Parisian chocolate can be bitter

Parisian chocolate can be bitter

Gleb Karpinsky

© Gleb Karpinsky, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-1895-8

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

“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.