The clatter of knives against plates, the low murmur of distant conversations, the rustle of clothes, and the soft creak of floors beneath the hurried steps of waiters filled the restaurant. Then, a quiet, gentle voice broke through the din: "And I, I love Negresses!" All eyes turned to the speaker, a man previously unremarkable, forgotten even by those who saw him daily. This was Semyon Vasilyevich Kotelnikov, a civil servant whom his colleagues had served alongside for five years, sharing meals after payday, yet truly seeing him for the very first time.
His face, a collection of small features with reddish whiskers, now glistened slightly, and his small, colorless eyes held a newfound, almost defiant, glint. He was not, it turned out, entirely bad-looking, save for the freckles that dotted his skin like splashes of mud. His collar, though paper, was impeccably white. Anton Ivanovich, the section chief, still red from nearly choking on his vodka, scrutinized Semyon Vasilyevich with bulging, curious eyes. "So you, Semyon… what was it?" he stammered. "Semyon Vasilyevich," Kotelnikov corrected, pronouncing each syllable with a quiet dignity that surprised and pleased everyone.
"So you, Semyon Vasilyevich… love Negresses?" Anton Ivanovich pressed. "Yes, I very much love Negresses," came the reply, his voice small and somewhat shriveled, like a withered turnip, yet strangely pleasant. A ripple of suppressed laughter went through the table, quickly followed by a realization that Semyon Vasilyevich, in his odd pronouncement, had revealed himself to be a man of unexpected depth, perhaps even educated, for he had used the word "exotic." His colleagues, however, were quick to argue, listing all the reasons why one could not possibly love "black women": their dark skin, their oiliness, their impossibly thick lips, and an unpleasant odor that supposedly clung to them.
Semyon Vasilyevich, though he chuckled softly, a dry, pea-like sound, and flushed with pleasure, also harbored a slight fear that this newfound "originality" might lead to unpleasantness. Yet, he persevered, explaining, "In them, in these black women, there is something so fiery, or, how shall I explain it to you, exotic." And so, his declaration, born perhaps from a quiet desperation to be noticed, took root. He began to cultivate this image, becoming the "original man" who loved Negresses. His life, once a grey, unnoticed existence, now had a distinct, if peculiar, hue.
This manufactured eccentricity, however, proved to be a double-edged sword. While it drew attention and differentiated him from the faceless mass of civil servants, it also encased him in a new kind of conformity. He was no longer just Semyon Vasilyevich; he was "the one who loves Negresses," his identity defined by this single, strange preference. The pursuit of originality, in his case, became a new form of imprisonment, a social mask that, while initially liberating, ultimately trapped him within its confines. His internal world, if it ever truly harbored such a passion, was now secondary to the public performance of it, revealing the ironic emptiness that can lie beneath the surface of contrived individuality.
