, that’s right… come on, help me collect all this stuff.

“My mother says you can’t work out on Saturday.

“Hush!” Well done! Good boy…

The wine bottles didn’t fit. Well, do not push them to the child?

“I think that’s all,” Basile said, trampling the pieces of the package into the snow. “Oh, here’s another one… Here you go!” — he suddenly noticed a roll of boiled pork and shoved it into the schoolboy’s hands.

— I can’t!” Mosh protested, sniffing cautiously. — They’ll just kill me if they find out.”

“Take it from whoever you told!” I’d rather give you some of that sour stuff.” What will your mother say to that, eh? Come on, come on, move your pincers! Is it hard?

“It’s hard, monsieur.. the boy panted, hunched over under the suddenly heavy pack. He tried not to notice the boiled pork in his hands and kept his eyes on the ground.

“This isn’t about taking Playboy magazines to school,” Basil said, laughing.

“Please don’t tell your mother -”

— Do you think she doesn’t know?” Naive. Jewish mothers know everything.

Mosh gave a resigned sigh.

— That’s for sure… But I beg you, monsieur, don’t talk about the magazine. I won it fairly at Dreidle.

“Into what?”

“Well, in a special spinning top, monsieur. I was pretty damn lucky today. A tire fell out four times.

“Look, I don’t know anything about what you’re babbling about, but this chatter takes a lot of energy.

The boy really did droop. Thank God it wasn’t far to go, otherwise passers-by would have called the gendarmes, accusing Basil of using child labor. This, it seems, already happened when the former Octagon champion tamed local children to clean the entrance.

“Well, here we are.

“Yes, we are, monsieur.

A nondescript old house was waiting for them. As they approached, Basil overtook Mosh, who was dragging himself along with every step so that he was about to fall. In addition, a homemade toy tied to a backpack rattled all over the street, attracting attention.

— Why did you put it on?” Basil couldn’t stand it.

“It scares away dogs, monsieur.”

— You go with this piece of boiled pork and they’ll love you.”

“It’s no use, monsieur. I tried feeding them. They get even angrier and bite. These are some anti-Semitic dogs.

“Well, who gave you that hard time, son?” Are they also anti-Semites?

“No, monsieur. Classmates… " replied Mosh. — For eating ' boutiques — – cheese and chicken or something…”

— So what of it?”

“Well, monsieur! We can’t combine dairy and meat, and my mother always puts it in my satchel. She’s still mad at Dad for not leaving us the codes for his bank cards.

“Gee! It turns out that you are paying for the sins of your ancestors…

“It’s true,” the boy continued in a nasal voice, making his older companion even more amused. — We have a serious Orthodox school. Everyone is obsessed with religion.

— I’d like to transfer you somewhere simpler… For example, to Disneyland.

“Oh, monsieur, I wish you were my guardian,” and the boy sighed in a way that made Basil feel sorry for him.

They entered the darkened entrance and paused in the stairwell.

Basil jingled his keys and opened his own door.

Then the boy was unceremoniously turned around with his back to them, opened the satchel and began to unload.

“I’ll take your little magazine, too, and look through it…” and Monsieur slapped the tomboy on the back of the head in parting. — If you need cigarettes, matches, contact us!

Basil kicked off his boots without unlacing them before plopping down on the couch like a shot. A stupid habit, imported from Of Russia… Finally, you can breathe freely. Someone was looking at him with mock affection or even mockery. This is Camille, his ex-wife. It looks good in this wooden frame. His hand went to the pack of cigarettes and found matches on the table. I remembered the fight with the security guard in the store again. Maybe he’d gone a little overboard after all. No, you need to go easy on people. It’s not their fault that they’re not smart enough.

A sip of the pungent nicotine calmed him. He took another drag on his cigarette. My throat felt pleasantly tight. Now you can start cooking dinner. Ellen should be here tonight. Yes, she must come. He skimmed through Mosh’s magazine, noting that the girls on the covers were all black women. And then, damn it, an advertisement for muzzles! Wow, with a carbon filter! No, he wouldn’t watch that. Basile looked under the couch and pulled out Le citoyen respectueux de la loi (the law-abiding citizen). Once upon a time, this municipal newspaper was delivered free of charge and put in mailboxes.

“A popular Parisian blogger got his face smashed off with his buttocks,” he read the long-gone news, thoughtfully blowing out a smoke ring. — An employee of the metro at the Sevastopol station gave birth to a dog… Hmm. Not a word about quarantine. About chemical tails, too. What wonderful times they were… And once he impressed the most mustachioed Jules and got a contract with the most famous gym in Europe… And nothing that at first lived in the attic, but trained steadily three times a day…

He looked down at his belly protruding from under his vest and deliberately flicked the ash “on the skin”. How could he turn into such a pig? And this last heart-to-heart conversation with Camilla? “There are people who go crazy for the smell of your crotch, but none of them will love you as much as I do.” Had he said that to her after all? Sure. When he burned the bridges, he handed them over to God, as if for safekeeping, in the ashen eternity, in the cloud world.

— Krever

One of the rented apartments on the Rue de Saint-Vincent was stormed. It was still past ten o’clock in the morning, a day off, it would seem, sleep and sleep, but who would understand these persistent Frenchmen? At first they rang the bell, then they started banging on the door with threats, but even this did not help.

“Even if you yell’ fire! ' it won’t open,” Madame Rabinski’s voice came from the stairwell. Someone contradicted her, and Basil immediately recognized the distinctive French “r”.

— Insistez… il doit dormer encore. (Call again. He must still be asleep.)

It was Monsieur Bruno, the owner of the gravedigger’s house. A nasty, disgusting guy in a red tie, and also a bandit who collects tribute from everyone.

“Tell you what, Monsieur Crever, I showed you the door, and I got the deposit. We’re even, “he continued, apparently fooling the new lodger.

“But…” objected this other, whose voice was like the squeal of a hysterical woman who had been peeked under her skirt. — I can’t break it.”

— You can’t, but you can beat him up a little more, he’s a little hard of hearing… and I have to go, alas.”

Basil’s poor door began to shake again. So the guests do not break. Well, how long can you do that? Aha, here is already a slight tapping of the forehead from despair, begging for something. The skin creaks under his fingernails… it’s all familiar to Basil.

“Monsieur, I won’t leave you alone!” And if you are afraid that I am contagious, then I have certificates confirming… Here’s a cardiogram, here’s an X-ray of the skull, here’s an anal swab for the virus!

Basile stretched luxuriously in bed, listening for the sound of plaster falling in every part of the room. Well, what do they all need-what they demand? The answer is one-in the bathroom on the mirror cracked from a fist blow. And everyone knows this very well, but they still bother you!

And behind the door, the following was happening. After the owner of the house, Monsieur Bruno, had disappeared, Madame Rabinski, the widow of a recently deceased rabbi and a very plump woman, explained to schuplik with two suitcases what was here and why.

“There he is, where else would he be?” she said, chuckling. “But You would, Monsieur Crever, go to the courtyard and wait for him there, in the open air, as you were reasonably advised. No, I can’t take your suitcases in case there’s a bomb or something illegal, and I have a twelve-year-old son who’s just starting to show some promise in music.

Schuplik with two suitcases, unsightly but well-groomed, in a fashionable jacket and pressed trousers, looked like a bank clerk who helps clients part with their money.

“This is just an outrage! It’s just mind boggling! — he was indignant and complaining at the same time.

Madame Rabinski was obviously lavishing her vibes left and right, but Krever, like a true pacer, turned his long nose away from the widow’s cleavage.

— I won’t let anyone bully me like that!”

As a warning, he tapped lightly on the door with the toe of his highly polished boot, still hoping to persuade Monsieur Basile in such a peaceful way.

But Monsieur Basile is always adamant about such pacers. This is the second time in a week that the rascal Bruno has brought them to the show. Where does he find them? Bunny boys with white cuffs. Bruno, Bruno… the main thing is to take the deposit, and then come what may.

— After all, is there a God on earth?” Krever asks, dropping to his knees. — I just don’t have a place to live.”

He really doesn’t have a place to live. No one else rents out a place in this area, and you have to take on such a dubious offer with both hands, which is exactly what Monsieur Crever is doing, trying to tear off the brass handle of the unyielding door. But what is it? I think he’s crying.

“Come on, monsieur, come on,” the widow says soothingly. “Calm down, you’re a man!

— damn it! — Stop it! “he screams. — How can you be so inhumane! So be reasonable. I’m good.

The word “good” sounds convincing, and Madame Rabinski even nods, as if to vouch for Krever. But Basile can’t be bothered with all this, how many of these “good ones” spoil the air in Paris? He’s still basking in his bed. Another cigarette slowly turns to ash. There are two empty dry bottles under the couch, one of which he peed into during the night so he wouldn’t have to go to the bathroom.

“Open up, open up, I can’t sleep here with rats, can I?” I’m not going anywhere anyway… Monsieur Basile, I think that’s your name, hey, open up! Basil, ow!?

Here’s a restless one, even the dead will get it! Basil finally pulls on his vest and, swaying slightly, goes to call his name. The click of the door latch feels like an eternity.

“Well, thank God, my dear,” Krever said happily, trying to throw himself on the savior’s chest, “and we were afraid that something had happened to you…”

He didn’t finish his sentence as he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and lifted off the floor like a balloon. Monsieur Crevert seems to have lost the power of speech. This happens sometimes. He just swung his legs and was carried out into the street, despite a timid and unconvincing squeal. There Monsieur Crever was politely seated on a bench, slapped on the shoulder, almost breaking his collarbone, and a minute later two large yellow suitcases flew out of the entrance, despite Madame Rabinski’s pleas that there might be a bomb. One of them opened when it hit the ground, and all the world could see how many ironed socks Monsieur Crever had on.

“I live here, monsieur, and I will not be treated like this!” he shook his small fist at the gravedigger’s house as he hurriedly gathered up his scattered belongings.

Then Madame Rabinski came up to him with a cup steaming in the cold and began to explain something, her fists on her fat-swollen sides. Basil looked out of the window.

“What a cute scene…

They all looked at him conspiratorially, but he drew the curtains safely.

“Don’t worry, Monsieur Crever. Have a cup of coffee and you’ll feel better. Basil is a quick-witted guy. You just came at the wrong time, “Madame Rabinski, as always in her repertoire. — It was his anniversary yesterday.

— What kind of anniversary, may I ask?

“It’s been exactly five years since his wife left him. A real bitch, I’ll tell you, wagged her booty here at the Nimble Rabbit.

“But what does that have to do with me, madame?” Monsieur Crever sighed uncomprehendingly, taking a sip of boiling water. — I was also dumped by a business partner once, but I didn’t throw anyone out the door!”

“But Your business partner, as you say, didn’t go to Nice on a plane. Your own Ferrari and with your own dance master! You don’t dance, do you?” Don’t tell Monsieur Basil that you’re dancing sideways…

“I don’t dance, ma’am, I’m an insurance salesman.

“Oh, really? Why do you insure?

“From everything in the world. Suicide insurance is very popular now, and it’s spreading like hot cakes. You haven’t been thinking about it lately, have you, madame?”

— Well, I don’t have time to think about such trifles at all! My son is growing up, Monsieur Crever…

“Oh, I’m sorry… I would give you a 15% discount.

— I think there will be plenty of applicants in our area.

“You bet! the insurance agent suddenly became animated. — That’s why I agreed when Monsieur Bruno offered me a little bear corner in this little house.

“That’s what he said: little bear corner?” the dowager couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, what’s so funny about that?” It’s too wasteful to spend money on large apartments right now.

“Monsieur Bruno has a good sense of humor, it turns out. Just our neighbor’s name is Bébé ours (Bear Cub). Have you ever heard of such a name?

— Wait, wait… isn’t that the one…”

“That one, that one!

Monsieur Crever threw the last of the brown mud into the snow, and although the tears on his sad face had long since dried, he wiped them away as if out of habit.

— What should I do?” He addressed Madame Rabinski as if she were an oracle predicting disaster.

“Don’t despair. Monsieur Basile is very quick-witted. You’ll see, by the evening it will be ready for you. You will get used to it and let it on the doorstep, like a best friend.

“By tonight?” Are you joking, madame? What am I supposed to do here all day? Wait for the weather from the sea?

“Yes, just sit here on the bench, under his windows. He’ll take pity. He has a good heart.

“I’ve already noticed that…” And Monsieur Crever sighed in resignation.

“And yet you will love Monsieur Basile with all your heart,” and the widow adjusted the edge of her down shawl on her breast.

— Do you believe in love, madame?”

“No, Monsieur Crever,” and she suddenly twitched her eye nervously.

Madame Rabinski’s late husband was obviously not a peaceful person.

— Footsteps on the roof

Who in Paris doesn’t know the gravedigger’s house on the Rue de Saint-Vincent near the cemetery of the same name? He is especially revered by fans of the work of Arthur Rambo. According to rumors, it was here, in the first entrance, that the “bad boy” and his lover Verlaine relieved themselves in May 1871, returning from a drinking spree. Yes, God knows what else they did here… dark history, like the darkness of the entrance, holds its own terrible secrets, but on the ceiling, if you hold a lighted match, you can still see a rather original graffiti — someone’s luxurious female ass. Papa Lucien once tried to cover up all this mess with a thick layer of green paint, which he simply doesn’t have any other way to do, fighting the street enlightenment alone. When he did, he looked around. But they knocked the stepladder out from under his feet anyway, and he spent a whole month walking around angry as hell with a green beard. Actually, this was the end of the entire restoration of the house of gravediggers. What’s the big deal? The building of the Paris Commune is cruelly exploited and, frankly, can be said to be breathing its last breath. The attic, or, simply put, the roof, is usually boarded up to avoid collapse, and all this under the populism of the authorities to give the grave digger’s house an original historical appearance. But the owner of Bruno is in no hurry to follow instructions from above, squeezing the last juices from the residents of the first floor. Everyone knows what he’s waiting for. If the roof collapses or, God forbid, there is a fire, he will be paid significant compensation. But the late-Baroque house on the Rue Saint-Vincent is holding on with all its might. It’s holding up for now. Everyone is waiting and on edge. Madame Rabinski is particularly concerned about this. She watches every rustle, every suspicious noise. Most likely, it has no equal in the world of echolocation. No wonder Lucien has long suspected her of colluding with the” rembistas”, as he sees the obvious similarity of her fat buttocks to those burned with a candle stub on the ceiling. But the truth, as usual, is somewhere in the middle. In any case, a single widow has the right to privacy, and, in the end, she may not be worried about herself. She takes care of Mosh like a mother hen, and he is the most obedient Jewish son in all of Paris.

“Sleep, sleep,” she corrects his pillow in the dead of night. “Close your big black eyes and dream of Chopin.”

The rustle of an evening dress outside the window, and a mysterious shadow glided down the street stairs. Madame Rabinski is pale and even crosses herself, which is not at all typical of her religious beliefs. But still, she looks out. Monsieur Crever is snoring on the bench with his suitcases wrapped around him. Someone has kindly provided him with a woman’s rabbit fur coat, and he covers his head with it like a blanket. The nights in Paris are getting cooler and cooler.

A short time later, the ceiling boards above Madame Rabinski’s room creak suspiciously, showering whitewash on her favorite grand piano, and the crystal chandelier begins to tinkle as if during an earthquake.

“Go to sleep, go to sleep,” she says, braiding her paces as Mosh shudders. “Dream of Chopin.”

The boy, already a teeny fluff on his cheeks, closed his eyes. He definitely doesn’t dream of Chopin, and black women in slave muzzles feed him boiled pork sandwiches. He smiles in a sweet half-dream and smacks his lips, and his mother immediately goes to her neighbor, having taken the precaution of taking her late husband’s menorah with her. The stairwell is as dark as a Huguenot crypt, and Madame Rabinski’s age and plumpness are successfully retouched by the light of flickering candles. The woman stalks bravely, approaching the door of Basil, a well-known womanizer in the area. It’s a dangerous thing to do with this late-night rendezvous, isn’t it? Everyone knows that he’s been waiting for the prostitute Ellen for almost two weeks, and he always opens the door in the hope that someone will finally satisfy his male needs. Monsieur Crever doesn’t count, of course. But a deeply religious woman does not even look at the dignity baked through her swimming trunks, it is generally difficult to surprise her in this regard, and what did she not see at the Masonic masses of her late husband? She only cares about one thing. Who climbed into the attic? Silently, with a kind of reverent, warning fear, she points her finger upward.

— You’d better see what’s in there, monsieur… It looks like a ghost, “she whispers with terrible mystery, while the neighbor half-asleep rubs his eyes and tries to figure out his location in space.

Then there is what should happen in a dark stairwell between a woman and a man, regardless of race or age, that is, a momentary flash of instinct. Lightning fast, passionate, without any questions or remorse. He’s already got her by the index finger and is dragging her toward him like an alligator dragging a gawky kid to a watering hole. She, weakly resisting, goes with mind-blowing sighs, not believing in her great happiness to the last. But when her centner of pure weight is thrown unceremoniously on the couch as if for butchering, and she can barely hold the candles to keep from burning everything down, her sanity returns.

— It is very commendable, Monsieur Basile, that you have decided to make the poor widow happy, but I have come for a very different reason.

The fog of the night’s enchantment clears.

“I’m sorry, madame,” Basil said. — I’ve got you mixed up with someone else. But you’re good too, breaking into a bachelor’s house at night…

“Yes, yes, I’m not myself…”

“So what happened?” That queer guy again?

“Not him this time. But someone’s on the roof.

“So this is Karlsson, madame,” Basil yawned, making it clear that the conversation was over. “Go to bed.

“You’re joking again,” the woman said reproachfully. — I’m telling you, it’s like a ghost. However, now I am gnawing doubts. Perhaps some madwoman had entered from the street through the attic window.

— What makes you think that?”

— First of all, no one in their right mind would go in there for anything, and second of all, I heard the sound of high heels…”

Basil scratched his unshaven chin. He always did that when he didn’t know what to say.

“Go to your room, madame — » he said, still squinting in the bright light. “And get your damn candelabra!” Burn down the house.

— I didn’t call the police…”

— You did the right thing.

“Maybe we should go get Moreau after all.”

“Unnecessary, madame. If they are able to stand on their feet, it is only conditionally. Don’t worry, I can handle it alone.

“Oh, I can only hope for you, Monsieur Basil. I will pray.

Basile ushered Madame Rabinski out and began to dress. At the last moment, he felt sorry for the coat. Not the best idea for climbing in it on dusty attics.

— Brrr.. Dog’s cold, “he came out of the entrance wearing only a vest.

Now, in the midst of the epidemic, I didn’t really want to go to crowded hospitals with pneumonia. They’ll just forget you in the hallway, dump you somewhere in a dark corner, and at best assign you a number.

— Is it warm for you maiden, is it warm for you beauty?!

With that, Basil tugged at Krever’s fur coat. Well, he could not pass by without mocking the poor.

“Monsieur, shame on you! The insurance agent asked, gritting his teeth. — I didn’t get frostbite insurance.

“I’d rather be quiet, out of harm’s way.”

Basil’s fur coat is too small. It cracks at the seams like expired firecrackers, and the sleeves only reach to the elbow.

“Where did you get it?” Basil frowned, suspecting a trick.

It was exactly the same as his ex-wife’s. It was the one she’d worn to Nice with her lover five years ago.

“A good Samaritan woman took pity on me,” Krever said, turning up the collar of his jacket, his voice clearly in need of a fresh sip of Madame Rabinski’s hot coffee.

— And where did you meet this Samaritan woman, you idiot?” Do you know, you idiot, that this is my ex-wife’s fur coat? Only she stinks of cat urine in Paris!

Krever pulled a silly knit cap with a pom-pom over his ears.

“Ten minutes ago, she was running past this shop determined to kill herself!” he mumbled, squinting in fear of being beaten up.

— What makes you think that?”

“Well, I’ve got a good eye!” You should have seen, monsieur, her face full of terrible despair, how she started as if shot… I didn’t mean any harm, just called out to her, but she wasn’t interested in insurance… She shook her head like a madwoman and ran up the stairs, dropping her fur coat in her haste… I thanked her for this gesture of mercy, wanted to return it, but then I thought, why would she need a fur coat if she decided to believe the law of attraction?

— Why didn’t you stop her, you bastard?” Basil broke down and swung at Krever.

He cringed even more and put his head between his shoulders.

— Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t leave my post. Otherwise you would think, if you happened to look out of the window, that I was making concessions… oh, my God! How many people are suffering because of you, monsieur. It seems to me that you are a veritable devil!

Basil grinned, scratching his chin. He remembered very well what Monsieur Crever had said to himself when he broke into the flat.

“Yes, I’m good. At least I don’t let someone get cold outside when I’m sleeping soundly in a warm bed…

“Okay, good one. You didn’t see anything, and you didn’t hear anything. If you behave yourself, Madame Rabinski will bring you a cup of coffee.

“I am behaving very well, Monsieur Basile,” Krever said at once. — I’ll also be better behaved if you finally let me in, even on the mat.”

— I don’t have a rug.”

What should I take from this fool? And as they say, hope dies last.

Basil felt a twofold sense of urgency as he headed for the stairs, which, according to Krever, Camille had climbed madly. What could happen if a woman, unencumbered by money and lovers, returns to her ex-husband’s house to throw herself off the roof under his windows? I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. There’s something wrong here… And as he gripped the ladder, which was loosely welded to the end, and it swayed like some kind of free ride of fear, the man suggested that he was simply being lured to some sacrifice, that Monsieur Crever might just be a cheap actor hired by Bruno to get rid of a malicious defaulter as quickly as possible. There’s no Camilla up there! This whole thing is a set trap to put it all down to an accident. Where are you going, buddy? Come to your senses!

He suddenly pictured the tabloid cover of himself lying in the bushes with a broken neck and that stupid outfit. “The former Bébé ours Octagon champion took his own life without paying his bills,” the caption reads. Madness, Basil. You, like everyone else, went unnoticed crazy in this Parisian dump! He looked down at himself again and shuddered. Has anyone tried putting a woman’s fur coat on a vest? Cardin and Gucci smoke nervously on the sidelines. But you can’t back down — you have to die a hero. Madame Rabinski looks out from behind the curtain and crosses herself piously. The late rabbi must have never had time to get the whole heresy out of her.

Basil pulled himself up on his hands, lifting his feet off the ground, and squeezed his eyes shut. It would be wiser, of course, to try to get into the attic by the back door, but it’s been boarded up for a year now…

The ladder shook, but it held, only my fingers froze. One of the bolts holding the tack to the wall came out of the brick. As he carefully climbed the steps, Basil threw his head back for a moment, as if to savor the last moments. The night sky over Paris is very beautiful.

“Only those who have something to lose are afraid,” he thought, but his heart was filled with disgust.

I wanted to smoke again. Basil hated it when someone with a dubious life experience, who didn’t really represent himself, lit a cigarette with a swagger on the edge of a precipice. And then there were the cigarettes left on the table. When he reached the round window of the attic, he ventured up another step. The ladder swayed again, and this time a second bolt clanked down, dragging the next one with it. Barely breathing, Basil pushed the window open, put his hand on the ledge, and peered out. He thought he saw a shadow somewhere in the depths, but it could have been a cat.

“Camille…?”

He was already through the narrow doorway. All he could think about right now was how he could fight back. A second passed, then two. No attempt was made to attack. Basil got up. There was a dim starlight coming from the window, but the attic was eerily dark. The feeling that someone was looking at him from the dark didn’t leave him.

Madame Rabinski’s lit menorah would be very welcome right now, he thought, giving his eyes time to adjust.

Suddenly Basil heard the rustle of a dress. If it’s a trap, he’s screwed. It stands in the gap, it is visible as in the palm of your hand. There must be some wiring somewhere. Basil ran his hand along the wall. Here’s the relay! Click of the switch… In general, before the attic was boarded up, the light bulb was on. He remembered it clearly.

“Camille…” he whispered again, peering into the darkness.

He could smell the well-groomed woman clearly now. It’s definitely French, but not French. Camille. Why would Camille want to hide from him? It’s close, but where?

“Hey, baby, are you there?” he went forward, plunging completely into the darkness and at random, catching everything that could be grasped and groped with his hands.“Do you want to play?” Ow…

Someone ran past, clumsily stamping their heels, dragging a cloud of dust with them. Basil sneezed. Some kind of ringing in the ears. Poor Madame Rabinski’s chandelier… It’s the one that’s been rattling all this time. Yeah! He seems to have cornered his mouse. Here, she’s breathing fast, unable to control her fear. It will bite, it will definitely bite. Then there was a cry that sounded more like a man’s than a woman’s.

“Don’t even think about it,” Basil warned, grabbing her by the hem of her dress and pulling her closer to the light.

“Oh, no, no! Don’t kill me! Yes, I am guilty before you, but I have always, you hear, always thought about how to redeem myself… Yes, yes, I am not an insensitive dummy! Oh, my God, what am I talking about?

“Julien?” Basil recoiled as he recognized his ex-wife’s lover. How many times had he dreamed of catching this dance master and breaking his legs, and then such an unexpected encounter…

— I thought you were trying to throw me off the roof…”

Basil scratched his chin. So… it’s a good idea to give the brute a well-deserved pendel as a parting gift. Fortunately, mercy took over.

“What masquerade is this, Julien?”

“The dance master was indeed wearing a woman’s dress and heels.

“Looks like you’re going there, too,” he grinned. — Great fur coat.

“Shut your mouth. Is Camille with you?”

“No, I’m alone.

“Alone?” Basil’s eyes flashed angrily.

“They’re looking for me all over Paris, my friend! Stupid story, I’m a total loser.

— What happened?”

Julien sat down on the floor and put his hands to his head.

— But why are you here?”

“Oh, Basil, Basil,” Julien suddenly sobbed. — I didn’t know where to run, and then I remembered you. After all, the police won’t be looking at you. It’s absurd, isn’t it?

“I agree, but you gave fat Rabinski a big scare… She almost gave in to me out of fear.

“I’m sorry, these louboutins… they’re just flour!” I promise to be quiet.

— But what are you up to?”

— I’d like to spend a night, maybe two, and then I’ll leave.” You won’t betray me, will you?”

Basil said nothing. The last question put him in a moral and ethical dead end. Actually, why cover up for some transvestite who’s messed up his life so badly?

Krever’s voice came from below. Here’s a brute, even here it doesn’t fit in your business!

“Monsieur Basile, are you all right?” Can you please reset my keys for me? You made me turn into a piece of ice.

Julien visibly trembled with terror, and his tear-stained eyes wandered in the darkness as if seeking protection.

“Who’s that?”

“It’s an insurance agent,” Basil said with a grin.

“Is that the obsessive guy on the bench?” He chased me like a missionary chasing a virgin, promising me a decent place in paradise. I was saved by a miracle on this roof. I was actually on my way to see you. Don’t give me away, please. I’ve always protected you in front of Camille.

“Help me, asshole!”

Julien, with all possible zeal, began to pull the fur coat off the ex-champion’s broad shoulders. Finally, with great difficulty, he succeeded.

“It’s all right, Krever,” the Russian shouted, throwing the rabbit skin out the window.

“Thank you, monsieur. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ came a voice from below. — But can I at least warm up in the entryway?” That damn fur coat doesn’t keep you warm at all. You tore it up, monsieur, in four, no, five places. It’s terrible, monsieur, to treat things this way!

“Shut up,” Basil snapped, and turned to the hated Julien, grabbing him mercilessly by the ear. “I feel like you two will find each other, you fucking homos.”

The dance master stifled a groan and knelt down in a pleading position.

“Let me sit here until morning,” he whispered through the pain of some delirious fever. — I promise I’ll leave at first light.” Just don’t give me away, just don’t give me away.

“So, what have you done, Julien?”

— We had a little argument. I gave a slap in the face, maybe slap in the face is not the right word…

— Did you slap Camille?”

No, after all, the conversation in a peaceful way will not work. He clenched his free fist and raised it to the dancing master’s nose.

— Can you smell it, Julien?” Can you smell it, you brute?”

“Well, I don’t remember…” he said, sobbing. “She took me out… You know her quarrelsome nature… Anyway, she yelled at me to return her clothes immediately. One of the neighbors called the gendarmes. They started breaking in and breaking down the door, and I thought they were some bandits, so I fought back.

— What do you mean by ‘rebuff’?”

“I fired, Basil. I think I killed one. Then he set fire to the house and left through the window.

— You set fire to the house with Camille?” Are you out of your mind, kid? What did you expect? You thought I’d pat you on the head?”

— I didn’t realize… besides, I was counting on understanding… Camille is a total bitch, so what can I get out of her?

“Yes, but she had a cat with her!”

“I was…” and the light from the stars lit up a pale, pained face with dripping mascara. Then the fugitive smiled, showing off his gold crowns.

— And what are your plans, Julien or what’s your name, Juliette?” Basil asked, clearly disgusted. He even let go of his ear.

— Go to Spain. I’m not going to jail. You know what happens to people like me out there… Please don’t turn me in! and the unfortunate dancing master suddenly crawled on his knees in the direction of Basil, bursting into burning tears. — What have I done?” What have I done? I still can’t believe it happened to me. Poor Camille, poor…

Basile scratched his chin while Julien continued to sob and hug his legs. The situation amused me on the one hand, and depressed me on the other.

“Okay,” he finally said to the arsonist ex-wives. — I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me. Madame Rabinski and that faggot Krever I’ll shut up. But you will sit here quietly until I decide what to do with you.

— I need some warm clothes… Camille said…

— And don’t expect anything more! Basil showed his powerful fist again to the sobbing Julien. — You’ve already skinned me.” Good, good. Perhaps I’ll bring you something — " and to forestall the endless stream of words of thanks, pushing the fleeting dance master away from me with a feeling of utter disgust.

— Montmartre running tour

If someone tells you that tourism in If it’s finally gone online, spit on it. Oh, yes, wait! For such an action, you can be held accountable and sent to forced labor in the so-called red zone of Drinking-Salpetriere, and there you can look for fistulas. But if you’re a young, carefree jerk, and a fast runner, then the flag is in your hands.

“Hey, nigga, my friend and I got a little lost. We can’t figure out where the Sacre Coeur is…

What exactly did Basil expect, wiping spittle from his unshaven cheek and following the flickering heels with a look of regret? No, he had never run so fast. All these morning runs through the streets of Paris were more an opportunity to look around, to feel the ground under your feet, so to speak.

Mignot grunted, clutching at his belly. — Finally, someone put you in your place. Look: what a chirp the brat gave! Where do we go! It is unlikely that Lemaitre himself will catch up with him at the hundred-meter race.

— I don’t know what he’s doing."… I just asked which way the basilica was. It seems normal without a mask, but I didn’t get a good look at his face.

“It doesn’t matter. All these guys look alike. I had a friend who only knew them by their egg piercings.

“Shut up,” Basil gritted his teeth. “Let’s try to catch up with the bastard.”

“What are you, what are you — » Minho was even startled, waving his arms. “He’s as fast as my sperm in a crocodile’s ass.”

Basil was still watching him run away with a murderous stare.

“Maybe he’s one of Bruno’s gang.” Minho suggested, continuing his leisurely run. “I heard that your master is recruiting a new team…”

— I don’t have a master!” And I don’t care about Bruno! How many times have I told you — " Basil fumed. “A brick will catch up with this nimble one.”

“That’s right. You can’t let that happen. Today he spits at you, tomorrow he fucks your wife. How’s Camille?”

“I invited you to the carnival samba,” Basil said reluctantly. He didn’t like to talk about his ex at all.

“You?”

— What’s the big deal?” After all, we’re just friends now.

“Now, now, my friends,” Mignot said with a chuckle, “If I give you guys free rein, you’ll cling to each other like a cat and a dog.”

“Don’t get worked up. What do you care? And Basile took a sharp leap forward down the alley, so that Mignot had to cut across the lawn with all his strength to catch up. It was funny to watch the fat bald man work his elbows like a toy train with drawbars.

“Oh, my God! — Stop it! “he suddenly yelled, starting to limp.

Basil stopped. He scratched his chin as always.

“What’s up again?”

All right. Minho’s white sneaker slammed into dog shit. But why be surprised? Mignot is always like that, always getting into trouble.

— Do you always think of God when you’re in trouble?”

“There you go again with your moralizing! Mignot was fuming now, trying desperately to wipe his soiled shoes on the grass. “You’d better go to the carnival samba.

— I’m not going.

— why? After all, she invited you. Note: I’m not here! But in vain! Mignot tried to do a Latin dance with his hips. — I’d love to relax.” Camille always had great girlfriends. Carnival samba. Mmm. I can’t imagine what it is…

— The usual party in masks. Now there is a carnival samba all over Paris, you don’t have to go anywhere.

They ran a little further, and Minho began to give up noticeably and clutched at his liver with oohs and ahs. It was a pity to look at him. Even the windbreaker was soaked on the back. He’s about to fall down somewhere and curl up. But Basil did not spare his friend and gave a scoring impulse on the first flight of stairs. What can you do. All the stairs for him are always associated with Montmartre. Here are the familiar places. It is worth pushing, so as not to look like a half-dead nag in the eyes of the neighbors. Let them know that the Bear is still in shape. He even straightened up proudly as he turned into the rather picturesque rue Chevalier de la Barre.

“Well, that’s it, I got you out, then I’ll go on my own,” Minho reared up from somewhere far behind.

He was so tired that he even leaned his bald head against the first wall he saw. His heavy breathing under the flowered mask could easily have been mistaken for a death rattle.

“Fool, take off your visor. You’ll die! Basil looked back as he climbed the new steps. “Even negroes don’t wear masks.

“I can’t, there are cameras everywhere,” Mignot managed to say, wiping the sweat from his brow. — I have a remarkable face.” My mailbox is fed up with happy messages! I don’t even know where they come from. I am a law-abiding citizen…

Basil cleared the height and stopped. He estimated his strength and decided that he could run home without slowing down his pace. Above, the dome of the Sacre Coeur Basilica was already pale against the blue sky above the tiled roofs of the houses.

“Coward! he called out to Mignot.

“Give me Camille!” he groaned in response, finally revealing the real reason for their run together.

“Well, of course, it’s all about To Camille! What a sly fellow!”

“Not today! — waved off the ex-champion.

“You bastard!

“Aha!

“What else! He wanted Camille. If only it was specific, and then, God knows, some kind of psychopath’s daub. Bl.! How the French men crushed! Go n..”

His strength was already running out, the steep climb was draining the last of his strength, but somewhere up there he was waiting for a rather pleasant Turlyur Park, where he could slow down a little and work out his neck muscles, nodding to local mothers. With one of them, Basil somehow started an affair in this way. She’s probably still waiting for him in the shade of the chestnut trees while her little ones dig in the sandbox.

“Bonjour, mes crottes … (Good afternoon, my poop),” Basile calls all the kids in the neighborhood under the age of five who are more or less like him.

“Bonjour, papa,” they say in unison, not even looking at him.

Yes, you can get burned like that, damn it! Basil trudged down the alley, dragging his feet, tired from the sudden climb. It’s a good thing that just behind the park is his native Saint-Vincent and the so-called gravedigger’s house, where he vegetates after his divorce from Camille. This woman still sticks in his mind, but not because he misses her so much. It’s just that her portrait hangs in Basil’s room in the most prominent place, and it’s impossible to get used to it. Mignot, the businessman, has long had a keen eye for this valuable item, which is why he runs circles around Montmartre, even though his fiefdom is the Bois de Boulogne. Friends even have such an unspoken concept. If Basil really needs something, then he’ll have to scratch all the way to Bagatelle, to hell with the middle of nowhere, and if fat Mignot is up to something, then sorry, running up stairs is just the thing for his plump buns.

And here was a nondescript mansion, screened from the sun by the ivy-covered wall of an old cemetery. Pots once filled with bright red geraniums-the pride of Madame Rabinski-look more and more like depressing graves for gnomes by winter. In them, even the cats-the eternal scourge of Montmartre-stopped shitting. Everything is disgusting and pathetic. The peeling plaster and red brick breaking through it only add to the depressing impression. Also add a couple of trash cans, from which skinny rats jump out when you approach, hoping to profit. All this is one common landscape. However, if you run past without turning anywhere, you can get to the intersection with the street de Sol, where the “Agile Rabbit” is located. This is already a civilization. There you can get a beer to take away and the famous rabbit fricassee with baked apple.

Basil drained his mug greedily and set it down, winking at the waitress he knew. She turned away. Usually when they wink at her like that, she gets fucked in the bathroom instead of getting a tip. Should I smoke a cigarette? He obviously hadn’t calculated his strength on the ascent. Before you know it, fat Mignot will come crawling up the stairs and grab Basil’s leg like a homegrown dead man from a horror movie. No, we need to move a little more quickly, and Basil tried to turn on the second wind. Uselessly. I’m a hundred percent exhausted. And you can’t buy beer again at the Rabbit, prices have skyrocketed, and you can only touch Delilah’s bronze tits at random — it’s still free, but the authorities are already talking about installing a ticket kiosk on the square. But what is it? And then everything was vulgarized. Some smart guy put a worn-out medical mask on the singer’s holy face. Annoyed, Basil took a crumpled packet out of his pocket.

“Don’t throw cigarette butts, monsieur! There are bins for this, “they warned him.

Oh yes, the local attraction is Papa Lucien. His broom swept all over Montmartre, but never once did it touch Basil’s nose.

“Hey, ugly. Cool little hat…

They walked disconsolately at each other along the avenue of Mists, like two goats on a log across a river, not wanting to give in to each other. Lucien is wearing a really cool beanie. Turkish fez, like an inverted flower pot.

“Don’t talk your teeth out of it,” the janitor snarled. — What are you doing here?” Get back to your cells!”

Basil was delighted. After boring Minho, you can at least talk like a human being, and at the same time find out the latest news. Lucien is the most evil dwarf in the world, but he doesn’t mind having a heart-to-heart chat. The main thing is to find the right approach.

— Do you sweep everything?”

— What else can I do?” To my friend (broomstick) I can’t wait to tickle your nose.

“That’s right. I just decided to light a cigarette, and you’re right there.

“I have a nose for these outrages, and you’re on my bad list, Basil. In general, smoking on the street is prohibited.

“Delilah and I smoked half a pack here last night, and you did it with your mouth like a fish, and your girlfriend didn’t even cry.

— That was yesterday, my friend. And today is today — " and the dwarf waved his broom. “Virus loves smokers.

“Well, well. I don’t see a pile of corpses here.”

“You’ll see.

Basil took a couple of steps back, just in case. She and Papa Lucien are playing a very strange game. The task of the janitor is to knock out a cigarette with a broom, the task of the smoker is to finish it to the filter, counting only on jumps to the side and flexibility of the back and neck. While a dry score in favor of Basil.

“Did you hear that the Frenchman who set fire to the house escaped?” he said, sweeping a pile of red leaves out of his way.

“No,” Basil struck a match and took a drag on his cigarette.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care what was going on around him, he just wanted to smoke. Well, he would throw the butt of his cigarette past the trash can. Then why does the state keep these little men with brooms?

— Well?” Lucien kicked up a cloud of leaves and tried to get closer again.

Uselessly. Basil is a visionary. Even the sparrows know that Papa Lucien wields a broom like a Shaolin monk.

“About five in the morning, a gendarme was shot at in the commune of Amber in the Puy-de-Dom department,” the janitor continued to sneak up. Basil pretended that he could hardly remember what he was talking about.

“In Amber, you say?” Who fired the shot?

“Yes, you know him well! Shall I remind you, my friend?” She’s driving, all dressed up and happy, and he’s blowing a lot of kisses to everyone, “the dwarf’s voice took on a mocking edge. He even began to chuckle into his fist. “Well, Julien. The dance master your sweetheart took to Nice with. And you’re all covered in foam, running after them like an abandoned dog. You still believe in love. Those were good times, monsieur, weren’t they?

Yes, there were good times, but the memory of them can choke on smoke. The dwarf instantly took advantage of the confusion and swung the broom dangerously close to the smoking cigarette. I missed it. Basil is a professional, you can’t miss a shot under any circumstances.

“Julien…” he took another drag, teasing Lucien with his ostentatious nonchalance. — I remember something.” Is this really the Julien who dances?

“Julien, who else would there be?” I’ve warned you a hundred times that dancing with dance masters always ends badly.

— But what happened?”

That eternal question again. Something really does happen around here.

“The usual act of violence by a man against a woman who can’t cook at all,” the dwarf chuckled again.

“And if it’s no joke?”

Papa Lucien sighed.

“They made a lot of noise last night. The neighbors called the gendarmes, only Julien confused them with Peking ducks. Then he set fire to the house. The special operation is still ongoing. It is unclear whether he escaped or is under the rubble.

“What about Camille?”

“She’s not hurt, thank God, she’s waiting for you at the entrance,” and then the janitor managed to knock out Basil’s cigarette and, delighted with such a rare piece of luck, began to say: “That’s it, monsieur. That’s it.

— Camille

Basil recognized her from behind as he approached the house. No matter what happened in her life, she always held herself straight, as if she had a steel rod instead of a spine. The insurance agent carefully covered her bare shoulders with rags of a rabbit fur coat. They sat on benches and complained to each other. Basile slowed his pace, listening to this pleasant conversation, and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“I’m good,” Monsieur Crever said, his teeth chattering in the cold. — But your ex-husband is a sadist. How could you live with him, madame?

— About… It was a nightmare! Camille was smiling sadly. “Fortunately, I quickly realized that he is a bear who prefers hibernation to marital duty. Do you know how beautiful I was when I was young, Monsieur Crever?

“Come on, madame! You are still charming!

“Oh, no…” she even started, as if she had burned herself on the shoulder of the person sitting next to her. — All you men are sycophants… let’s be honest, Monsieur Crever…”

— I speak from the bottom of my heart, madame. I’m clean, “the insurance agent protested. — Your beauty is beyond doubt…”

“I’m afraid you can’t fool me. Over the years, I’ve become too wise to fall for such tricks. I know one thing. After all, any memories, insights, sensations, they always remain with us, and beauty fades like any spring flower…

Krever sighed in understanding.

“But Your low self-esteem still scares me a little.

— It doesn’t just scare you… As soon as I see myself in the mirror in the morning, my right side aches.

“Oh… the ancients said that all the bile was in the liver. I urgently recommend that you get insurance against cirrhosis on favorable terms.

A hairy paw suddenly landed on the insurer’s shoulder. The conversation was instantly interrupted. Krever was curled up in his jacket like a snail in a shell. He wanted to dig it out, shake it, and then swallow it, but Basil felt it necessary to remain hungry.

“Go for a walk,” Basil said to him, and he tiptoed off to the side, whistling a silly tune to himself. He was good at it, just a nightingale of some sort.

Camille half-turned, forcing a pathetic smile out of the corner of her mouth. What a sight. Disheveled bangs, eyes and nose red and puffy, and those ripped tights. Her skirt must have been burned in the fire, and there were some animals on her bare knees. Not the same cat Camilla had run away with on that fateful day.

“Hi,” she said, trying to look dignified.

He suddenly found it funny to see his ex sitting there on the bench in such a depressed state, in some rags. Should I offer you some roasted chestnuts?”

He immediately took the cat from her, which purred as it extended its claws into its vest.

“I found out, I found out, fluffy bitch! he laughed, ruffling her rather roughly against her fur. — And what was your life like without me?” And the new owner, I see, did not spoil you much and decided to make a barbecue out of you for the last time?

“Did you hear that?” the woman asked with a sad sigh.

“I heard it.

— All my clothes were burned, documents, purse, I barely saved our Fluff.

— It doesn’t look much like ours.”

— Yes, after castration, everyone gets a little fatter. Camille sniffed and squeezed a tear out of her eyes. Pretty convincing. “I have nowhere to go, Basil,” she added, quite seriously.

His hand twitched to scratch his chin. He hesitated. Camilla guessed what he was thinking and adjusted the rabbit fur on her proud shoulders, visibly nervous. She was uncomfortable playing the role of a stray dog who had finally returned from five years of estrus. But at the same time, she tried to maintain her posture and caught the gaze that roamed over her with dignity.

“Julien probably prefers to spend money only on ballet flats,” he recognized her clothes, given to her during the marriage. — I did a little show-off, I did a good ride, and I also invited you to the carnival samba here the other day. I wonder what she was counting on. Did you want to show that she’s doing great?”

He looked into her eyes, trying to be cold and cruel, but something in him broke, and he realized that he felt sorry for her against his better judgment. But, damn it… It was her own fault! I trusted twitchy, who liked to show off in front of the mirror in someone else’s bra.

— Well, not to Minho, I really must go! Camille couldn’t stand the silence, not taking her eyes away. — He has four completely wild children…”

Basil sat down comfortably on the bench beside him, put his feet up on one of Krever’s yellow suitcases, and sighed. Nice picture. The November sun blinded them for a moment, sparrows chirped in the branches of the bare lilac trees. He suddenly wanted to hug this woman. Complete dryndets. He tried to fight this incredibly strong madness, and those ten seconds of confusion reminded him of the last fight with Didlo. Then Basil hit the fallen opponent with a double knee and earned a disqualification. How many times can you step on the same rake? But now, despite the cold outside, he felt hot. He could feel the hot sweat running down his back, his armpits were sweating, his groin was itching, and his whole body was aching from the ridiculous position on this damn bench so much that he wanted to jump up and stretch. Camille moved a little closer, leaning her head on his elbow. It just didn’t reach my shoulder.

— You’re not angry with me?” — suddenly she began to caress, as well as her cat.

— no. But where is my car?

“It had to be sold. Didn’t Minho tell you?”

— no.

“Well, well. I was afraid you’d take her back…”

They were silent for a moment, still not daring to throw themselves into each other’s arms. Was it all the fault of the cat that was tearing at his bubbling chest with its claws? Nonsense. Nothing had ever stopped him before, not the place, not the witnesses. He remembered making love to Camille in the stalls. Then in The opera was sold out, Hamlet was being performed in a German version, and Basil and Camille had taken the precaution of running away from their noisy wedding to get some privacy. One of the final scenes struck the groom with frankness, and he, who seemed to know nothing about art before, looked at the young bride with a look that even a complete feminist could understand. Then their hot hands touched and clenched, and Camilla smiled back through the white softness of her veil.

“You’re so beautiful,” he growled in her ear, nibbling at her earlobe and earring. He felt like a tiger, a lion, a male gorilla, barely able to control his legitimate desires.

She lifted the hem of her wedding dress, the spotlight briefly illuminating her exposed cleavage… Back then, she had real breasts, and real gold glittered on them.

“That cold frog is kissing him… In the classic version, they don’t have a love scene, “and Camille fixed her excited gaze on the scene where the two lovers were acting out their passion. — And how he sobs, how he sobs…”

Passions were heating up. The audience froze in alarm as Wagner’s depressing music did its job. But for Basil, the spectacle no longer existed. Next to him sat the most beautiful woman in the world, and her chest heaved from his loving gaze, like a coastal wave under the gentle sun. It’s now or never. You’re a man, Basil! Break this world of conventions, everything is illusory, and everything is in your stupid head! It’s just you and her, it’s always been that way, and there’s love between you. Love…

— There is a moment in life when you realize that strength and beauty are in love.

It was just that moment. He and Camille were love. He’s that unstoppable barbarian force, she’s that mind-blowing beauty. Then he simply sat her down on his lap and found what he was looking for under a pile of countless rags.

— What are you doing?” Camille whispered, glancing in horror at her fellow passengers. She didn’t seem to think she would go this far. — We don’t do that…”

— It’s our custom, “he growled again, feeling himself rushing into her against all odds, merging into one sacred whole.

“There are people here…” the young bride seemed to justify herself, hiding her blushing blush under a pale veil.

“People? Basil pretended not to see the audience.

Maybe he really hadn’t noticed anyone at the time, and they hadn’t noticed them, and all that rapturous passion that had been so fleeting that it had ended to loud applause.

The resurrected performers took to the stage and bowed to the right and left, flowers were thrown to them and taken out, and “encore” was shouted, while Basil kept squeezing his young wife in his arms, inhaling the most delicate fragrance of her sweaty back.

“Just crazy,” Camille bit her lips, barely able to control the moans of her orgasm as she applauded along with everyone else.

— No, I just love you…”

Was he now afraid of the one to whom he had once so sincerely confessed his love? No, he was never a coward. Rather, he felt himself losing the protective crust, the roughened growth that had formed beneath the long-healing wound that had so painstakingly risen from the ashes of his former life. My hands felt numb. He stroked the poor cat with difficulty in a kind of terrible prostration, giving up all the remnants of that bitter feeling that was once called love. The wind ruffled her scorched fur, ruffled and watered her already wet eyes, but Fluff, not at all used to the street, purred with happiness. She felt good, and he knew that her mistress would growl just as much if he held her close, kissed her on those wicked lips.… Occasionally, Montmartre residents passing by recognized Camille. She was from the local cabaret scene. One old man, shaking from Parkinson’s, obviously an ardent striptease fan in the past, waved his hat in delight at the meeting.

“Okay, let’s go. Just a little more, and they’ll start putting money under your panties — " he got up first.

— You won’t even give me your hand?’ — What is it? ‘she asked with a timid hope.

— no.

They walked into the entryway, into all the filthy darkness and squalor of his current life. The smell of the entrance hall had never seemed more repulsive to him than it did now. Camille suddenly squealed when she saw a rat running across the path. The cat’s claws dug deeper into Basil’s chest, and he felt pain, a deep aching ache of utter human stupidity, and he wanted to cry.

“It’s just a hole, honey. The real slums of Champigny-sur-Marne! Couldn’t you have found something better after the divorce? You had more money.

“I still have them,” Basil cut her off abruptly, pushing the door open with his foot. Camille was never very tactful. But now that she was back, he was doubly annoyed that his ex-wife was talking about him like a dead man.

“Well, well,” she said sharply, looking around at the mosaic of shabby walls. “Wow, what an ass! Give me a light.”

“Rimbaud fans are worse than cockroaches. Look — ‘he struck a match, pointing up,’ Clara Venus.” They say this is the hand of Arthur himself, who was relieved at this place with Verlaine more than a century ago…

“Oh, it’s very noticeable!

Basile opened the door and tossed the cat carelessly to the floor. Fluff landed on four legs and, just like its owner, grew rooted to the parquet floor in unpleasant surprise. What did they expect?

“This is my den,” he said, introducing them to his humble abode. — Of course, not such a luxurious apartment as we had in The opera, but quite passable.

— It feels like you brought us here to be molested… Do you even have a shower? Camille asked with undisguised horror, taking a shaky step.

He nodded toward the bathroom, where he could see the corner of the chipped, rust-eaten tub.

“Well, well…” and the woman went there, opened the damp plastic curtains. “Nice, nice… This is the place to cut your wrists… Monsieur Crever, it turns out, is aiming for the right place.

— You’re as perceptive as ever.

“There are Russian letters here, I think it’s blood,” she read the inscription on the cracked mirror. “Oh… you always send everyone off so mysteriously, my dear…”

The fact that he’d snapped a couple of years ago didn’t make her feel cold or hot, but he wanted to tell her how much he’d suffered.

“I just cut myself badly,” said Basil.

Camilla dropped her fur coat on the tiles, showing her ex-husband her still-perfect figure of a once-professional dancer. Of course, he missed her and looked at her hungrily. She could feel it all over her skin. Then she bent down a little to unbutton her shoes, just enough for him to see who was on the leash. No, he wasn’t going to let her go until he’d made up for those five years of hell.

— Are you surprised I came to see you?’ — What is it? ‘she asked, turning on the faucet with a grating sound.

“A little.

After all, if the hot water tap turns, the world isn’t so hopeless. But why is he still angry? Had he not forgiven her for running off with a nobody who was probably peeing under himself on the roof for fear that the gendarmes would soon come for him? Damn Julien! Basil had the sinful idea of climbing up on the roof at once and hanging the scoundrel by his balls from the beam.

— Do you remember my size?” Camille gave a series of instructions, standing under a barely splashing stream of water.

He didn’t remember anything. A devilishly attractive woman covered in white foam, like an Aphrodite appearing to the world, was scrubbing her charms with his washcloth.

“Imagine that brute running away from me in my bra!” she went on in that plaintively ordinary way as she adjusted the tap valve. “God, this place is so run down! How can you wash with such cold water?

— I don’t wash.”

“Well, well… Will you buy me some slippers?” I never imagined that I would ask you to buy me slippers.

She was probably still in shock, not realizing what was happening. But Basil spared her and pretended to understand her. Yes, indeed, who knew this would happen? Minho, most likely. He’s the one who found Julien somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne and offered Camille a job as a dance master, and, of course, a double fee. Basil paid for everything afterwards, and I think a couple of lessons were enough to make the top of my head itch. Damned French manners! If a woman dances with you, then she is ready to mate. “C’est la vie,” as Camille liked to say. Over the years, this phrase from her mouth becomes more and more convincing.

— You don’t mind spending a little money on me, do you, honey?” My card melted in the fire, and after all this, should I believe the bankers who claimed that it was gold? How about slippers and a comb?

Basil closed the door noiselessly behind him. He had already scooped up all his savings and stuffed them into his pockets. Not thick, of course… After all, money should be spent on something nice and beautiful. Of course, Camille wasn’t sugar, but he’d loved her once. She might have made a mistake, she might have hurt him, but one day she would repent. And whether you want it or not, you need to be able to forgive her stupid whims and give her a shoulder in time. Yes… every woman is a little girl at heart. He suddenly thought of the prostitute who came to him at night uninvited and confessed her love. What fun it would be if Ellen stumbled into his den tonight. Of course, he would lie down on the couch with a bottle of beer and watch a TV series of two screaming women pulling each other’s hair, and then try to reconcile them just before the end with an obscene offer to discuss everything in bed. This is going to be a great party… He even quickened his pace, almost running down the stone stairs of Montmartre.

“And some more shampoo,” Camille called after him, leaning out the window in her negligee. “Your soap is stupid, honey.

How strange that she should call him cute again. He even found himself smiling. The last time he smiled like that was when he got his first knockout from Didlo. What a hell of a fight that was!

— Don’t forget the cat food… and I really need my iPhone.’ I’m going crazy without Internet, ‘it echoed hauntingly throughout Montmartre, and Basile tried not to make eye contact with the people he passed.

It seemed to him that everyone was making fun of him right now. How to quickly get under your thumb. It is enough to stamp your foot capriciously next to it. Camille has a gift for training.

A small obstacle suddenly appeared on the way, over which you could jump with a run. Basil landed deftly on his haunches. The jump was quite successful.

“I see you’re bouncing with happiness,” the little man grumbled, holding a bucket with a brush in it.

— Why no girlfriend (broomstick)? I didn’t recognize you, you freak. Why do you need a bucket?

“Look at this,” he said, pointing to a sign that had just been affixed to the wall of the old cemetery.

It was an orientation card with a photo — a yellow piece of paper with a red font. These were often displayed all over Paris, competing with advertisements for real estate services and dog grooming.

“Rumor has it that he’s hiding somewhere in our neighborhood,” Papa Lucien chuckled. “You need to keep your eyes open!” And what a reward! I would immediately give up on such money in the Canary Islands and hang there forever.

Basil narrowed his eyes. Five thousand Euros! Now they are quite useful. The money is paid from the charity fund “Help yourself”.

“I’m afraid your friend won’t survive a long separation.”

“Put her in the fire… You’ll have to shake yourself up sometime, won’t you?

— Hardly Julien in the In Paris. A waste of glue.

— In Paris — in not Yeah, but what a handsome guy, huh? and Papa Lucien, with a sort of paternal pride, smoothed out the crumpled face with his palm.

— What’s he going to do?”

— I don’t know. Shooting at police officers, damaging other people’s property… They’ll probably be sent to the red zone to take care of the sick. Now everyone is being sent there for lack of medical personnel, “and the little man coughed into his fist.

— You coughed a little, buddy.” Isn’t it time for you to go to the red zone yourself?

“Oh you…

The abandoned bucket rattled down the stairs for a long time, and Basil ran after it, laughing, and when he caught up with it, he kicked it smartly in front of him. And I don’t know how many more curses Papa Lucien would have shouted if he hadn’t coughed so hard.

Up ahead, the nearest boutiques occupied by the former Napoleon Guard barracks appeared. Basil stopped in front of them, repeating Camille’s endless list to himself. It was an endless stream of ridiculous requests, and of course it had to be curtailed. For example, decide on sanitary pads. Perhaps it will be all right. But you need to buy an iPhone, otherwise she will think that he is saving on it. They are strange women.

Everywhere, the clumsy concoction of paper and glue was eye-popping. Passers-by stopped to discuss the news. Poor Julien, who was hiding on the roof, did not yet know how much he was valued. Even for the capture of the Versailles maniac, the reward amount was less. I wonder who is sponsoring this foundation? Certainly not the gendarme department. Are these the most refined and well-bred people? Basile tore off a leaflet with Julien on it in front of one of them, crumpled it up, and threw it away. Even here — lips with a bow! Ugh! And on The Canaries are warm, damn it! It’s eternal spring, and juicy girls in bikinis frolic on the boards. But what does Camille have to say about it? Yes, to hell with her!

“When an ex-wife returns as if nothing has happened, it’s amazing,” he thought on the way back. “Just yesterday, you were raging and cursing and hating her, finding a substitute in cheap and stupid whores. And then she proudly walks into your house and sits down across from you, crossing her legs and lighting her thin cigarette, absolutely sure that the separation has only been good and you still love her. And no matter what bright and noble things you think about, no matter what holy martyr you pretend to be, you always feel inferior, and the only thing you can do is get her drunk and fuck her in all holes, and then forget all this abomination like a bad dream.”

— Carnival Samba

“How nice of you to keep my portrait.” I thought Mignot had lured him away from you a long time ago, “he heard the first thing as he came back sweating and sweating with his shopping.

Camille was after a shower. There was a magical freshness about her. She sat majestically in bed, covering her nakedness with a blanket, and brushed ashes at arm’s length through the window. At that moment, her neck was like Nefertiti’s, long, straight, and very beautiful. It was obvious that she was trying to match the immaculate image of herself in the picture. The faint sun filtered in through the half-open curtains, giving her ex-wife an aura of divine choice. So many years have passed, and everything feels like yesterday. But something is definitely missing. Cop-cop! Fluff is now rubbing against the legs of Basil, who is forced to squeeze out “Kitekat” directly on the parquet floor, just to get off.

“Similar?” Camille arched a little to the side.

“There was no juice, but I bought your favorite absinthe,” he ignored her question. — We need to celebrate your return somehow.

“Return…” she repeated the words, adding a little meaning to them.

Basil looked at his ex-wife so that she would know what she was going to pay. Carnivorous and brutal, without a trace of embarrassment, with a kind of threatening growl. This is how chained males look at a mouse that accidentally got into their bowl of soup. But Camille didn’t even bat an eye, blew out a puff of smoke and tried again to match the majestic image in the painting. Basil shrugged and cracked his vertebrae. He seemed to be giving up on her a little, and he couldn’t help but look away from the original to the portrait that hung on the wall. He had been able to tolerate one Camille for a while, but now two of them were staring at him with biting derision. Rumbles and noises filled the space. It was Basile who dumped the purchases on the table, causing the cat to run around the room with a wild cry. Did he just stupidly step on her tail?

— When was the last time you washed your vest?” Camille asked, taking all this sudden commotion with surprising equanimity.

“Since you left,” he said, trying not to notice the damned woman again.

There was a lump in my throat. Why hadn’t he ever tried to get her back?

— Yes, yes… Your habits are ineradicable. And you still scratch your chin when you’re worried…

— I’m not worried. I just finally got a wisdom tooth.

“Well, well. Can I help you set the table, honey?”

— No, “he said, and tossed the box with the new iPhone in it onto her lap, then found a pair of bras, a thong, and some other things in the pile of purchases. But Camilla didn’t even move, letting out a mysterious cloud of smoke and looking at this strange Russian.

— You won’t even look at what I bought?’ — What is it? ‘he asked, uncorking the bottle with his teeth. — Latest model. 12-megapixel camera…

— Do you know what I was thinking while I was waiting for you?”

“About what?”

“That I’ll smash this trinket against the wall… After all, they follow our every move, know what we want and what we are planning. You won’t believe it, but on the eve of the fire, I persistently received ads for fire extinguishers. We stopped communicating normally, buried in these devices. We do not see anything in front of us, burning out life in an unreal world....And all the present is here and now. Here you are now, standing before me, so beautiful and strong, and smelling of courage. I know you’re far from perfect, but you’re not Photoshop either. Oh, I would be so happy to resume pigeon mail in the country!

“I think we’ll come back to that later,” he finally said.

— It is extremely difficult to intercept such a pigeon… I have heard that there is a post pigeon house in Versailles.

— I don’t care about this palace, it’s not ours.

Camille smiled indulgently.

— It’s not about whose palace it is. It’s the segregation of the French. During the pandemic, everything fell into place. Some get rich, others drag out their miserable existence and survive as best they can… The old sores of society were laid bare. In general, the old song…

— Don’t I don’t want to upset you, Camille, it will always be like this, “he spat the cork on the floor, and the cat jumped out of hiding, jumped after it and began to play, rolling it under the sofa.

“No, I believe in future equality…” and the woman made a heart out of smoke and sent it to her ex-husband. “And you believe it yourself, Basil… We all believe. We believe it, because it will never happen, “she added bitterly.

“Yeah,” the man sighed, acknowledging the fact that his ex-wife had grown wiser over the years of wandering around without him. — Faith, it is from God. There’s nothing you can do about it. Everyone believes in their own fairy tales.

Camille reached out again and brushed the ash out of the window. Something in the courtyard distracted her, and she perked up.

“Oh… that fool is begging for your leniency…” she noticed Krever hopping by the windows and gave him a flirtatious kiss. “Whoo-whoo-whoo-whoo… what a quick boy!

Well, that was too much. Basil hated it when someone poked their long nose into his den. The curtains were abruptly drawn, plunging the room into a mysterious gloom.

“You’re so harsh with people,” Camille said, and patted the strong hand of Basil, who now seemed to be jealous of everything in the world. — You think I can fly out the window?”

— You might get blown out…”

“Well, well… let’s dance.”

“Let’s dance.”

Basil went to the shelf of old CDs to find something nostalgic, something pleasant, and blew the dust off the speakers. He remembered their first meeting. His French friends had been trying to persuade him to relax for a long time, and immediately after the fight with Didlo, everyone went to celebrate the championship belt in the Agile Rabbit. There, by the pylon, a whore shone in the rays of multicolored laser beams, and some drunk guy on all fours was trying to shove a crumpled bill under her stocking. Basile would probably have killed him, if it hadn’t been for “Coundo pienco en ti”… yes, yes… that tune wasn’t played for nothing. Camille had hung upside down, her slender legs raised to the floor, playing to the music. Her gorgeous hair brushed lightly against the dance floor, and without expecting it, Basil dropped to one knee.

— Will you marry me?” he shouted over the music.

Is that what suggestions do? But the stripper nodded and burst into tears… and now their eyes, exhausted from loneliness, shivered, glistened with tears…

“Ugh, gray hair! Are you sleeping with your grandmother?

When dealing with Camille, you have to be cool-headed. What the hell did it matter who came to him and why?

“You’ve been under a lot of stress, drink up,” he ordered.

Jose Feliciano’s voice continued to sound wistful, inviting them to embrace each other, but for a long time they each held a cup of absinthe in their hands and stared at their reflection, as if trying to see the near future in it. When the song ended and there was silence, the former couple seemed to slowly and painfully wake up from their sweet, intoxicating dreams.

“Drink up, bitch, or I’ll send you out.”. Basil broke down first.

“When I hear Spanish spoken,” she said calmly, “I want to dance, when I hear French spoken, I want love, but when you send me in Russian, I want both.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and threw her head back as she forcibly poured the contents of the cup down her throat. She drank clumsily, wincing, choking, and spilling half of it on herself, taking long, long sips like wet swamp water. And suddenly she was amused, and she lay back and twitched as if in the agony of death.

“You’ve poisoned me, Little Bear … “she laughed. “What a bad scheming boy… I don’t know what you’re going to do with my still-warm body right now.

Her hysterical laughter stopped abruptly. Basile drank too, and in the stealthy silence of the room went to the bed where they were waiting for him. His chest burned with a long-forgotten fire, and his step was soft and silent. This is how a lion prowls across the savanna to his antelope. Camille propped herself up a little on her elbows, savoring the moments before his final leap. Why did he hesitate, why? Because he felt this very love that he had once suppressed in himself, a love that seemed to have died, but suddenly claimed its rightful rights, like a miraculously resurrected heir.

— You’re scaring me a little, “she whispered. — It gives me the creeps.”

He tossed the blanket aside and looked down at those thighs spread out in front of him, the way she was grinning, knowing he was about to pounce on her.

“All right, I’ll keep quiet, I’ll try to keep quiet…”

“Shut up!”

She had lain before him haughtily, with bold defiance, expecting nothing but rudeness from him, and now, to his horror and shame, he was trembling with tenderness.

The absinthe dripped down her nipples, over her tattooed tummy, soaking into the sheets… and Camille seemed to be at peace, like a living icon. Then she took a long, deep drag, like before the shooting, almost all the way to the filter, and squinted, blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction. The ember on the end of the cigarette flickered dangerously in the half-light. Camille started to say something else, but he leaned on top of her, covering her mouth with his hand, pressing her hard into the bed. No, he can’t be gentle with someone who sees nothing but rudeness in him.

“Shut up, bitch! Be quiet!

She gasped for air through his rough fingers, and he sank deeper into her, not feeling the bottom at all, drowning in her intimate wetness, showering kisses on her absinthe-flushed neck. He was insatiable. Her body shuddered as if under the influence of an electric current from each of his kisses. She moaned softly, wrapping her arms and legs around him. He was already at the limit of his abilities…

“Come on, come on! she wriggled under his fading caresses, but he was already sliding off her on his side. — No, no, no, don’t stop…”

She was still flushed and trembling, as if in a fever… at the height of her excitement. Another second of effort, a light breath, and she would have closed in, she would have exploded like a bomb… but Basil pulled away from her, shielding his face with his hands, burying his head in the pillow.

“There’s five thousand dollars for Julien’s head,” he said.

— Yes? I wouldn’t give you a dime.

“Me, too.”

— You know where he is, right?”

— I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“I’m surprised at your generosity. But then, you’ve always been like this.

“Which one?”

“The Good one.

Basil sighed.

— When you came inside me, I thought I wanted your baby.” It’s so weird… Do you still love me?

He didn’t answer, and his silence loosened her tongue even further.

“I was supposed to have a carnival samba tonight,” she said, looking visibly sad. — I bought so much champagne… so many guests were invited… We decorated the hall with balloons… You would have come, wouldn’t you?

— I don’t know. Why would you bother with me?

— I just wanted to show you off to my new girlfriends.” No one believes that I lived with you for half a year…

He grinned. When else was Camille a matchmaker?

“Imagine, no one even bothered after the fire.. What callous people have become! You’re the only one who’s different, Basil… you’re not going to throw me out the door after all we’ve just had, are you?

And why not? He looked at her strangely.

“Shut up…”

— Why are you being so rude to me?” Yes, I don’t have any cash. No home. The only one who can help is you… You’re mad at me, I know… too much pain, too little time… but I really love you. Don’t laugh. I only realized that now.

“Shut up!” You promised not to say anything.

Camille sighed and fell silent. At that moment, a cat jumped into her lap. Now the resemblance to the painting on the wall was complete.

— Something boring… Would you like to dance with me, honey? She suggested, getting up from the bed. “Turn on something else.”

Basil scratched his chin.

“Don’t be a bugger, will you?” and Camille put her hands on his shoulders in a peaceful way and made a few deft steps with her hips, then stepped back and beckoned Basil to her with her finger.

— You can’t turn around here, but still…”

He had a sudden vision of their bodies, heated from this vulgar sex, twitching against each other in this crazy beat of the Latin American program, and he felt a little uneasy. He scratched his chin again. For complete madness, you need to let Julien down and take a couple of dance lessons from him.

— Where are you hiding it?” Camille suddenly guessed the train of his confused thoughts.

“Who?”

“Him! she insisted, raising an eyebrow. — Do you think I’m a complete fool and didn’t recognize that rabbit fur coat?” Where are you hiding it, tell me immediately!?

The boards on the ceiling creaked treacherously.

“He’s hiding himself. You can go up to him for your bra. I’ll help you leave. Next week, the truck is heading for the Spanish border.

“To the Spanish border?” Very nice of you! There’s a lot of traffic there.

The woman began to dress hurriedly. Basil could tell by her nervous movements that she was up to something.

“This is crazy,” Camille wailed, pulling on her new stockings. — You’re sending me to the Spanish border…”

— I thought it was safe there… The ban on visiting the milongas has been lifted for a month now… and you could have danced to your heart’s content.. — What is it? “he asked defensively, handing his ex-wife a dress that he hadn’t even cut the label off.

Camille just snatched it out of his hands.

— Of course, you’ve taken care of everyone as usual… you say the truck’s coming next week?”

A friend of mine carries oranges to Paris via the Pyrenees…”

The woman began to search for her shoes, running around the apartment as if on cue.

“There they are, over by the couch…” he prompted, also annoyed.

Camille quickly put on her shoes and walked around the room once more. In the midst of all this hassle, she suddenly saw the iPhone’s box, tore it open, and began to examine the device.

“Who are you calling?” He wondered when he saw her nimble fingers glide across the display.

— And don’t even try to stop me!’ — No, ‘she warned.

Basile scratched his chin, listening to Camille give up her dancing master easily and easily, and finally got up from the couch and squared his shoulders. As if he felt a little better, everything was back to normal again.

“Will you walk me out?” — What is it? “she asked, tucking the iPhone under the elastic of her stocking.

— no.

— Well. Ciao, honey! And take care of my cat, I’ll pick her up later.

The door slammed. Then he counted the minutes. One, two, three. The police siren sounded. Basil went to the window and carefully opened the curtains. Nothing special. As always, the gendarmes have taken up hiding places and are flashing their guns. Looks like they’re shooting a stupid Hollywood blockbuster. Basil grinned. It’ll be fun when they shoot an attic pigeon in someone else’s feathers… but what is it? Camille says something about the presumption of innocence, prevents the gendarmes from taking aim. She herself calls Julien so affectionately and soulfully that all the male people gather at her call from all the gateways. Basil feels a twinge of nausea. Do not drink absinthe on an empty stomach.

“Julien, come down!” It’s all over. Don’t be a beech tree. We’ve all been wanting to see your cha-cha-cha for a long time! Come on, come on. Use your foot carefully. We won’t do anything to hurt you. Don’t be afraid, my bunny.

But the fugitive dance master is in no hurry to throw himself into the hands of justice. Obviously, he doubts the strength of the ladder, which he previously so unwisely climbed. He touches it carefully with his foot, like a diver before jumping into cold water. The gendarmes lurking behind the shelters are noticeably nervous, someone suggests shooting to kill, so as not to suffer… They even almost used Crever, who was hovering under their feet, to shake Julien’s hand, but Julien refuses, explaining convincingly that he is not allowed to go to the mountains… and then hiking in the mountains, no one understands. Fortunately, Madame Rabinski runs out of the house with some kind of white blanket, talking to the main person. He nods knowingly and shouts wildly into the megaphone, telling everyone to obey without question, or they’ll blow the house to smithereens. Great ultimatum. Madame Rabinski must be fainting. Krever picks her up, but it’s not entirely clear who’s taking whom to the bench. Basil scratches his chin. Well, in a minute or two, the poor fellow, covered with straw, jumps down like a scarecrow, crying, onto the canvas spread out in front of him. Madame Rabinski proudly tells Krever that she is so glad that her late husband’s shroud, which she hid for a rainy day, saved someone’s life. Julien seems happy, too. His light, agile body bounces like a ping-pong ball. The straightened dress serves as a parachute when landing. Basil sees Luc Besson in the crowd again. But no, it’s pretty serious. No cameras. The fugitive dance master is grabbed by the scruff of the neck, wrung and handcuffed behind his back, then roughly pushed into the back seat of the car. What for? So he doesn’t put up any resistance. Papa Lucien laughs at the prisoner in the dress and hands him the heel that was broken off during the jump.

— I jumped up and down…

Julien doesn’t care. Where they send him, they don’t go in those stilettos. He grins at everyone like a hunted wolf.

“Don’t worry, kid. Everything will be fine! Camille shouts, acting out some dramatic scene.

The gendarmes try to remove her, but she still makes a loud noise, although the prisoner still does not notice her at close range. Through the shaded window of the car, he looks inquisitively at the windows of the house, as if he wants to meet someone’s eyes.

But Basil is no longer entirely interested. A monstrous annoyance overcomes him. Everyone hears the Russian foul language coming from behind the curtains and, despite the lack of an interpreter, they realize that some idiot has just lost five thousand Euros.

“Yes, we will record, madame, your direct assistance in catching the criminal,” the gendarme nodded, when Camille calmed down a little and began to prove something, counting on her fingers. “No one’s going to hurt that bouncer. Of course, come with us, madame. You’re the main victim. And you, monsieur in the fez, stand back a meter and a half! And you’re a monsieur in a suit. How much more can I tell you?

Well, of course! As always in such cases, the insurer Krever is bustling. He left Madame Rabinski groaning on the bench and now looks like a pinscher jumping around a hunter who is holding a hare over him by the ears.

“Monsieur gendarmes, Monsieur prisoner, madame, just a moment, just a moment. I have a suggestion that is important to all of you, and one that will certainly interest any sane person, regardless of whether they are handcuffed or not. We all walk under God, monsieur, madame… everyone knows what’s going on in the city. In Paris. The epidemic is raging, morgues are overcrowded, there are not enough plastic bags and protective masks, and corruption is rampant in cemeteries due to a lack of land. Our company offers you in advance to worry about the place of your unfortunate stay and insure…

But they don’t listen to him, they scowl at him, push him away, and even threaten to shoot him, and in the end, annoyed, in a kind of wild despair, he collapses as if knocked down on a bench, muttering under his breath:

“Stupid, stupid people, madmen who pass by their happiness…

Madame Rabinski, who is sitting next to him in a semi-fainting state, pats him on the head, as if she has confused him with her Mosh.

“Yes, yes, that’s what you say, Monsieur Crever. Stupid madmen! Well, nothing! We won’t all suffer for long. Chipization is canceled, all of us will starve to death. You probably haven’t heard, my friend, yesterday’s UN forecast on the state of agriculture?

“Oh, I’d love to eat manna from heaven.”

— In the Bois de Boulogne

Eh, what month is the delay? Money, money, where can I get the money to pay for the rent of this miserable shack? This time, he will have to sacrifice the fighting gloves that he used to beat Didlo. Mignot had promised to give them a good start. An hour has already passed, but the “high-cost junk steamer” seems to have sunk into the ground and does not pick up the phone. Of course, according to the theory of probability, or rather, according to the law of meanness, they can simply miss each other, running along different paths, or maybe that one has failed, did not come? No. He must come! When it smells like big money, Minho is always there.

Basil was looking for an auction agent, running all over the Bois de Boulogne like the devil. Yes that there. It’s your own fault. After Camille’s invasion, he’s on beans and sucking his paw, and this scumbag Bruno and his boys are bothering him so badly at the wrong time. The plywood door is unlikely to survive another siege, and if this goes on, the idiot Krever will actually be put in his side. Although there is a faint hope that the latter lives with Madame Rabinski. At least there aren’t any suitcases in sight.

The sky was beginning to rain, and the former Octagon champion stopped under a pine tree to change into dry clothes. It’s about three degrees outside, it’s wet and windy, and you can catch a cold, and if you go to the hospital, they’ll inject you with something that will cause your kidneys to fail, and people in white coats will throw up their hands, saying that nothing can be done — a side reaction. Basile had already lost an acquaintance who worked as a janitor in the Saint-Vincent city council. He was an old, unkillable devil, always with a broom. Everyone was afraid to drop the candy wrapper in front of him, the hooligans were going around like crazy, and then Papa Lucien coughed something, got sick, went on dialysis, and all Paris was covered in red leaves from chestnuts…

But the Bois de Boulogne is in perfect order. By the way, last time Basil also changed here. The place itself is pretty: the water surface, and there splashes over the water roach, and even a fabulous ferry goes to the island where the restaurant is located, some duck hides its head under the wing, fishermen at the pier. And about fat burners… Better still, proper nutrition and juices, linden clearly loads the bladder.

I heard the crunch of pedals behind me, and Basile was still hosing down water all around him. A rather long column of teenage cyclists was passing by. This kind of activity takes place here almost every day, as the mayor’s office plays along with young people if they comply with the law. And these are probably from school. Everything is as it should be: all in muzzles and hoods, and no hugs and kisses! It is allowed only to laugh and whisper.

— Can you imagine, it gives directly with a cage and a wooden wheel… It turns so funny, “puffed one plump girl, pushing on the pedals with all her might. The bike clearly couldn’t support her weight. — And my mother says don’t start squirrels.” He’ll bite you, and then you’ll give him a hundred shots.

“And you didn’t take what?” After all, for nothing, “another, equally plump friend of hers was surprised, as she prudently dismounted, since the path was going up.

She glanced sideways at Basil and seemed to wink at him, obviously recognizing him as an onanist. And this is in his incomplete fifteen, or maybe fourteen years. Basil hated youngsters. He always has some problems with them.

“Come on, come on,” he encouraged them.

They all laughed in unison. Then the girls were overtaken by a rather brisk boy with a mask on his chin. His bike was just right. With a low saddle, gearbox, tires against dirt, not one Euro piece is probably worth it. This one will go far, or rather go.

— Girls, it’s better to have an aquarium! — Stop it! “he shouted, throwing mud at Basil as he turned the corner.

— What’s that for?” I already had fish, guppeshki. Then some sick girl was put up with them with a beautiful tail and everyone got sick, and medicine is more expensive than an aquarium… " the first girl dismounted.

— Why fish?” Snails are another matter. They only breed eerily. But you put them in the freezer and in the trash afterwards. That’s what my kin do.

The column stretched out. Basil pretended to tie his shoelace. Here, at last, came the rearmost, quite unsportsmanlike-looking teachers, obviously, living on paycheck to paycheck. Their sour, amorphous faces show that they were traveling under duress. Simple school workers who run errands for the Department of Education without a shadow of a doubt. Basile would not be surprised to learn that these men in cellophane raincoats showed their pretty pupils caricatures of Mohammed during the day and played petanque with them in the evening on the Champs-Elysees. Oh, my God, what squalor…

Teachers, seeing a man without a mask, stretched out a banner. The sign read: “Health is the most precious thing you have. Get vaccinated. Think of your loved ones.” One of them even nodded to Basil.

“Nice day for a run, monsieur.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Basil said, tightening the knot tightly. “They promised snow this afternoon.

“I don’t think so,” said the second teacher. “It’ll still be drizzling.”

“If you decide to make a vaccine, monsieur,” said a third. “Then remember that you can’t drink alcohol or smoke for forty-two days.

— I’ll be the last one to do it!”

All the passers-by who were nearby looked at each other in alarm.

“Good day, monsieur.”

“Well, where is that devil Mignot?” thought Basil, thinking it low to say good-bye to them. Suddenly, something dripped on my shoulder. What else can drip from above if bad weather is canceled? Precisely! Here’s Minho.

“Hey, asshole!

— hello!

They bumped fists together without offering a hand. A tribute to quarantine fashion.

— You’re done running, aren’t you?” Minho chuckled, chewing his menthol gum even under his mask.

“Yeah,” Basil said, annoyed. “What a sight you look…”

“Don’t push it, buddy. I know I look like an idiot, but I’m not rich enough to pay fines like you.

— What are the penalties, Mignot?” You’re a famous sprinter in Paris. Where are the policemen before you?

— You’re forgetting their cute little dogs. I saw one of them at the entrance to the forest. Rough. A real wolfhound and what’s interesting without a muzzle. Okay, let’s get down to business… " and Minho, as if nothing had happened, ran along his route.

“He’s in pretty good physical shape today,” Basile thought, and was forced to join in.

“The gloves aren’t in very good condition, but they’ve been featured in almost every UFS tournament,” he began from afar, catching up with Mignot.

“The main thing is that they have Didlo’s blood on them…” the auction agent said reassuringly. — You can try to split it into two lots.

— How’s that?”

— We’ll put out one glove first, then the other. On the second one, the price usually soars by thirty percent, but I think it will still be rotten.

— Why is it rotten? People still remember me.

“They remember, they remember,” Mignot said, turning abruptly onto the asphalt path. “But do they appreciate…?” You may be a champion, but you’re retired. Now there’s more to eat than you.

“Who’s that?”

— Fernandez, for example. Everyone’s always talking about him…

“Who the hell is he?” He was still walking under the table when I put the Bald Man down.

“Oh, buddy. So I say, when was it… You’ll need to be announced in a new way. Okay, get at least a couple of meters away from me. There’s a mounted patrol ahead. Oh, shit! They let the dog out. If anything, you don’t know me! And don’t call, I’ll dial it myself.

— Well, is there anything we can do for you?” Basil said angrily, trying to stop Mignot from diving into some thicket, but Mignot fought back with the envy of a girl being raped.

“Fuck off, I’m telling you — » the fat man finally got free and was gone. A little bit and immediately into the bushes.

“I’ll catch him!” Atu! Basil shouted to the shaggy dog, pointing at the runaway coward. “Maybe later, with a severed arm or leg, he’ll get smarter.” Damned cowardly city!

At this time, the dog approached Basil and lay down, carefully studying him. The masked intruder waited with a grin as the patrol approached. The latter were not long in coming.

— You, monsieur, get caught violating the mayor’s decree number… and hell, where’s my memo?

The first rider appears to be only a boy, but he looks as graceful as a gallant knight, barely swaying in a cavalry saddle. Under him was a beautiful horse of white Arabian color, very pliable with snorting nostrils all the time. Basil even admired the animal. He loved horses. In his grape villa, after all these stupid restrictions, he will have to get a horse like this.

“Yes, yes, and you’re beautiful, too,” he said, trying to pat the head of the wolfhound, who had grown bolder and was sniffing at him. “Or is she a girl?”

“That has nothing to do with the case, monsieur! You can’t run without a mask — " a second, more experienced-looking police officer rode up to help, clearly not wanting to change to a friendly tone. His short-legged bay mare also snorted unpleasantly.

“I don’t run, I stand,” said Basil, and he straightened up with a mock salute.

“Prankster, I’ve seen you somewhere…”

“Well, go on while I discuss some details with your owners,” Basil said, lightly tapping the dog’s nose, and it made a playful lunge and ran to frolic on the nearest lawn.

“Ricky, where to!? Come to me! The young policeman was annoyed that the dog had obediently obeyed someone else’s orders. — What’s going on with Ricky today?” he turned to his partner, who was just glaring at the intruder.

“It’s a good day in the woods, so he’s freaking out…” he said distantly, one hand on the club strapped to his hip. “Besides, Ricky did his job. Come on, Raphael, write out the ticket and let’s ride on. Our dog is too interested in fishermen…

“They probably don’t let the fish go back…” suggested Basil.

“Who are you anyway?” Who are you? — the law enforcement officer on the chestnut mare couldn’t stand it, menacingly circling the athlete.

“A horse in a coat,” said Basil, who was about to receive a blow on the back. “You’d better calm your dog down!”

At this moment, there was a commotion on the dock. The wolfhound drove the fishing men into the water and began to bark loudly at them.

“Ricky! Ricky! The gendarmes shouted at him, but the dog wouldn’t stop.

Basil decided to leave, but was shouted at.

“Stop there!”

“If you’re telling me, I told you right away that I’m not running, but standing,” Basil scoffed as a penalty form was hastily pulled out in front of him to fill it out.

“That’s right, Andre, it’s worth it,” the young man suddenly chuckled, reading the hint hidden in his pocket. — The law stipulates that citizens are forbidden to walk and run without a mask, but nothing is said about” standing”.

“But he didn’t come here by air,” the older cop said, justly. “Stop coddling him! Monsieur, show me your identification!”

“Documents?” Oh, shit! Basil slapped the pockets of his trousers. “They’re at my house. It’s not far, just half an hour away, if you ride a horse. Your lovely Mongolian horse, monsieur.

“It’s not Mongolian!” You’re a Mongol yourself! — Andre was offended, concerned that the dog also goes into the water and some of the fishermen start begging for help. — Where do you live, address?”

— I told you, it’s not far. But can I tell you my data without an error and save you time?

The policemen exchanged quick glances. Andre waved his hand and rode to the dock to calm Ricky down. The valiant knight began to fill in the fields of the form, but it was not easy for him. His horse was scouting for grass and ducking its head too far, causing the rider to risk a somersault.

“All right, buddy. Let’s dictate…

Basile happily gave Mignot’s name and address. Then he was handed a receipt for payment of the fine and wished a good day. The brute will be surprised when he finds another letter of happiness in his mailbox! Nothing is more uplifting than adding salt to a friend. Basil felt a second wind. And a really nice day. And all this because he had long ago learned to avoid such situations, blaming everything on this fat man with a pocket full of money, by the way, some of the money there and his, Basil. So the conscience is clear, and it allows you to run the hand of the fiscal authorities, you can say, in your own pocket. After all, Mignot is clearly cheating at auctions and rowing most of the profits for himself. Recently, Basil’s Soviet-era skipping rope went under the hammer, which he seized from the United States. Russia, and a little earlier Camilla left a cat. It turned out to be a damn rare breed. The Egyptian fold. They were buried in the pyramids with the pharaohs. You can say an exclusive copy, it’s a pity that it’s neutered. Minho immediately figured that it could be sold profitably. Minho, Minho, brute Minho. He is like a tempting devil who comes to a hungry man’s house and takes his soul for a few crumbs… But the portrait of his ex-wife on the wall is the last bastion of honor for the forgotten champion. Apparently, Camille left him this picture deliberately, so that he would finally understand how low he had fallen when he realized what he had lost in his life with her departure…