The Final Circle of Paradise

I stood in the lobby for a while, becoming myself again, and gazing at the metallic figure of Vladimir Sergeyevitch.

After all, all this is not new. After all, millions of people are not what they pass themselves for. But the damnable barber had made me over into an empiriocritic. Reality was masked with gorgeous hieroglyphics. I no longer believed what I saw in this city. The plaza covered with stereo-plastic was probably in reality not beautiful at all. Under the elegant contours of the autos lurked ominous and ugly shapes. And that beautiful charming woman is no doubt in fact a repulsive malodorous hyena, a promiscuous dull-witted sow. I closed my eyes and shook my head. The old devil!

Two meticulously groomed oldsters stopped nearby and began to debate heatedly the relative merits of baked pheasant compared with pheasant broiled with feathers. They argued, drooling saliva, smacking their lips and choking, snapping their bony fingers under each other's noses. No Master could help these two. They were Masters themselves and they made no bones about it. At any rate, they restored my materialist viewpoint. I went to a porter and inquired about a restaurant.

"Right in front of you," said he and smiled at the arguing oldsters. "Any cuisine in the world."

I could have mistaken the entrance to the restaurant for the gates to a botanical garden. I entered, parting the branches of exotic trees, stepping alternately on soft grass and coral flagstones. Unseen birds twittered in the luxuriant greenery, and the discreet clatter of utensils was mixed with the sound of conversation and laughter. A golden bird flew right in front of my nose, barely able to carry the load of a caviar tartine in its beak.

"I am at your service," said the deep velvety voice.

An imposing giant of a man with epaulettes stepped toward me cut of a thicket.

"Dinner," I said curtly. I don't like maitres-d'hotel.

"Dinner," he said significantly. "In company? Separate table?"'

"Separate table. On second thought…"

A notebook instantaneously appeared in his hand.

"A man of your age would be welcome at the table of Mrs. and Miss Hamilton-Rey."

"Go on," I said.

"Father Geoffrois…"

"I would prefer an aborigine."

He turned the page.

"Opir, doctor of philosophy, just now has sat down at his table."

"That's a possibility," said I.

He put away the book and led me along a path paved with limestone slabs. Somewhere around us there were people eating, talking, swishing seltzer. Hummingbirds darted like multicolored bees in the leaves. The maitre-d'hotel inquired respectfully, "How would you like to be introduced?"

"Ivan. Tourist and litterateur."

Doctor Opir was about fifty. I liked him at once because he immediately and without any ceremony sent the maitre-d'hotel packing after a waiter. He was pink and plump, and moved and talked incessantly.

"Don't trouble yourself," he said when I reached for the menu. "It's all set already. Vodka, anchovies under egg – we call them pacifunties – potato soup…"

"With sour cream," I interjected.

"Of course!… steamed sturgeon a la Astrakhan… a patty of veal…"

"I would prefer pheasant baked in feathers."

"No – don't; it's not the season… a slice of beef, eel in sweet marinade."

"Coffee," I said.

" Cognac," he retorted.

"Coffee with cognac."

"All right, cognac and coffee with cognac. Some pale wine with the fish and a good natural cigar."

Dinner with Doctor Opir turned out to be most congenial.

It was possible to eat, drink, and listen. Or not to listen.

Doctor Opir did not need a conversation. He required a listener. I did not have to participate in the talking, I didn't even supply any commentaries, while he orated with enthusiastic delight, almost without interruption, waving his fork, while plates and dishes nonetheless became empty in front of him with mystifying speed. Never in my life have I met a man who was so skilled in conversation while his mouth was so fully packed and so busy masticating.