Ten years ago I was in Paris for the first time. I knew French at the time, softly speaking, very approximately. I walk on Montmartre, suddenly it begins to rain, and I jump into a very well-to-do cafe.



I have a nice young waitress. After an exchange of bonds, I ordered “chocolate” – hot chocolate. The waiter smiles to me and says, “Kell’s gone.” I know exactly what the word “kel” means, so I get to produce what, apparently, he asks what size cup of chocolate I want: big or small. I confidently answer, “Gran!” (big) and for conviction I still show with my fingers how big.



Here he begins to laugh, points his finger at his eye and repeats his mysterious "kell-beye." “Aaaah, I think I think. “I think I’ve gotten a shower under the rain.” I get the mirror, I look at it – no, it’s okay. And then it comes to me that all this time he said to me, “What beautiful eyes...”



Now imagine the conversation through the eyes (and ears) of the waitress. He says to the girl, “What beautiful eyes,” to which she answers, “Yes, big,” and still points with the fingers. And then get a mirror to make sure that the eyes are really beautiful. He laughed very much. And every time I passed by my table, I put a little chocolate on it. My fingers were like that, fucking.