Текст книги "Чашка кофе"

The wet snow

You can hardly expect anybody here at this hour. The barman is busy at the counter, cleaning glasses for the evening when more people will be coming.

But now there is no one, just him alone.

On the table, there is his morning newspaper, which he had bought in the metro, but never bothered to have a look into it. Why he bought it at all? Just because of having nothing to do?

She has never been punctual. She’s late by half an hour, but she’ll come, he knows it for sure.

He is sipping his «Double Espresso».

Shall I order something stronger? No, today he is not in the mood for drinking.

Outside it is drizzling, with a mix of snow.

Slush on the road.

Wet and cold.

Nasty weather.

But it is warm and comfortable inside the bar.

On the other side of the street, he can see a poster. The cheap advert got soaked in the rain, and its side went loose from the board. The wind strikes against the wet paper.

Shit, how dull.

Good enough, the barman did not put the music on. The music would be out of place. It is good to sit in the quiet, though.

How come, he has never been here before? The place looks clean and friendly. That’s what one needs, warmth and comfort.

The thick glass of the window protects him from the bad weather and the outside city noise. He thought, he probably looked like a fish in the aquarium, behind the glass, and in the light of spot lamps.

She spotted him at once and took a chair at the table where he had been sitting.

– Sorry for taking you out here on a weekend. I want we talk this over, – she told him.

– Do you want me to order something for you?

– Do you think it will look odd if I had a glass of wine at this early hour?

– As you wish, – he said indifferently.

– Okay, I’ll have a Martini with vodka then.

The barman brought her Martini and put it in front of her, politely.

– Why shouldn’t you drink something with me?

– I don’t care.

– You always liked Martini.

– Today I don’t.

– You look tired, unshaven, blood-shot eyes… You drink and work too much, – she extended her hand and wanted to run her fingers across his stubby cheek.

He stopped her from doing it, by moving his head back.

– Cut it, please. You wanted us to talk about something, didn’t you?

– I think I can keep my belongings with you for some time. I need to sort this out, and see, how serious all this is. Do you mind?

– Do you mean to say, you are still thinking of returning?

– Darling, you know how I love you. I always loved you.

– I am not sure if I’ll be able to live with you after this shit has happened.

– I swear, I always loved you, and you know it. All these years. Your problems with new investors had nothing to do with my… with our decision.

– All your words are in the past tense.

– You bastard! You do not believe me. But truly, I always loved you, and love you even now, in a way.

– It’s fun. I’m curious.

– You are cruel! I am confused. I do not know, how I shall cope with…

All of a sudden she burst into tears. She took a handkerchief from out her purse:

– Tell me, what do you blame me for?

– Cut the crap, for God’s sake. You know, I hate you crying. Is it my fault that you… – he was looking for a better word, but couldn’t find one. – You’ve got a damn show both at work and at home, you have.

– You are not wrong – we met at the «Albert Hall»… I did not feel like telling you about it for some time, and tried keep it a secret.

– You managed well.

– I always thought, you were a nice intelligent person, understanding, too. The affair has gone too far by now. I cannot hide it away any more, pretending and lying to you.

– Oh, Holy Cow! Please, do not try and play noble.

– You are cruel!

– If you had left me and gone to live with another male, a contender, I could probably have understood you. Not that I might have agreed, but just understood. Well, in this situation… I am not prepared to digest it.

– Do you think I am perverse?

– I didn’t say that, you did.

– I know you hate me.

– Not any more. Just cannot make it out. Well, we are living curious times, and there are lots of things I cannot understand.

– Excuse me for everything, – he saw tears in her eyes again.

– I gotta go.

– Where to? – she asked.

– The other way from you, – he said.

He left her behind to finish her drink.

He paid the barman, got his trench coat and went out.

He put the collar up, fastened the top button, and started to walk along the street. Past the shop windows and posters.

If, by any chance, you had an impression that he brushed away a tear, you were wrong. It was the wet snow, blinding his eyes. «Fuck! – the wind is getting stronger, – he thought and picked up his pace».

Miniatures

Georgia on my mind

The saxophone player frowned disapprovingly when that man came up from over his table, and took the microphone. But when he listened and heard the man pick up the melody, he realized who he was dealing with.

The pianist began his part.

Taking this solo as his opportunity, the saxophonist approached the old man:

– Excuse me, Sir… Where did you learn to sing?

– To be honest with you, nobody taught me, – said the stranger.

– You’ve got a perfect ear for jazz, and the voice, too.

– Do you call it the voice, sonny? It’s just my feelings. I just cannot make them any happier.

– You are the saddest son-of-a-bitch I ever met, Sir. Whatever you call it, there are very few people now, who can do Georgia that well.

– Thank you, Sir. Now, there comes the ending… Sorry, – said the old man. And went on: – Georgia, Georgia on my mind… О yeah…

The two other men, who were sitting in the restaurant next to the kitchen door, clapped their hands, lazily.

– The old jerk puts a lot of heart into singing, – remarked one of them.

– Lousy band… I bet, they can’t even do the simplest rap, – said the other one, chewing a fat cut of steak.

– You bet, – answered the first one, picking his teeth with a toothpick.

The old man resumed his seat by the window, with his unfinished «Teacher’s Straight, Double» on the table.

It was dark and raining outside.

He was slowly sipping his drink, holding the glass with both hands.

The man was thinking of Ray Charles, and Ella Fitzgerald, and Luis Armstrong, and Frank Sinatra…

He was thinking about the times, when he was young.

The blues

In our age of computers and other «state-of-the-art» technologies, they stage tremendous variety shows. Powerful loudspeaker, special effects, back-vocals, back-dancing, lasers… They seem to be shooting at you pointblank.

He takes up the old forty-fiver, the one that he likes to listen to. The titles speak for themselves: «Knocking on Heaven’s Door», «You Only Hurt The Ones You Love», «Incoherent Blues», «That Ole Devil Called Love».

The record keeps on playing.

He does not really care that the vinyl surface is old and thoroughly worn out.

The piano is syncopating, softly; the base and the drums are keeping perfect time.

He visualizes blues as a black-and-white movie, as something dear and intimate.

His heart, too, is finely tuned to the melody. His soul is taking sad cords, in sharps and flats, and is picking up the harmony of the piece.

With his eyes closed, he is listening to favourite melodies without even being aware that his hands begin to tap to the rhythm.