When I was little, I thought it was a nice male name. Italian, for example. Ah, how it sounds – Alfonse! And the patronymics would be perfect too – Alfonsovna, Alfonsovich. Unfortunately, later in life I had to realize that this name applies not only to Italians, but also to our ordinary Yevgenis, Dmitris, Alexanders and others. And not so ordinary after all, as they might seem at first glance. Heaven forbid such a priceless experience go to waste, so I’ll tell you how to recognize an alphonse and make a timely escape.
They enter our lives suddenly, appearing like a ray of light in a dark kingdom, outshining everyone. This is the first sign of an alphonse. If five minutes after meeting him he looks into your eyes with puppy-like devotion, holds your hand and swears he’s ready to run after you to the ends of the earth in his slippers – beware! Unless, of course, you’re a fan of intense thrills and emotional trauma, it’s time to grab those slippers and run for your life, so you won’t later sob on your friend’s shoulder wondering: “Ah, but he looked at me so tenderly, said such sweet things – could he really have lied?” The correct answer is: yes, he could, can, and always will. It’s his bread and butter. A professional liar. A beautiful liar.
So you meet, and he tries to fill every inch of space around you, neutralizing all your relatives, friends, and common sense in the process. You realize you’re disappearing, but this disappearance feels so pleasant and sweet that refusing yourself this pleasure is practically impossible. Your phone overflows with text messages, and every minute someone checks in—did you get cold, wet, did you eat, sleep, did you put on underwear and if so, what kind?
This is strategy. You should develop a healthy Pavlovian reflex. The dependency must run deep, even better—vacuum-sealed. No one but him. This state of blind, love-struck horse lasts about a month to a month and a half. Of course, assuming you’re dealing with a true alphonse, not just an ordinary scammer. The latter might finish the job in a week, while an alphonse stretches out the pleasure, lying with such abandon that sometimes it seems he believes himself.
He takes care of you sweetly and touchingly. Money “has never meant anything” to him, so at best you can expect moonlit walks, cotton candy, and ice cream in a cup. Because it’s more romantic that way. And flowers too. Tulips (though remember, the peak of mastery is roses), folded from napkins at a roadside café. Because, unlike real flowers, they can last forever. He’ll write your name with his finger on the fogged-up bus window, kneel down and whisper confessions so intense that any woman, even the most rational one, would get dizzy. He’ll be handsome as a god, swift as a cheetah, and you’ll no longer care who says what about him or whether there are any rules or moral principles.
Next, alphonse types can be divided into two groups. Conditionally, let’s call them “The Lion on the Hunt” and “The Eternal Seagull.”
The first category is more decisive and refined—and thus more dangerous. He needs a lot, and immediately. And usually, all at once. Remember this: modern alphonse men, contrary to public opinion, rarely choose truly wealthy women. The explanation is quite simple. They are rich, but also demanding. Most such women aren’t satisfied with paper flowers and ice cream. Instead, they genuinely get excited at the sight of expensive jewelry, and upon receiving such a gift, may even almost sincerely fall in love with the man who gave it.
So, according to the classic scheme, it turns out your beloved has had serious problems for a long time (“he just didn’t want to tell you, otherwise you’d get upset”). These could be gangsters who’ve marked him for death, a gambling debt, which as we know is a matter of honor, a child from a previous marriage, or a sick grandmother in Tuapse. It all depends on the imagination of your beloved. And you, so deeply in love, so devoted, must help him. Of course, he would never dare ask you directly, but there’s no one else. He’d never do it, you hear me, never—but these circumstances are exceptional.
And here it begins. “Why are all fools women?”—the unforgettable Faina Ranevskaya used to say. This is your beloved, the one with whom you must share all burdens and hardships in sorrow and joy, in sickness and health, and so on. You’d be the ultimate bitch if you abandoned him now. Besides, he promised to pay everything back, plus a fur coat, and marriage.
And you make a mistake. You start searching for the needed sum, borrowing from acquaintances, taking out loans, denying yourself everything, because now there’s “us” and these are already “our” problems. Naturally, “we” cease to exist the moment the required sum is obtained. The Lion begins a new hunt, often without even hiding it from you, or simply vanishes. And then it turns out you have no written receipts or signed agreements—how could you, it might have offended your beloved. Finding the Lion and trying to get your money back becomes practically impossible.
The second category: “The Eternal Seagulls.” These are the ones we usually invite onto our shoulders ourselves. They’re gentle as calves, sweet to the point of madness, attractive as Marlon Brando in his youth. These men don’t have money even for the aforementioned ice cream or tea in a plastic cup at a roadside café. They’ll borrow 15 rubles for the fare (but swear they’ll pay back, honestly!). You’ll smile indulgently while paying in the metro, feel embarrassed slipping a crumpled bill under the table at a café, hand over your wallet when going to visit someone (“I’m just so flustered!”).
When you go shopping to buy something for yourself, your purchase will inevitably end up in your clutch, while the king of your heart proudly strides ahead with rustling paper bags. At the supermarket, you’ll buy groceries not for a week, but for “right now,” because you suddenly crave something delicious. He’ll open your eyes to the fact that “Maasdam” is better than “Vityaz,” and “Paul Manson” beats “Isabella,” that you should never buy cheap shoes because “feet aren’t state property,” that in summer “a person must rest,” and you must definitely get enough sleep, or else you’ll get bags under your eyes. This can go on indefinitely—or until your patience runs out.
No one, I must say, undermines our self-esteem quite like alphonse men. It’s precisely after encounters with such men that we start thinking we’re only good to be used. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Once, my friend went to a café with a man. She was drinking coffee, while the man, as usual, helped himself to everything. Then, awkwardly, he suggested splitting the bill because he’d forgotten his wallet at home. She slowly turned her gaze to the prince, called the waiter, and asked to separate the check. She paid. For herself. Got up, and without another word, her heels clicking loudly, walked away. Because such a man isn’t even worth a glance.
