Small French Dress
According to horoscope That New Year should be met in red, and I had taken a red small French dress to Krasnodar. At least it did not take much space in the travelling bag. Frankly speaking, I never wore such short and fitting dresses. Brought up in a Puritan-Soviet family, I preferred jeans and a sweater for all occasions. Perhaps, the reason my Sasha left me was that I missed purely female tricks, a coquetry, courage in clothes and impudence in a bed. Sveta, the girlfriend of mine living with the black husband in Paris had nicknamed me "fainted amoeba". That was her to make me buy this fatal dress. In the fitting room, having smoothed on me the last fold, she became delighted:
- You are so cute in that! A doll! A Barbie! Patricia Kaas! Total delight!
And I had taken it...
First it seemed to me that there was no such boring New Year in my life and there won't be. In Krasnodar I turned out to be on the anniversary of my scientific director who had managed to be born right on the New Year's Eve 70 years ago. The company there was so-so. There were the veterans of jurisprudence and their girlfriends - God's dandelions. In the small French dress I felt like a white crow, though with the red feathers. To the third toast there appeared the nephew of the professor-hero of the anniversary – the nephew was the high blond, the champion of Latvia in canoe racing. He sat down opposite to me, and, of course, the game of exchanging the looks had begun at once.
Those guests who smoked were coming out to the stair platform where the ashtray can had been fixed on the iron lattice blocking the passage to the attic. I just had got up there when the champion in rowing appeared, he asked me for a cigarette. We got acquainted - Ayvar, Rita... We chatted about the harm of the tobacco for athletes. Then we had gone down back to the party. Then we went out to smoke again. And again we had a secular obligatory to nothing chat, though I felt his look burning down my body through the dress. I had entirely forgotten about the boredom of that night.
For half an hour to the ringing of the New Year's chiming clock Ayvar had again shown me with his eyes: "Maybe we will go smoking?" I was already enough smoked, but still followed him afterwards. All others stayed. Ayvar had opened not locked lattice.
- Do you want to look at the city from above? - he offered, and we got out to the wide flat roof of the apartment tower.
I hadn't even managed to look round the magnificent night panorama under the cleared-up southern stars when his cigarette flew away, and his hands laid down on shoulders. And instead of usual abrupt escaping - I always find biting words in such cases, - suddenly I embrace his waist and try to catch his look, his lips. Deep long kiss... His strong hands of the oarsman are lifting me up, I clasp his body with the legs, and... the lights of Krasnodar and the stars of the New Year's sky began swinging in love pushes...
If I was told that I am capable to be given on a roof to the guy I have just got acquainted to, moreover - on the roof, in the middle of the crowded city, I would consider it a trite joke, nonsense, at last. But that’s what really occurred. Having straightened out the small French dress, I tinted my lips, and we returned to tea as if nothing had happened, and it seemed, nobody had noticed our short absence. In the morning I became horrified from my trick. Was it me to do that? A touch-me-not-mimosa, a modest silent-woman did that?! Probably, and truly still waters run deep...
A week had passed after the adventure on the roof, I was back to Moscow and there I was stuck in another love adventure. Though I had never kept such crafty things in my mind. Before the next series of "Santa-Barbara" the light had gone out as though it was bad luck, and I knocked at the door of my neighbor, the electrician who already helped me in similar situations twice. Sergey Nikolaevich had willingly responded, he took a small lineman's suitcase and went with me. Besides he made a compliment to my new French thing. For unknown reason I didn’t take on something more modest. In pitch darkness, with a small flashlight he was looking for the closed socket under the ottoman. I was sitting in squatting position nearby, watching him working. Till this time I don’t understand how both of us have had appeared on the carpet embracing each other? Three days I tormented myself with excessive self-criticism - what a rubbish I am! To tempt the married person, the father of two almost adult daughters - it is so primitive, so low... Of course, it was me to provoke him, having invited him to the dark apartment and moreover having put on such a frivolous dress. I had gone to the church and spent a long time repenting my sins to the icon of my mediatress.
On Saturday I had gone to visit the sick chief with Nellie Ivanovna a manager of our department. He was in "Kremlevka" (Kremlin hospital) in the personal ward. On the way there Nellie Ivanovna remembered that she hadn't locked her apartment, and she rushed off to the Konkovo, and I had gone to the hospital alone, feeling that visit wouldn’t come to the happy end – I wore the same ill-fated dress again. I even wanted to go with Nellie Ivanovna to Konkovo, but she persuaded me to go alone to come there in time before the hospital closed...
Vladislav Pavlovich had never given a reason to think badly of him at work. He treated all our numerous employees very correctly. And in the ward he kept gentlemanlike with me. But I, such a bitch, had got to his bed. Probably, it was necessary to be an absolutely insensible log to refuse such temptation in the hospital vegetation. He wasn't a log at all... I just imagined how Vladislav Pavlovich would look at me in the department, and I wished to leave, to be transferred to another place at once...
I had understood there was something wrong with me. I was always acting like against my will, as if according to the program imposed to me. I had found in "The newspaper of free announcements" what I was looking for: "I remove stresses; I carry out psychoanalysis according to Freud..." I asked the Lord that the doctor would be a woman, I was recorded on reception by a female voice in the telephone tube. Alas, I was met by the charming and affable dark-haired man who was very attentive and asked me in details about all circumstances of my life including the intimate, and then he had almost freely laid me in the office on the sofa, and I yielded to him in a rush of mad despair, revenging myself, my imaginary righteousness, the Soviet hypocrisy.
... In the evening I was ready to jump out from the balcony of the tenth floor. I hated and despised myself. The only thing that held me on were the words of my unfortunate psychoanalyst that my small French dress bought in second hand shop was guilty of everything. It appears, the clothes absorbs not only the features of a figure of the person wearing it, but his or her energy, psychic and informative aura. The fabric, especially natural - silk, wool, cotton - possesses the increased "memory" for a bio field, as if it is “magnetized" by our body and can return then information to the new owner of the clothes, involuntarily influencing his behavior. Therefore the Agni Yoga, for example, doesn't recommend to use the things which have been worn by the others at all. They should be committed to fire or to be processed with special ritual to erase the image of the former owner. I don’t know who wore that red French dress before, but everything seems to indicate its owner was a real nympho.
Terrified I had looked at my recent purchase, so innocently and serenely hanging on the coat hanger in the wardrobe. Is it really guilty of everything?! No, no, it was too difficult to believe in. It is just the cunning subconsciousness that shifts my fault and responsibility for my acts on the stranger, the entirely unknown person. Anyway I had decided to test the bewitched dress once again.
The whole month I didn't put it on. I wore my usual clothes - jeans, a polo-neck sweater. And no temptations, no breakdowns, no adventures. Then the day of "natural tests" had come. I put on that small French monster and I went to Sheremetyevo-2 to meet Sveta arriving from Paris evening flight. At the "Leningradka" I stopped a private driver of the beige "Volvo". Oh, good luck! – The driver was heading to the airport as well, and, judging by his ignited look, he was ready to give me a lift free of charge – as he was going the same way. The driver was about forty. The thrust open shirt was showing a massive "golda" (golden chain) gleamed in the thick black hair on his breast. "Nouveau riche", I thought? I was almost right. Vadim, that was the name of my so called road benefactor, was the head of a workshop of repairing the foreign cars. As it came out of conversation, the business was going neither good, nor bad, but nevertheless he was able to afford the luxury of spending the holidays both in Cyprus, and in Antalya what I could only dream of.
Keeping up chatting, he threw those tenacious greedy looks on my too highly open knees I so often used to catch being in that artful French dress. I decided that I would never give up to the black magic of stranger’s aura. And when Vadim had offered to drive to his country cottage on the way to look at the new fireplace, I refused resolutely. Vadim's friend had arrived from Munich earlier, and we three met Sveta together. She didn't expect to see me in such a respectable company, but she was glad that we wouldn’t have problems with transport. We went to Moscow together.
- Is this your guy? - she asked me whispering in the ear. - Good! You are progressing!
I was modestly keeping silent. Sveta began to spread her charms to Vadim's friend, the suchlike new business owner. Of course, we had to turn to the country cottage - Sveta was always ready for new acquaintances, and I silently damned her and the dress as well. I had to obey to the general insistence - to the cottage!
And there was the tower of brick under the roof of sparkling zinc. Common dinner. Champagne. Music box. The last CDs from Paris. Dances... Sveta had very quickly moved to the second floor with the new gentleman. I stayed with Vadim together in the drawing room with a fireplace. The owner of the cottage was busy with firewood, kindling the fire. I understood that in a minute or so the inevitable things would occur. I won't be able to resist as usual. And then, without waiting for requests and persuasions, in a rush of gloomy despair I had pulled that damned small French dress off and had thrown it into the flaring fireplace. That trick had made Vadim utterly delighted. I’m not going to describe our frenzy in front of the dancing fire...
Next morning, while I was sleeping, Vadim had gone to Moscow and brought the choice of several boxes with dresses of Le Monty. In a week he proposed to me. He said he had met such a really passionate woman for the first time. We got married. Since that time I never wore the clothes of the others. Particularly small French dresses.