Читать книгу Where I am from. Why I am here. Where I am going 2.0. Memoirs of an alien - Valentine Ruzanov - Страница 7

Saturday, 6 pm. – Hello. We would like to meet with you. With you alone. Restaurant “Zorotaya Spora…” Sporrra… Golden Spur. Seven pi um. OK?

I leisurely check the music booklets and leave the music store. December snow on the face. Car wipers at traffic lights. There is a pedestrian crossing, half an hour of the road through the city center, and at the risk of my life I cross the road in front of “Spur”. There are two frozen figures on the bench at the entrance to the restaurant. – Halloween! – Hello! You’re a little early, however. – We love this kind of weather. You’re early too. – I just walked around. To the sounds of electro-jazz we go into a restaurant where I haven’t been for thirty years. Then it was just a cafe enticing young people with a demonstration of Japanese cartoons on the newly appeared video players. – What will you order? – I’m vegan. – For what reasons? – Ethical. The Americans, without showing any sign, also order vegetarian: borscht, fried potatoes, salad and water. – You lead a healthy lifestyle. Don’t you want to quit smoking? – I do not want. – Are you satisfied with everything? – Yes. – Have you ever loved? – Twice. The first married the other. All contacts from the second are lost. – Well. You’ll have to look better!

Another half hour of leisurely conversation and even the neighboring tables will learn about my youthful dream – to play jazz in New York, the lack of Russian-language manuals at that time and about my interest in English. My selfless story in fluent English is interrupted by an unexpected remark from one of the Americans: – Good evening!

Following the gaze of the foreigner, I turn around. I see the burning eyes of a twenty-year-old waitress who is imperceptibly standing behind my back, such eyes are in the audience when you perform virtuoso passages during improvisation. – Good evening! – the waitress, somewhat embarrassed and with a slight smile on her face, watches as I, with my mouth open, again turn my gaze to the Americans. – You have to look better! They nod.

Night. Immersed in difficult thoughts, I walk along the freeway. This concrete monster was specially built by the last suitor of the princess for fast driving and frequent dates with her. But according to local residents, the shortest way to the Principality is the iron one. And many, like me, chose this very path. – Hey! This is my canvas, – a long, skinny girl in a leather jacket blocked my path. – There is a fork further. Maybe we will disperse. – There are only two rails. – But there are a lot of sleepers! – Ash Lithuanian nyasuprantu. – And I understand her very well.