In those days, the future ice-cream man decided what he wanted to be. His choice was difficult: to become a confectioner, or create frozen delicacies? The complexity of such a choice probably pulled him away from his agemates, who sincerely dreamed of becoming firefighters, astronauts or cool special agents. At the age of eight, his dream of creating ice cream was not just “uncool”; it was “a slam”, as the boys in his neighborhood said in disgust.
Time went on. The kid grew up and understood that in order to fulfill his lifelong dream, which could seem so simple in comparison to the dreams of others, he needed to take action. Having assumed as a basis of his life that theory without practice was dead, the future ice-cream man decided to begin with practice. He got a part-time job at the nearest café. I won’t tell you the details of his growth. Within half a year, the guy grew from the washerman of floors to the assistant chef. And desserts were his peculiarity. In just a few months, a simple and small café in a rather poor Parisian quarter became incredibly popular, and the prices for desserts were shamefully high.
After a while, the ice-cream man was lured away to a decent restaurant, and everything was smooth sailing. By 35, he was the owner of a café that served exquisite coffee, elite tea and delightful desserts.
Our ice-cream man was at his best. He was creating with all his heart and with ecstasy, mixing berries, fruits, and chocolate; and combining ice cream with whipped cream and even hot pepper.
Finally, a big number of Parisians were ready to go to him from all throughout the city to enjoy his marvelous desserts. The ice-cream man became extremely popular; and thanks to his surprising physical similarity to Santa Claus, he was just as well-known a figure in the sphere of desserts and dainty delicacies.
His mother was absolutely happy, but she was worried that the only love of her son’s life was ice cream. He did not burden himself with the search for his second half, completely dipping into his main passion that answered with the same reciprocity. Each new portion of ice cream, each new sort and taste became the season’s hits, the real masterpieces. In his café, there were one hundred seventy-five types of ice cream and uncountable variations of tastes combined with various fillers: syrups, creams, fruits, nuts, cookies and chocolates. The cost of some portions reached impressive sums. Of course, it didn’t go as high as in Dubai, where the ice-cream balls are served in Versace bowls that the visitor can take with him. Nevertheless, it was rather high, and it was treated as an astonishing dessert ordered only on special occasions.
Listening to our Santa, we were sincerely surprised to know what had brought him into the Parisian hostel. It was rather strange; and according to him, it was obvious that he had his own apartment. And if he, together with his mother, hadn’t bought their own house or flat in a prestigious area or the countryside yet, then for certain they had a roof over their heads that was much more comfortable than our shelter. It was a well of stories and coziness, but after all that, it remained just a hostel.
Certainly, he fit into our constantly changing circle, having shown himself not only an attentive listener, but also a wonderful storyteller. But the fact of his staying in a hostel generated a set of questions – and not only from me.
And he, in telling the story of his life, was creating a new delicacy as an artist, adding some sugar dragée or syrup, a stick of cinnamon or chocolate glaze. And what was surprising was that in his story, there was no hint of any woman, even the one who would draw his attention or would inspire the creation of the next ice-cream marvel with a surprising name.
By the way, I would like to tell more about the names. They were not too elaborate or abstruse – they breathed with simplicity and sincerity. A bit later, having visited our Santa’s small restaurant, I understood how precisely they corresponded to an essence of the dessert and the mood of the person who ordered it. “The Autumn Symphony” or “Golden Leaf Fall” with their tart smell; or “Honey Month” with the intoxicating aroma of white honey, so bright and clear… Each ice cream became a small story: at first for himself, and then for someone else, or even a couple.
Santa became silent for a few minutes. It seemed that he plunged into his memoirs or his imagining of the next masterpiece. Unconsciously stroking the snow-white mustache, he looked so far away, as if thousands of miles from us and our hostel, and having absolutely forgotten about his listeners. Then he quietly said: “And here I am.”
It turned out that his beloved mother, having grown tired of waiting for his 40-year-old son’s acquaintance with the daughter-in-law, not to mention future grandsons, just decided to arrange a private life. No, not our ice-cream man’s life; she had been trying to make that for nearly fifteen years.
No. She arranged her personal romantic life.
As soon as she wasn’t oppressed by two jobs and money flew into their hands, she grew young again, blossomed, and found an agemate. Last week, they returned from their honeymoon to the house, where she lived with her son.
Oh, of course, you can say that a man of such age should live separately, especially someone as independent and as successful as he was. Certainly – if he has plans for his own private life. If, near him, could be a woman who can make a tasty breakfast and show tenderness and care. And what if everything that interested our hero lay outside these mere pleasures? What if his comfort was circled by the smile of his mother, who had been near him since his childhood, and ice cream became his greatest love?
Mother’s marriage deeply wounded our Santa. He couldn’t imagine that he would have to share the attention of his dearest and loved mother with someone else.
Suddenly, the ice-cream man realized his loneliness. He felt so sharply, painfully, and inexpressibly hopeless that he rushed away from the house. The whole day, he lived in a magnificent hotel “Bristol”, where he nearly went crazy from the prudish foreigners and narcissistic fellow citizens who treated him like a poor little boy from the neighborhood he had quite forgotten about. Or, it seemed to him that they saw right through him.
So he ran away to hostel.
While he was telling this story, we noticed that his hands, stroking his mustache and chin, slightly shook; and the brown eyebrows over his eyes angrily knitted, not allowing a big stream of emotions to escape outside. It seemed that the dam was just about to fail, and the naked human soul hidden in those eyes would appear before everyone in its true form.
The ice-cream man deeply sighed for several times, but he excellently coped with the internal nervousness which had seized him that minute. Suddenly smiling, he told us that before coming to the hostel, he felt himself devastated, just like a piece of ice. And now, his feelings and emotions began to come to life.
Telling his story, it was as if he endured it anew. And it gave rise to new associations, and was an inspiration source. That evening, he promised that in honor of everyone who sat with him that day, he would create a unique taste of ice cream and would call it by our names. He peered at us, trying to remember. Honestly, it seemed to me that I could already see my own copy in the crackling wafer cup.
The evening smoothly came over to another set of stories. And though calm talks by a fireplace were similar to the murmur of a stream – calmed and pacified – I noticed that Santa, with a complacent smile, wrote down his ideas, attentively studying us one by one.
At this moment, I came up with an absolutely crazy idea. “You turn us into ice cream; you’re a wizard. You know all about it. You also tell so fabulously about ice cream that even those who were indifferent to this delicacy are now ready to love it with all their hearts and enjoy the taste. And what ice cream would you fall in love with? Carelessly? Don’t you still have a favorite ice cream that would steal your heart forever, having become a real diamond in your collection of masterpieces?
Our ice-cream man seemed to choke with indignation. Of course he had such an ice cream! Every ice cream was a part of his soul, but there was one he had created for himself.
And here, it became clear to our kind, dear Santa what I was trying to tell him. My God! If he could turn people into ice creams, what if he made it a backward process, and found his desired delicacy in female form?
The