As for me, once, not so long ago, I heard whispering behind my back: I was a “reach kid” and “golden boy”, just because my not-very-rich mother has done all her best to provide me with a wonderful education. In the current interpretation, I would not consider myself a “golden boy”, not at all. Probably, I would even consider this an insult, given that I have already achieved a lot by myself. However, we’re not talking about me.
This strange woman appeared in our Paris hostel about three days ago. And if the rest of its inhabitants fit in very well with the space and our communication style, sharing stories and experiences with each other during our gatherings by the fireplace, this lady looked like a real Monomakh’s Cap on the table of children’s handmade items in the kindergarten.
I would like to make it quite clear (yet again, probably) that this hostel did not stay some poor devils who preferred not to stay in the ordinary flophouse because of fear of catching some kind of infection, not at all. Here lived quite respectable and well-off people, even “reach” people, who could afford many things, if not absolutely everything. Of course, we also had wonderful guys – students-hitchhikers who were just starting their way of life, frugal old people, and those who just wanted a more informal environment instead of the glossy ethics of an expensive premium hotel.
But this lady was definitely informal. Her expensive clothes were selected in profoundly poor taste: gaudy colors, incompatible elements, a style fantastically unsuitable for her figure, and… gold. She was decorated more than a Christmas tree, if you know what I mean.
But worst of all were her eyes. My God, how she looked at us as she passed by the fireplace hall! “Beggars” is perhaps the most moderate definition of us that could be read in her eyes. I have never met anyone with so much arrogance and sense of self-importance. By her appearance, she seemed to show us: “I’m not one of you; I’m better than all of you taken together!”
Well, we all came to Paris for various reasons, but they certainly did not include convincing the Golden Woman of something or proving our solvency to her. So we unanimously ignored her contemptuous glances at us; and what was really interesting was that two days later, we completely stopped noticing her.
Therefore, it was a real shock to us when the lady, smelling of vintage Guy Laroche perfume, like a perfume shop, sashayed into our fireplace hall. I don’t even remember what kind of a story I recorded then; I was that surprised by this visit. And she, with her jewels tinkling, darted to an empty chair. As she passed right by me, thanks to my subtle sense of smell, I caught a faint aroma of alcohol. Apparently, Madame drank one or two glasses of wine, which allowed her to lower the bar for a society “worthy of her”.
Graciously nodding to the narrator, she muttered: “Go on, do not pay any attention to me!” But frankly speaking, not to pay attention to the one who is very keen to draw attention was extremely difficult.
Since there were courteous French among us, they immediately encompassed her with care and attention, offering a glass of red wine, which we had been testing that night. The Golden Woman first feigned righteous anger and disgust – how could anyone have thought that she would drink at all; and that she would drink that dubious wine, which is certainly cheaper than three thousand francs per bottle? But ultimately, she gave up and, having taken a few sips of wine, seemed to be satisfied.
