The alley in the center of the capital is made up of cobblestone and expensive stores. Watches, gold, antiquities. A rich man spends here his living wage like it’s nothing and doesn’t even have to worry about all these shopping bags hanging heavy on his arms during a further walk.
The man in a beanie hat slid along the windows sideways, interested not so much in what these shops offered, but in pretty salesgirls; expensive things and beautiful women attract each other. He ran, covering his eyes, past the pastry shop, lingered at the next showcase, where, from under the hand of an antique ballerina, desired that woman’s face. Having looked at the dial of the discounted mantelpiece clock, the man threw his palm to the sky — a sure sign of someone often arguing with himself.
“I have the right,” the guest muttered into his collar and shuffled away.
He froze at the steps of the mansion, then rang the bell. The door opened, revealing but a fragment of plasterwork, chandelier’s stalactite, a bright stain on the wall and only then — the bonnet on the maid’s head.
“Mr. Greg[IK1] Clemens?” the maid asked.
The visitor nodded, shook off the snow from his hair, and slipped inside, asking something in a whisper. The maid pursed up her lips and pointed to the side door. She waited for the guest and walked him into the living room with bow-legged furniture and about a dozen Meissen shepherdesses on the mantelpiece.
In front of the figurines stood a woman just like them — with porcelain skin and a stone-cold handshake to boot. Even the powdered mole on her cheekbone looked more like a chipped bit of ceramics. Under forty, maybe a long time ago[IK2] . Not your usual facial features, raised by self-confidence to a pearl of beauty. They say about such women that they “look amazing” without adding an apologetic “for their age.”
“Happy to meet, you,” the lady of the house said, breaking off the handshake that was becoming too long and awkward.
Greg walked through the living room, admiring the frames of the abstract paintings, and finally stopped before a tall window. He took a few steps back, inspecting the huge canvas like a real fancier of art.
“You have very beautiful clouds,” he praised the work.
Greg himself lived behind windows with a view of other windows and a narrow outline of the sky above the line of the nearby roofs.
“Thank you, Mr. Clemens,” the lady smiled.
“The best investment strategy is to invest in the horizon. It’s the universal currency of the future.”
“Well put,” this time she praised him.
“This is for you,” Greg bowed. “I didn’t buy flowers, but fresh quotes are the best decoration for the table. Isn’t that why they invite writers?”
The lady offered him a cocktail.
Greg kept talking to her about the weather outside the window, sports news and jokes about mutual acquaintances. The closest of these acquaintances was a local prince, whom the lady of the house knew through friends, and Greg — thanks to а magazine he found in the subway.
“You must be hungry?” she asked.
“Truth be told, yes. Fame does not bring royalties, but allows to save on breakfast.”
Another maid brought the appetizers. The girl that opened the door had a cold belly, and this one radiated heat with her hips. Greg was better versed in the thermodynamics of women’s bodies than a man of his age and standing should.
The lady of the house kept her guest busy with questions and almost didn’t touch the food. Asparagus disappeared from her plate, but Greg never caught her chewing. Not once.
Greg himself was constantly mixing glasses, dropping his napkin and failing miserably at freeing his mouth for replies. He was slow to answer, and reprise — was something of a fickle thing that needed to be delivered at the right time. Somehow, though, the lady was satisfied with the conversation they were having.
“You’re just like I pictured you,” she confessed shortly.
“Couldn’t be any other way,” Greg agreed.
“Let’s be friends,” the lady decided after they had soup. “I’ll just start calling you Greg.”
This woman moved to the capital twenty years ago and started gathering people of art along with Meissen porcelain, dug through flea markets, always looking for new things. For collectors, it was a special sort of chic to discover something that was not yet seen by the public eye.
“We’ll be friends after the rice pudding,” Greg replied to her offer.
“Would you like some pudding?” the lady seemed a bit confused.
The guest’s behavior was at first well within the bounds of a decent conversation, but now the ball seemed to have crossed that fine line.
Greg nodded.
“I’m not sure,” the lady said. “Chocolate then?”
A hundred missteps a decent human being is allowed, have a hundred and one ways to fix such a wrongdoing. Knowledge of such saving techniques is what allows a good person to be called one. However, the opposite is just as true.
“The cook made the rice one,” Greg insisted.
“Whose cook?”
“Yours.”
The lady pressed the button, sent the maid back to the kitchen and, while they were waiting, managed to ask, not once, but twice, whether the guest had been caught in the rain.
The maid returned.
“Rice pudding, madam.”
“What an astounding coincidence,” the lady said. “Quite rare on our menu.”
“Coincidences are crutches for amateurs,” Greg objected. “In our case, it is appropriate to talk about a detailed plot.”
“The plot of what?” the lady raised an eyebrow.
“A luncheon that is gradually turning into a friendly dinner,” the guest explained. “Don’t worry, I made it all up.”
“You made up the pudding?” she didn’t understand.
“The house, the lines, the clothes. Sorry for my lack of modesty, this mutual awkwardness and the dessert are also my work.”
The lady tried for a while to find a clue in her guest’s voice, but he was being absolutely serious and remained that way throughout. She laughed. Even her laughter was beautiful.
“You’re quite the joker.”
Greg shook his head.
“The truer the story, the worse it sells.”
She was now openly scanning him. The conversation had long gone beyond the usual bounds, and it bothered the good lady.
“So today I’m your fantasy?” she asked again.
“Absolutely,” Greg confirmed.
“And the paintings, curtains, the setting — all made up too?”
“I peeked at the details,” he admitted. “Query: “Expensive interiors.” You can’t
make up something you’ve never seen before in your life.”
“What about imagination?” she sounded surprised.
“Imagination is just a filter. You can change colors and dimensions by turning a rat into a king, a country into a planet, and dictators into pigs, but only truth can be your model. Better naked. Otherwise they won’t believe it. So I took a template for your living room.”
“A template?” now she seemed utterly offended. “From the best designer!”
“Celebrities mimic more often,” Greg explained. “Honest ones mirror themselves. Customers require not originality, but a good enough copy from a once successful project.”
“Suppose the layout is standard,” the lady agreed. “But how on earth could you make the dinnerware? Each piece of this set is signed by its author.”
“The typographical autograph reflects the extent of depersonalization, not the individuality,” Greg objected once more. “I saw these plates in a thrift shop. Still, imagination has its limits. For example, cutlery is like Greek to me. That’s why the setout is simple.”
Greg showed the lady the aluminum fork in his hand. She gasped.
“What’s that?”
“A simple fork,” the guest explained and showed his second hand. “And its pair – the knife.”
“Unacceptable,” she apologized. “I will order to bring the normal set right away.”
“Don’t worry,” the writer asked. “You’re my fantasy, which means it’s not your fault.”
“I’m not real then?”
“I’m a bad writer then?”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You just said my portrayal wasn’t believable enough.”
The lady reached out to him across the table, demanding the knife with a gesture. She weighed it in her hand, comparing it to the silver knife from her set.
“Your objects and actors come out a bit light,” she touched his pride.
“The utensils came out wrong,” Greg agreed. “But you’re just the right amount of fine. Even better. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever written.”
“Do you say that to all the characters?”
“Just the ones I’m in love with.”
“Cohabitating with your creations?”
“A writer rarely walks the bride to the altar a virgin.”
Greg stretched his glass over the table, as if offering to bind the established order with a common toast. The lady ignored his gesture. She absolutely had to put the visitor in his place, but sympathized with people who, due to circumstances, did not receive a good upbringing, so made another attempt to save the man before her.
“I do appreciate your straightforward gallantry,” she said. “However, I think, you’ll agree, that your declaration of love was very untimely. This kind of emotional revelation should be preceded by at least a few years of friendship, which you were planning to start after dessert.”
“A few years?” Greg was surprised.
“Well, hours should be good too,” the lady eased off.
“Let’s change the order,” he suggested. Confession. Roast. Climax. Pudding. Friends.”
“Climax?” Red spots appeared on her porcelain face.
“I have to admit, madam, I wrote the steamiest scene first, and later went back and worked on the foreplay. And it goes beyond all bounds.”
The lady of the house failed to come up with an answer.
“Your words,” Greg continued. “About bounds. First, you should have given me the brush-off. No mercy. I’m sorry for abusing your fine upbringing. In a simpler house I would have kept risky speeches to myself until dessert. Syrup on the neck warmer is less dangerous than hot soup.”
“I should have told you to get out from the table,” she came to her senses. “And then throw you down the stairs.”
“I feared so, that’s why the dining room is on the ground floor. And I put carpets everywhere. Farsighted, wouldn’t you agree?”
“This house is two hundred years old,” the lady said.
“The carpets and the absence of stairs prove me right.”
She fell silent. In a dispute with a maniac, reason does not work.
“Aren’t you afraid of ending up in court?” The lady lost her patience.
“I’m not a fan of public speaking,” Greg admitted. “So I put the key scene in writing.”
He dipped into his inner pocket and touched the printed pages.
“What is it?” the lady asked.
Her hand froze an inch from them.
“That’s the scene I was talking about,” Greg answered evasively.
She snorted, putting as much contempt in her gaze as possible, hid both hands under the table, but, having changed her mind, suddenly pulled out the pages.
“I’ll take it as evidence,” she declared. “Let’s have a look. Bas-tard.” [IK3]
The lady glanced over the page, gasped, tore it in half and threw on the tablecloth. Then she looked askance at the crooked piece of paper and finished reading.
“Do you even understand what you gave me?” she asked, stressing every word, as if she were talking to a complete idiot.
“I’m starting to,” the writer admitted. “Can I please approach for a well-deserved slap in the face?”
Having forgotten about good manners, the lady looked at him steadily, as if he were some new species of mammals. She wouldn’t let him near her.
“I’ll come back later,” Greg said. “For everything. The rest is on the other side.”
The lady quickly turned the scrap of paper.
“Maniac!” she cried out. “And a lazy one at that. Your imagination ran out before the other rooms.”
The red spots on the woman’s face now seemed permanent. The breathing got irregular, shaky as is showing how upset she actually was.
“Your vulgar style will probably do well with laundry girls. You mess up a total of three objects. I could prove it without leaving this chair, but I was raised a proper lady. I would have killed you for the liberties you allow yourself. Not to mention, this is physically impossible at our age.”
Greg did not object this time, scratching his pen against the snow-white napkin and only occasionally looking up at the enraged woman.
“A lawyer can put you in prison for this!” the lady failed to contain herself.
“For what?” The writer looked at her with utmost surprise. “I brought a chapter from a novel to a friend. The style may not be perfect, but nothing that would get me imprisoned, no?
“You won’t go to prison for an uneven style,” she agreed. “But…”
“…sometimes I [IK4] should have,” Greg finished the phrase before she could. “The maid’s coming.”
“Not a word in front of her,” the lady warned.
“Yes, madam,” Greg assured her. “Just ask her to take their time with the pudding.”
The lady cast a very expressive look at her guest.
“I’ll shut up, won’t say another word,” he muttered. “Besides, according to the script there are no lines before dessert. Nothing distinct, at least.”
***
The lady barely made it to the second the maid poured the rum topping over the pudding and swallowed the elastic mass with such greed, as if she had been starving for a week.
“It’s pretty good,” she said.
“You mean the dessert?” Greg inquired.
“Nothing else qualifies,” the lady smiled. “The rest is mostly inaccuracies, from stockings to dialogue.”
“Pity, madam,” the writer agreed. “The principle of quantum uncertainty in the literature is this: the more accurate your description of a character, the more difficult it is to predict their actions.”
The lady gestured with the dessert spoon for a further explanation.
“If a hero comes to life, the author’s design goes to hell. Each brilliant piece of literature has a rebel that rises against the will of their creator. Sorry, for ruining the napkin.”
The guest showed the fabric that was scribbled all over with small letters in black ink.
“Perhaps you immortalized it,” the lady smiled softly.
After the hot dishes, the porcelain harshness of her appearance had somewhat melted.
“Nothing worthy,” Greg demurred, “Just scribbles. What does a lower lip, flattened against a glass surface, look like? Wrinkles are like facial meridians. Butterfly wings.”
“It’s better not to write about the butterfly,” the lady asked. “They’ll recognize me.”
“Most will?” he asked.
“I’d be lying to you, if I said no. Writers are selfish.”
“Then I’ll write about the rest.”
“Also, vengeful,” the lady added. “Then again, you should write. Just don’t call me by my name. And use a pen-name for your own safety.”
“I will never let it be published under my real name,” Greg assured her.
“And change the city, will you?” the lady asked.
“Ottawa,” he suggested. “Also six letters.”
“Too far,” she questioned his choice. “Something like “The capital of the former empire.”
“Should I leave the setting?” Greg swept his hand around the room.
“Yes, it’s a template anyway,” the lady said and raised her voice. “Oh, stop knocking and come in.”
The door opened. The cook came for his share of compliments.
“Was everything as you wanted?” he asked the writer.
“Wanted what?” Fear flashed in the lady’s eyes.
“The rice pudding,” the cook explained, “Your guest came by the kitchen before lunch to ask for his favorite dessert. He said that he had long dreamed of trying it the way they make it in the best houses…”
… of Ottawa,” the lady got in a word.
“As you say,” the cook didn’t argue. “I hope your dream has come true.”
“It sure did!” two voices cried at the same time.
“Reflections, insight, a hundred degrees of anger and finally a smile — smart people can laugh at themselves,”Greg had managed to put down on the napkin before the lady coped with her emotions.
“Next time, please inform me about the wishes of my guests in advance,” she asked the cook.
“Yes, madam,” he said and left the dining room.
Silence fell.
“So…” she summed up. “You lied to me.”
“As promised,” Greg confirmed.
“Did you steal the knife and fork from the kitchen, too?”
“Brought them with me.”
“Give them to me. As a tool of seduction[IK5] .”
“In exchange for the ballerina figurine.”
“Are you a collector?” the lady was surprised.
“In a way.”
Greg got up, realizing it was time to go. The lady of the house didn’t delay him.
“You’ve written down everything in advance,” she said. “Why?”
“In response to your question,” he explained.
The lady saw that the guest waited for her next line, but chose not to play along.
“The source of inspiration,” he gave up. “They are always curious to know.”
“And?” The lady did not understand.
“I’m not a philologist,” Greg sighed. “It’s easier for me to show once than spend two hours picking wise euphemisms.”
***
The lady of the house came out to walk her guest to the door, which, judging by a quick glance from the maid, didn’t happen very often. This time, it was the hot girl at the entrance.
Greg felt someone touch his pocket and turned around. Both women stood with their arms folded on their stomachs. He hesitated, but then took out a few more pages from his jacket and handed them to the lady.
“Unused quotes. Pathetic mostly,” he explained. “I was embarrassed to use them too much. Also, I didn’t find a place for a patriotic one. Maybe you’ll manage to put it somewhere at the official reception.”
The lady didn’t take the pages.
“Leave the change [IK6] with the maid. Short trivialities are more young people’s thing. If you fail to make history, you’ll be a meme. Don’t be greedy, leave everything.”
Greg hurriedly hid the extra pages in his pocket.
“It’s someone else’s,” he apologized. “Now is.”
“Explain, or I will quickly forget you,” she threatened him.
Greg was stalling.
“And I won’t tell anyone today’s jokes,” the lady even went to such extremes.
And it worked. Greg told her what she wanted to know.
“Alternative stories. I wrote five versions of the climactic scene. Ranging from completely innocent to quite shocking.”
The lady froze, wrapping her mind around this new turn of events.
“How did you choose our version?” she finally asked.
“Just chance,” he answered.
“Chance, you say? Then you’re a player, not a creator.”
“A creator must be a player too,” Greg objected. “Writing is boring when you know the ending.”
He hesitated to put on his hat in front of the women and ran outside in the winter night with his ears uncovered.
“A creator must. A creator has to,” he muttered like a lunatic as he was walking home.
Greg listened to his own ramblings, trying to understand whether he had chosen the right words of farewell. His hand froze, but he wouldn’t dare put it in his pocket; until proven otherwise, it held a note from that hot maid with her name and phone number.
Greg came to at the antique shop. The salesgirl was reading, no one had bought the ballerina during his absence and the mantelpiece clock didn’t move. It stood still, which explained the discount.
Snow hung over the bridge of the imperial capital.
The salesgirl’s face seemed familiar.
A wealthy person’s minimum wage is the amount he or she has to spend every day to maintain self-esteem.
He’d have to write it down before it melted.
Greg walked past the cafeteria with satiated indifference.
***
At home, he gently released the porcelain dancer from the box and put her on the table. After giving it some thought, he moved it to the window sill and lay down on the floor. The figurine fluttered across the sky, pushing her ballet shoe off of the line of neighboring roofs.
He could show the figurine to his friends and retell the remake of Pygmalion. How he brought the statue back to life with letters. Listeners would smile condescendingly and say to his face that the narrator was lying. Sublimating. Pouring his unfulfilled fantasies all over paper. Trying to live someone else’s life.
Well, maybe so. What else could he do if he’d wasted his own god knows on what? And all he could do was fantasize, fall in love with his own creations, build palaces from printed symbols. Besides, wasn’t that the essence of the writing craft?
If you didn’t abuse pathetic quotes, of course.
[IK1]Is Greg ok here? Because the Russian Греж you use doesn’t really sound English.
[IK2]Тут не могу понять – возможно, давно что? Возможно ей давно под сорок? Или сильно под сорок, почти сорок?
[IK3]Я не очень понимаю, что за негодяй и почему по слогам? Контекст?
[IK4]Тут встает вопрос как лучше – если он заканчивает за нее фразу о себе, то он ее может либо говорить во втором лице, повторяя так, как сказала бы она, либо переводя в первое лицо, так как говорито себе. Решать вам
[IK5]Поясните, что вы имеете в виду под растлением в этом предложении?
[IK6]Под мелочью имеются в виду эти листы?