Era o casă veche, cu etaj şi mansardă, gata să cadă pe ea. Zidurile erau ştirbe, cărămizile se arătau obscene, tencuiala se topea văzând cu ochii. Nu-ş-cum dracu’ rezista şandramaua asta, m-inchipuiam că dacă trece vreun tramvai tropăind o dărâmă la primu’ ţignal. Dar tramvaiul nu mai trecea de 15 ani pe acolo. Căţaua Leşinată locuia la parterul clădirii – acum, după atâta timp am o oarecare indulgenţă faţă de ea, nu a căzut, nu a rănit pe nimeni, acolo doar alcoolul ucide – de fapt trăia într-un parter adâncit cu un metru sub pământ – eh, soarta ironică, îi obişnuia din vreme pe beţivi cu glodul – Căţaua asta era o bodegă dată naibii…
Era în preajma Crăciunului, afară era aşa şi aşa, încă se mai putea bea o ladă de bere fără să faci ţurţuri la naretă. Am pătruns în templul pierzaniei şi soarta mea a fost bătută în cuie. Înăuntru se ascultau chansonete franţuzeşti, aproape în surdină, oricum părea că toată lumea e de acord cu Edith care nu regretă nimic.
Erau circa 10 persoane înăuntru, douăzeci de ochi tulburi – aşa am crezut prima dată, mai târziu am aflat că mă înşelam cu aproape 3 – şi fiecare îşi vedea de treaba lui cu o migală sfântă. Nu vorbea nimeni, însă era o splendoare să-i vezi, ca la un semnal ridicau toţi paharele şi sorbeau două înghiţituri mici, după care le aşezau pe masă, se auzea un singur gâl şi un singur clap… şi totuşi exista o comunicare, o simţeam, plutea în aer.
Ştiam că e un moment solemn, însă mi se uscase al naibii gâtlejul, amiba mea din stomac cerea să fie stropită, stropită tot mai tare pe măsură ce creştea. Fără să mai aştept, m-am insinuat ca o vorbă dulce lângă bar, cu suficient tupeu şi ceva biştari să iau două beri, mie şi tovarăşului meu. Barmanul, un tip scund şi gras, cu barbă şi musteţi încărunţite, hâtru la muie şi cu un defect la ochiu’ drept, o pată albă, mi-a făcut semn să tac.
„Stimaţi comesenii mei! E aproape sărbătorile Crăciunului, aţ’ muncit cu drag anu’ ăsta, fiecare cum aţ’ putut, şi la noi ca la orce firmă de respect dăm prima. Uite tenc’şoru ăsta dă cocardei e pentru voi, treceţi pe la bar la nea Gelu să vă facă porţie. Io nu poci sta că am de produs, da’ sărbăutori fericite!” | It was an old house, with an extra floor and an attic ready to fall in at any moment. The walls were crumbling, the bricks looked obscene, the plaster was melting right in front of your eyes. I don't know how the hell that shack was still standing, I was sure that any tram passing by would demolish it just by honking. But the tram doesn't pass by there for almost 15 years now. The Swooning Bitch was on the building's ground floor - now, after all this time, I developed a certain sort of leniency towards it, it didn't fall in, didn't injure anybody, there, only the alcohol was doing the killing - in fact it was on a ground floor that was caved in for about a meter underground - ah, the ironic fate, making sure that the drunks are used to the mud - that Bitch was a hell of a tavern... It was around Christmas, the weather was average, which meant that you could drink a case of beer without growing icicles around the nasal area. I entered the temple of doom and my fate was sealed. Inside they were listening to French chansonettes, almost as a background, it seemed that everyone was agreeing with Edith who regretted nothing. There were around 10 people inside, twenty muddled eyes - that's what I thought at first, later I realized that I was off by at least 3 - and everyone was minding their own business with sacred meticulousness. Nobody was talking, but it was wonderful to see them all pick up their drink in unison, as if on command, taking two small sips, and putting it back on the table, you could hear one single gulp and on single clack... and still, there existed a certain kind of communication, I was feeling it, it was in the air. I knew that it was a solemn moment, but my throat was dry, the amoeba in my stomach was begging to be sprinkled, sprinkled even more abundantly, the more it grew. Without waiting any further, I slicked my way to the bar, with sufficient nerve and a few bucks, to get two beers, one for me and one for my buddy. The barman, a short and fat individual, with a grey beard and mustache, and a defect on his right eye, a white spot, motioned for me to shut up. "My dear guests! The Christmas holidays are almost upon's, y'all worked very hard this year, each doing the best you could, and 'ere, as in any other respectable firm, we give bonus. Look at this 'ere little pile of cockades, it's for you, come to the bar to uncle Gelu, and he'll give you your share. I can't stay 'cos I have to produce, but I wish you happy holidays!" |