In Paris, evening falls. It has rained recently, so the dead autumn leaves are beaten down and form a weird pattern on the asphalt. People hurry to their dates, rush past with their cigarettes burning and leave after them cloudlets of tobacco smoke.
Here comes a distinct smell of prune, such a sweet smell; people on the terrace give way, and there is our striking character behind the crowd.
This is Henri. An Art Faculty student. Brightly dressed, lanky and leggy, with iron-rod posture. He has just lighted a roll-up and settled comfortably on a bent-wood chair at the round table. He is looking dreamily around him, and oh, his face is beaming with joy: a waiter is bringing his favourite cocktail – ruby-coloured Kir Royal with real Crème de cassis. Henry loves it for its rich colour, for the bubbles of champagne, which tickle his tongue, for its sweetness and Burgundian blackcurrant flavour. He associates the drink with luxury and holiday. Henri thinks: if you feel very sad, the moment you order a glass of Kir, your grief takes to its heels in horror and leaves you to admire the play of bubbles sparkling in your glass.
For Henri, drinking this royal cocktail is like good meditation. He drinks it slowly, considering every detail, every note of the flavour. At the same time he fancies wonderful life in в luxury mansion with a garden in blossom; he imagines arranging cool parties so at daybreak they come out – a bit drank and happy, excellently-dressed – in the fields to the river and watch how the sun rises.
Indeed, who could put Henri to shame for his excessive dreaminess – he doesn’t care a bit; he knows for sure sometime it will be like that.