From
A Hotel Million Monkeys:


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     I'll step into the dark and the cool. It's quiet. And what is that lilac glow in front of me? Someone indistinct, surrounded by lilac-white aura, like a white cat seen in my childhood in a dark abandoned house, will touch my elbow and lead me towards the lilac glow.

     Just a moment ago, I, a seventh-grader, was idling in front of the X-ray room. Seeing that the red No Entrance sign disappeared, I snuck into the narrow, black crack, got stuck in the velvet curtain and when I finally disentangled myself, I saw the lilac light in the darkness. I froze as if on the threshold of a house, in which a great magician lived. Barely breathing, I saw how a lilac table, a pile of lilac papers and a pale lilac nurse's cap appeared in the lilac aura. Something suddenly flooded all this, I heard a quick laugh, detected a faint smell of medicine, the smell of milky breathing, the smell of shiny, gorgeous hair, the smell of. . . . Only young pretty nurses smell like that. "And are we going to stand here long?" I heard her sarcastic voice. But I didn't move. I mumbled, "It's so dark here, I can't see a thing." Oh, you sly seventh-grader, sly as can be, you wanted to feel her warm hand on your cool body. She touched me; I happily shrunk away; tiny needles pricked my skin. Tenderly squeezing my elbow, she led me somewhere. Ah, how I loved these fleeting moments; she, mature and beautiful, warmly touching my shoulder, leads me into the lilac twilight.

     "Excuse me," I'll ask, halting, "Do you have any European food?"

     "Absolutely, sir. A large selection," the white and lilac cat will purr out.

     I will look around. It'll seem to me there are people in the far, dark corner. I'll squint at them and they'll   blow away.

     "A booth, sir?" The cat will squint towards the same far corner.

     Booths. . . . I love them for their refined loneliness; just you alone and a rosette of caviar, a sweaty carafe of vodka, the gentle birds of your imagination; the bird in front of you is an aristocratic lady from the past and the bird to your side-a country girl in a short, airy dress.

     The cat and I will inspect the booths. Most of them appear empty, but above one partition a knot of hair is crowning an invisible woman. The knot is quivering. She's crying, or laughing, or talking. I'll finish the sketch of her interlocutor. A little mustache, bulging eyes, shiny black hair split from forehead to the back of the head by a narrow white streak of skin.

     I'll choose the table, order a glass of vermouth and drink it the Russian way-greedily and in one gulp. I'll sprawl out. I'll listen to music; it'll quietly stream down from the ceiling, endless and heart-rending, and it'll bring to mind the snowstorm in the steppe, horses, and a coachman in love. On one side of the restaurant, a lilac bar will float along, like a bright lilac cloud. Among the fancy bottles, I'll notice one with double walls and a glass schooner inside.

     The door of the restaurant will open. The blinding ray of sunlight will carry in silhouettes of a man and a girl; the particles of dust in the restaurant will become brighter and they will begin circling anxiously in front of the silhouettes. The door will close; it will become dark, and the headwaiter will slink by. The rustle of the girl's dress will intertwine with the heart-rending music.

     The gentle rustle of your dress is like the rustle of the quiet fall , Pavlik, a friend of my youth, once breathed out, slowing down and stretching each sound of his poem. And what did he do to my soul, dissolved by aromatic Bessarabian wine, passionately loving every woman and loved by none in return! From that time on, the word rustle evokes in me a deep and wonderful sadness, pain at the roots of my hair and tears dripping into a glass of red wine.

     The rustle will get stronger and it will now resemble the rustle of the leaves of the ancient tree; the silhouettes of the man and the girl will reach my table. I'll look intently into her indistinct face; she'll turn it towards me for a moment. I'll be choked and spun around by the space filled, as in the warm Southern night, with stars, music, somebody's breathing, whispers, lightning bugs, a woman's laughter, cicadas, soft splashing of the waves, the smoldering cigarette, the dark abyss of the luxuriant tree's shadow, a bench, and a couple flying into the abyss.

     The man and the girl will sit down at the table in the left corner of my view. I'll turn away politely; my eyes will wander for a while and rest on the glass schooner in the bottle.

     Under the glass sails, the glass owner of the glass hotel will be signing with a glass pen a pile of glass checks and he'll flash his glass teeth. "Oh, it's you, Mr. Donat," the words will start jumping, like glass beads. "We parted only yesterday, and I already am, hah-hah, a billionaire. My hotel, Million Monkeys , is one of the most popular hotels in the world. All the richest people of the earth want to stay in the hotel with such a name. They're opening their wallets even more willingly when they find out that the hotel is aboard a schooner. Finally, they go completely crazy and give me their last cent when they realize whither we are sailing. No, you'll die laughing when you see this crowd of people, rich yesterday and poor today, humbly floating down the course I'm charting." "You're charting the course?" I'll ask, incredulous. "Not for yourself, but for the entire crowd?" "Oh, it doesn't matter, Mr. Donat. A paradise is a paradise, what difference does it make who's charting the course thither." "Mr. Verma, you're mistaken; one paradise for all is hard to imagine. You are born and you're a ball rolling in a groove. You don't see its continuation; it is inextricably interwoven with countless other grooves, but only your groove will lead you to your paradise, if you're ever going to get there at all. Don't count on the crowd. You get a crowd when many balls are simultaneously rolling next to each other for some time. Don't count on love and friendship. They are nothing else, but two balls temporarily rolling next to each other. Sooner or later they'll diverge. We are alone from the day we are born. Like a train in the night, like the moon, like a leaf in a puddle, like a dead man, like me, like you. . . ." "Mr. Donat, you're a pessimist. I think that everything is wonderfully arranged. I became a billionaire. I'm sailing to paradise. And, pardon my expression, I don't give a spit about your grooves as long as they, hah-hah, aren't on a woman." "Well, why not, Mr. Verma, you may be right; women are worth everything. Listen, Verma, we know each other, so let's drop the Misters and be friends. I'm simply Donat and you're Verma. Without the Mister, your name is like a wine. You're yellow, sweet, strong, with a flavor of smoked nuts. I'm white, dry, and sour. We are two bottles of different wines. Where is your glass, let's have a toast; I'll drink you and you'll drink me. You aren't such a bad wine, Verma. Listen, Verma, do you see the table in the left corner of my view? Two people, a heavy elderly man and a delicate trembling girl are sitting there in silence. Now look at the bar. That bottle with double walls and a light brown drink confines a great dream. Some eccentric, who has never fallen, never hit himself against life, decided to encase his dream in a double glass, and he strengthened it with a drink that all people call strong, but as soon as they drink it, they become weak. Listen, Verma, doesn't it seem to you that the table on the left and this bottle are, in some way, astonishingly alike? That the man looks like the bottle and the girl-like the schooner? Listen, Verma, let's drink this stocky, aging man, and the dream will be mine."           

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