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 one story and an attic ready to fall over. The walls were encroached upon, the bricks appeared as being obscene, the wallpaint was melting before his eyes. 'Don't fucking know how this jerrybuilt house was even whitstanding, I was imagining that if another streetcar was clumping its way by, it would have fallen at its first sound. But the streetcar hadn't been passing by by there since 15 years ago. The Fainted Bitch was living at the ground floor of the building- now, after so many years have passed by I have somewhat of an acceptance for it, it didn't fall, it didn't hurt anybody, there only the alcohool kills- in fact it was living in the one meter deep ground floor- oh, the ironic fate, this way it grew the drunks accustomed to the mud- this Bitch was a hell of a pub... It was near Christmas, it was so and so outside, you could've drank another case of beer without getting icecles hanging from your nostrils. I entered the temple of perdition and my fate got set in stone. Inside it was playing French ''chansons''(songs) in the background, however everyone seemed to agree with Edith who had no regrets. There were almost 10 people inside, 20 bleared eyes- as I thought the first time, later I found out that I was wrong by 3- and everyone was minding its own business with holy scrupulosity. No one was talking, but there was a pleasure in seeing them, as if by a signal they all raised up their glasses and they took two small sips, after they put them back on the table, you could hear a single gurgle and a single clap...and even so a conversation still existed, I could feel it, it was floating in the air. I knew it was a solemn moment, but my throat got dry as hell, my amoeba from my stomach was asking to be watered, watered even more as it was growing. Without even waiting, I hinted myself as a sweet word near the bar, with enough gut and some money to order two beers for me and my fellow. The Bartender, a short and fat guy, with a beard and some grizzled moustaches, with a waggish blow face and with a faulty right eye, a white stain, motioned me to shut up. "Esteemed table companions! The Christmas holidays it's near, you've worked dearly this year, each at his own pace and us the same as any respectable company offer a bonus. Here this lil' pile of money it's for you, go by the bar to see uncle Gelu to prepare for you a serving. I can't stay because I have to deliver, but happy drunkdays!'' |