I don't like entertainment venues. People think they are relaxing and unwinding, but in reality they are all behaving unnaturally and ostentatiously. They try to look better and act more interesting. They're like mannequins in the window of an ordinary Parisian boutique. But unlike real mannequins, which shoppers stare at, these mannequins are constantly staring at each other. They evaluate and compare. How can you relax and unwind in such a place?
Jean-Pierre's poorly combed head looms below my shoulder, and everyone looks at me like I'm a fool. I feel like an outsider among all these people. My anxiety level rises again. I feel myself starting to sweat involuntarily. However, maybe it is really hot there.
A classic French-style restaurant. Bright and rather elegant interior. Pleasant music and relaxed soft lighting. A little old-fashioned, but nice. At least Arabs don't come to places like this. We sit down at a table. I stretch my legs in my sneakers. It's a good thing I decided not to wear shoes at the last minute. Of course, they would have gone better with the dress, but it's uncomfortable enough as it is.
"What would you prefer? Chicken? Seafood?" Jean-Pierre asks, studying the menu. "We can have freshly caught sea bass..."
I feel out of place. Why did I even come here? A waiter appears at our table. He tries to be overly polite, but I find him arrogant. With a forced smile, he prepares to take Jean-Pierre's order, but I don't let him:
"Beefsteak bien cuit. Comprendre?"
"Understood. Appetizer? Snacks?"
"150 grams of vodka. That's all."
"Um... May I suggest our chef's onion soup?" The waiter catches my eye and, realizing he has said something stupid, stops short. "I'm sorry."
"I'll have the same as the lady," says Jean-Pierre, barely holding back his laughter, after which the waiter leaves, somewhat confused. "Wow! I'm sure they haven't had an order like that here since 1812."
I silently down the glass in one gulp. I have never been able to enjoy either the process or the result of drinking alcohol. That is probably why I quickly switched exclusively to strong alcohol. However, that did not remedy the situation. For starters, I don't even understand what exactly I am supposed to feel and what I am supposed to enjoy. Passing through the mucous membranes, the alcohol causes a slight burning sensation and bitterness as it rushes down the esophagus into the stomach. But there, a portion of the secreted enzymatic antitoxin is already waiting for it.
In a few minutes, a similar substance, the name of which I no longer remember, will be released into the bloodstream to neutralize the effect of the absorbed alcohol. In addition, the adrenaline level will rise to keep the psyche in good shape. This is the standard pattern that my body resorts to every time I want to get drunk. At the same time, the amount of alcohol plays practically no role. There have been times when I filled my stomach with it as an experiment, but apart from a feeling of heaviness inside, it didn't cause any sensations. They say Jesus turned water into wine. What would he say about this trick?
"You're showing off for nothing," I warn Jean-Pierre, seeing him repeat my gesture. "You'll get drunk because you're not used to it."
"How do you Russians drink this stuff?" the Frenchman grimaces.
"We don't drink it, we down it."
"I want to know more about you. Tell me, why did you decide to pursue a military career? Are you from a military family?"
"Oh, you, a journal-whore..." I smile. "Still can't let go of the idea of writing an article?"
"No! No interview!" the guy replies seriously, and for some reason I believe him. "This is of personal interest to me."
"I don't remember my parents very well. Just fragments... Most of my childhood memories are of the orphanage in Erfurt. I think some Soviet soldier left me there. I remember his uniform. They were just about to leave Eastern Europe. But I don't think it was my father... At least, I don't want to think that he could have done that to me.
"That's sad," Jean-Pierre responds sincerely.
"There was a woman working among the staff. A German woman who spoke Russian. But I don't remember any other children. It seems I was alone. Loneliness. Definitely my most vivid childhood memory," I finally say as the meat is served, and I begin to eat my steak with gusto. "But even then, I knew how to stand up for myself.
"You're good at that.
"Yes.
"If you don't mind, I'll have some red wine with my meat," says Jean-Pierre and cautiously signals the waiter.
"As you wish. I don't see the point in drinking anymore today anyway. But it will definitely knock you out."
The Frenchman pours himself a glass of rich burgundy wine, winks at me, and brings it to his lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice some movement outside the window. Several short chains of police officers in helmets and body armor, armed with shields and batons, are marching down the street.
The restaurant manager appears in the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize, but our establishment is closing. There are street riots happening in the immediate vicinity."
Without much fuss, the patrons begin to gather their things and leave. Jean-Pierre looks around anxiously. He wants to get up, but I stop him by placing my hand on his. This is our first physical contact. Something inside me makes me calm down.
"Let's stay a little longer. I want to finish my steak."
"But... Did you hear?"
"I just want to finish my steak," I repeat.
The police on the street are hurriedly moving in the opposite direction. One of the gendarmes is being dragged away by his arms. He is not wearing a helmet, and his head is covered in blood. The law enforcement officers are firing tear gas canisters. Debris, stones, and what appear to be Molotov cocktails are flying in their direction. The space outside the window is filled with acrid gray-green smoke.
I finish the last bite of my steak and say to my companion:
"Well, shall we go?"
"Where?" he asks, puzzled.
I look around. It seems that the restaurant's management and staff have long since fled their own establishment, like rats from a sinking ship. I take the half-empty bottle of wine from the table.
"Do you think takeout service would be acceptable here?" I hand the bottle to Jean-Pierre and, taking him firmly by the hand, lead him away from the restaurant and into the smoke. Crouching slightly, we move in short bursts, trying to stay close to the wall.
"Why not to the left? It's closer," the Frenchman finally asks, drinking wine straight from the bottle.
"The police are there now. They've cordoned off the area. And they're very unhappy. Do you want to get hit on the head?"
"But we... We live there."
"They'll figure it out. We'll just go around the block from the other side. It'll be safer..." I don't have time to finish because a piece of brick flies into the window next to us. We are showered with tiny glass shards. I literally drag Jean-Pierre by the collar behind an overturned trash can. He sucks on the bottle again. Self-control and restraint are not his strong suits.
The protests finally turn into riots and looting. On the opposite side of the street, two people wearing hoods enthusiastically break down the doors of a small pharmacy. A little further away, amid wild cries, a bottle of Molotov cocktail flies into a car parked at the curb. I realize that being cautious in such conditions is, on the contrary, more risky.
"Don't fall behind, understand?!" I literally yell into Jean-Pierre's ear, and he nods in response, but seems to be already struggling to think clearly.
Still crouching low, we run past several houses and turn the corner. The group of young men who set the car on fire notice us and rush after us, wanting, at the very least, to get their hands on the contents of our pockets. I feel the adrenaline rush through my veins. My heart is beating fast, rushing oxygen to my muscles.
"Finished?" I ask the Frenchman and, without waiting for an answer, snatch the bottle from his hands. However, it is indeed empty, so without hesitation, I swing it at the empty head of the nearest attacker.
The second one decides to knock me off my feet, but gets a straight punch in the face. I hear the sound of a broken nose and the slurping of spilled blood. Another punch to the solar plexus finally calms him down. I turn around, exhaling sharply. Jean-Pierre is lying unconscious on the sidewalk, and some cheeky guy in a hoodie and mask is already rummaging through his pockets. Apparently, the weirdo decided that his two friends could handle me without any problems. Deciding not to drag it out, I grab him by the head and, pressing down with all my weight, drag his face across the asphalt, turning his incoherently screaming mug into a bloody mess.
"Excusez-moi, motherfucker!"
I lift Jean-Pierre off the ground, hoist him onto my shoulder, and drag him toward our house. After about two hundred meters, we hide in the safety of the front entrance. It's a good thing my frog-eating neighbor isn't particularly large; dragging some burly brute up to the second floor would have been much more difficult. I lean his unconscious, drunken, beaten body against the wall, but I can't find the keys in his pockets.
"You bastard! Did you deliberately lose them so you could sneak into my bed?" I mutter angrily under my breath as I open the door to my apartment. I drag Jean-Pierre inside without turning on the light and drop him on the bed like a sack.
In this situation, I hardly need to worry about my honor. And I'm used to putting up with discomfort. So I just take the free spot and feel myself gradually passing out. 10:31 p.m. I'm asleep.