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Return to Montmartre. To see Paris and to die...? :.: Article 13.02.2019 at 21:00 :.: Article

Evening in Paris met him blooming in the flower beds of violets and evening noise of the streets. It was in spring, along the road is already lit night lights, past the honking and snarling, raced nimble scooters, in the air hovered the mixed scents of sandalwood, freshly baked baguette and shampoo, which had just been washed the street where he was. Go to the previous part of the story is Slowly creeping past the compact Citroen and Peugeot stunned, but not evil, was beeping from somewhere in front came the French melody with the sad notes of the violin and accordion, head over to the Seagull screamed out... "So close to the Seine," the by itself, the idea came to mind. And this one thought he involuntarily smiled the smile of a child or a madman, just like that. "Now, I'm back in Paris. Hello France, Hello Paris, Hello all"... He walked slowly and quietly smiled to his thoughts, the night city, the busy streets, myself. Just. Just because he was good, no matter what, from anyone. That night he spent on the bench. Rather, somewhere in the midnight, he happily roamed the night streets, turned his head right and left in the bright neon signs, listening to the noise of Paris at night, the shrill sounds of horns, screeching brakes, steps hurrying past him by a young couple, peering at the outlines of the Eiffel tower, which shimmered with lights of all colors shot into the night a ray of light, and then suddenly went out... hung around until tired and sat down to rest near the subway entrance under the sign "Metropolitan — Anvers". Yes, there on the bench, under the lamp in cast iron with curls hanging pots, from which hung yellow lilies, and accidentally fell asleep. The habit of "how" to count everything and plan, after a stroll around the city failed, replaced poluboginey smile on a tired, but probably from childhood not been so happy face. Then there curled up on the bench under the yellow lilies near the distant station Anvers, he was hallucinating that he is a boy again and my mother is still alive, and near his father, standing and smiling. And that they are at home and near the house of blossoms is a large field with yellow lilies. And mother looks into his eyes and gently stroked a warm hand over his cheek, again and again, again and again. And then suddenly swings... and he was awakened by the cold of the morning. He rubbed his eyes, looked around, barely remembering where he is. It was 5 o'clock and on the streets, through the dispersing mist was not yet seen people. He got up and, wrapped in a coat, walked from the station up towards Montmartre. Montmartre, more recently, the village with its narrow cobbled streets, the snake leading to the top of the hill with its cozy zucchini and beer, cozy gardens and old houses with shutters and mansard roofs... Montmartre, where at any time you can drink wine and eat on the street and watch the street artists, tirelessly depicting Paris and its inhabitants... With his army of the unrecognized writers and poets, artists of circus and just vagrants, with a desire to listen to the street trumpeters and organ grinders... This Montmartre has long been a part of his memory, even then, the first time his boss called for him, then to leave forever in your heart and see in my dreams. He turned right on rue de la Bonne, as indicated by the blue sign on the corner of the house, just on a whim, and walked up, wondering which house he likes most. Here is one with wrought iron gates, wildly overgrown pear and plum trees, steep high attic on the fifth floor. Here's another — with attics tender pistachio color, which from the fourth floor window looks disheveled man with a blue nose, worthy of Monet. Here's another one with ornate style and high front c the head of a lion on the front and descending down in waves Lavra, on the ground floor which houses the restaurant with the inscription "A la Coupole". He sat on the edge of a chair, asked for a Cup of coffee and asked seems to know where nearby room. To his luck, the waiter showed the two apartments, where he could find shelter. Finishing his coffee, he went up to the fifth floor and rang at apartment 35 ("As the number of the apartment of my childhood" — with a smile he thought). The door was opened by a wizened old woman with a shock of curly gray hair, a typical Madame of a post-middle-aged. "Madame..." he began. He was lucky. She ushered him upstairs, showed me the attic. One small room of twelve meters, not more. Bed, small dressing table with mirror, curved legs, two wooden wicker chairs. On the floor rug, as my grandmother. Small bathroom and toilet. Very cozy, old-fashioned and very French elegant. In the corner were shaking the cobwebs from the French scared of a spider with thin legs through the half-closed shutters beat a bright spring beam on the street in the distance, I heard the signal horns, voices. He incredibly wanted to sleep and was so happy... For room Madam asked 50 euros per night and demanded the money up front for a week. Bargain he did not, paying 350 euros and he smiled and shut the door, Madam. When Madame is gone, he flung open the shutters wide open, leaned on the sash from the window and sucked nostrils the heating air. Subtle scents of lavender, freshly baked pastries and the coming storm was in the air. How my heart was okay, quiet! As probably never was. Clouds appeared, thunder boomed and the spring Montmartre ran foaming streams. He lay down on the bed as she was, in clothes, closed his eyes, listening to the hum of the human swarm outside the window, and was drifting into sleep... In a half awake-half asleep again he dreamed of his childhood. Here he is a boy goes with his mother to school, and he was so happy, so love looking at him, so happy for him. Here he is on vacation at grandma's, here floating on the boat, but riding a horse... And now he's in a summer garden. Blooming Apple trees, the buzzing of bees next hear inextinguishable laughter... When he woke up, it was about five hours. He washed his face, smoothed his wet hands over his hair. He even thought that he was something similar to Richard Gere, with the same grey hair and a look in his eyes. Went out into the yard and walked slowly down the street, welcoming in ways completely unfamiliar to him, ladies and gentlemen. At the cafe he ordered a complete meal: a baguette, onion soup, beef Bourguignon in red wine, dessert, a glass of white wine. Slowly and glancing at the stream of passers-by, ate first one, then another. Drank all the wine and happy leaned back in his chair, enjoying the smells, the views, the weather, all that surrounded him. And to think, after all, he was rarely satisfied. All the time something prevented. It's school, work, mom was unhappy, then his wife, the chief... such is life. Always had a thousand grievances, and rarely at least one reason to be a happy, happy. But now... now things will be different, and he doesn't need anyone's approval... Coming out of the restaurant, in the shop he bought razor blades, rubber band and notebook with pen. Ah, Paris, Ah, Paris... How he missed them, how many times have imagined in their dreams, saw in a dream as he returns to where his soul comfortable the whole where peace and beauty, and spring violets blooming... He walked through the brightly lit streets, and he again felt that he was not born at the time and in the wrong place. That always had to be a part of Paris, Montmartre. To be born here, a hundred years ago, when Montmartre was still a poor village of poets and artists, writers, and ladies of easy virtue. Born where smell of lavender and summer rain. Now his whole life seemed a sad mistake, a conveyor, an endless running squirrels in a wheel... Oh, Paris, you don't understand my life. You don't even know I'm here and that you make me happy like no one else. Ah, my dear Montmartre, Montmartre... We do not need anyone... he Returned back, he scored a tub of hot water, stood for a moment wide open window, past which the flowing life in all its diversity, then closed one shutter, got bought blades, harness, went into the bathroom and firmly shut the door behind him. The next morning dawned even more beautiful than the previous one. The sun's rays broke through the shutters, birds were taken out odes to spring and love, along the streets of Montmartre again started people, cars, scooters... Well, isn't that a beautiful Montmartre on a spring day? Can there be on earth a better place? Better its winding cobbled streets, sprawling gardens, pistachio attic and closed the shutter? Is there any place on earth, where you want to live? No, there's no place else on earth. Its just there on the ground. But it is for everyone in his memory, his memories of his youth and fruitless endeavors fortunately the Breeze flirted with the silk curtain, the spring sun warmed stronger. And only the bed in pistachio the attic had remained untouched......

This article describe tags: walk around the city, Paris, France