Her false teeth flew off into the corner. I wanted to kick the old woman again, but I was worried marks might be left on her body, and then, of course, they would end up deciding that it was me who had killed her.
I moved away from the old woman, sat down on the sofa and lit my pipe. Twenty minutes went by. I realized there was going to be a criminal investigation anyway, and that in all the confusion I was sure to be found guilty of murder. Things were getting serious – and, to make matters worse, I’d gone and kicked her.
I went over to the old woman again, bent down and examined her face. There was a small dark bruise on her chin. No, nothing much could be made of that. It could have been anything. Maybe the old woman had bumped into something while she was still alive? I calm down a little and begin walking up and down the room, smoking my pipe and considering my position.
I walk up and down the room and begin to feel more and more hungry. I even start shaking from hunger. Once more I rummage about in my food cupboard, but all I can find is a lump of sugar.
I take out my wallet and count my money. Eleven roubles. So I can buy myself some pork sausage and bread and still have something left for tobacco.
I straighten my tie, which has got twisted during the night, take my watch, put on my jacket, go out into the corridor, carefully lock the door of my room, put the key in my pocket and go out onto the street. First of all I must eat something, then my thoughts will be clearer and I’ll know what to do with this carrion.
On the way to the shop I have a thought: maybe I should go and see Sakerdon Mikhailovich and tell him everything? With two of us it might be easier to decide what to do. But I put this thought out of my head at once, because there are some things you have to do on your own, without witnesses.
There was no pork sausage in the shop; I bought myself half a kilo of saveloys. They were out of tobacco too. From the shop I went to the bakery.
There were a lot of people in the bakery, and a long queue waiting at the till. This made me cross, but I joined the queue all the same. The queue moved very slowly and then came to a complete stop, because there was some kind of rumpus going on by the till.
I pretended not to notice anything and just looked at the back of the pretty young lady standing in the queue in front of me. This young lady was obviously very inquisitive: she craned her neck first to the right, then to the left, and she kept standing up on tiptoe so as to get a better view of what was going on by the till. In the end she turned to me and asked, ‘You don’t know what’s going on, do you?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ I answered, as coolly as I could.
The young lady looked one way, looked the other way and finally addressed me again, ‘You couldn’t go and find out what’s happening up there, could you?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not in the least interested,’ I said still more coolly.
‘What do you mean, not interested?’ the young lady exclaimed. ‘You’re being held up in the queue too.’
I said nothing and just gave a slight bow. The young lady looked at me intently.
‘Queuing for bread, of course, isn’t really a man’s job,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry you have to stand here. You must be a bachelor.’
‘Yes, I am,’ I replied, somewhat taken aback but continuing, out of habit, to answer rather coolly, giving slight bows at the same time.
The young lady looked me up and down once more, from head to toe, and then suddenly, touching me lightly on the sleeve, said, ‘Why not let me buy whatever you want – and you can wait for me outside?’
I was quite taken aback.
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s very kind of you, but really, I can do it myself.’
‘No, no,’ said the young lady. ‘You go outside. What were you going to buy?’
‘Well then,’ I said, ‘I was going to buy half a kilo of black bread, only make sure it’s a tin loaf, the cheap kind. It’s my favourite.’
‘All right then,’ said the young lady. ‘Off you go then. I’ll buy it, and then we can settle up.’
And she even gave me a slight nudge on the elbow.
I went outside and stood by the door. The spring sun is shining straight in my face. I light a pipe. What a sweet young lady! So very unusual nowadays. I stand there, screwing up my eyes because of the sun, smoking my pipe and thinking about the sweet young lady. She even has light brown eyes. She’s so pretty it makes my day.
‘You smoke a pipe, do you?’ I hear a voice beside me. The sweet young lady hands me the bread.
‘Oh, I shall be forever grateful to you,’ I say, taking the bread.
‘And you smoke a pipe! That’s something I really love,’ says the sweet young lady.
And between us takes place the following conversation:
HER: So, you buy your own bread?
ME: I buy everything myself – not bread alone.
HER: And where do you have lunch?
ME: Usually I cook my own lunch. Sometimes I eat in the beer hall.
HER: Do you like beer?
ME: No, I prefer vodka.
HER: I like vodka too.
ME: You like vodka? That’s splendid. I’d like to have a drink with you
some time.
HER: And I should like to drink some vodka with you.
ME: Forgive me, but may I ask you one thing?
HER (blushing furiously): Of course. Ask away.
ME: Very well, I will. Do you believe in God?
HER (surprised): In God? Yes, of course I do.
ME: And what would you say to us buying some vodka now and going back to my place? I live very close.
HER (eagerly): Why not? That’s fine by me.
ME: Let’s go then.
We go to a shop and I buy half a litre of vodka. After that I’ve got no more money left, only a little change. We keep talking about one thing and another and suddenly I remember that in my room, lying on the floor, is a dead old woman.
I look round at my new acquaintance; she’s standing by the counter and looking at jars of jam. I cautiously make my way to the door and leave the shop. A tram is stopping just opposite the shop. I jump on the tram, not even looking to see what number it is. I get off at Mikhailovskaya Street and walk to Sakerdon Mikhailovich’s. I’m carrying a bottle of vodka, the saveloys and the bread.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich opened the door to me himself. He was wearing a dressing gown with nothing on underneath, a pair of Russian boots with the tops cut off, and a fur hat with earflaps, but the earflaps were turned up and the strings tied together in a bow.
‘Glad to see you,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘I’m not interrupting your work?’ I asked.
‘No, no,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘I wasn’t doing anything, I was just sitting on the floor.’
‘Look,’ I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘I’ve brought some vodka and a bite to eat. Unless you’ve got anything against the idea, let’s have a drink.’
‘Fine,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘Come on in.’
We went through to his room. I opened the bottle of vodka and Sakerdon Mikhailovich put two glasses and a plate of boiled meat on the table.
‘I’ve got some saveloys here,’ I said. ‘How shall we eat them – raw or boiled?’
‘Let’s put them on to boil,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘And while they’re cooking, we can have some vodka with the boiled meat. It’s the very best kind of boiled meat – from soup.’
Sakerdon Mikhailovich put a pan on the kerosene stove and we sat down to the vodka.
‘Vodka’s good for you,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling the glasses. ‘Mechnikov wrote that vodka’s better for you than bread, because bread’s just straw that rots in our stomachs.’
‘Your good health!’ I said, clinking glasses with Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
We drank, and we each ate a little cold meat.
‘Tastes good,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. But just then there was a sharp crack from somewhere in the
room.
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
We sat in silence and listened. Suddenly there was another crack. Sakerdon Mikhailovich jumped up from the table, ran up to the window and tore down the curtain.
‘What are you doing?’ I shouted.
But Sakerdon Mikhailovich, without a word, rushed over to the stove, used the curtain to pick up the pan, and put the pan down on the floor.
‘Oh hell!’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘I forgot to put any water in the pan, and it’s an enamelled pan, and now all the enamel’s come off.’
‘I see,’ I said, and nodded.
We sat down at the table again.
‘Oh, to hell with it,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘We’ll eat them raw.’
‘I’m terribly hungry,’ I said.
‘Help yourself,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, pushing the saveloys towards me.
‘The last time I ate was yesterday, when we were in the cellar bar together. Since then I haven’t eaten a thing,’ I said.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘I’ve been writing all the time,’ I said.
‘Bloody hell!’ Sakerdon Mikhailovich shouted out in an exaggerated tone. ‘To be in the presence of a genius is quite something.’
‘I’m sure it is!’ I said.
‘Been churning it out, have you?’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve got through piles of paper.’
‘To the genius of our day,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, and we lifted our glasses.
We drank. Sakerdon Mikhailovich ate the boiled meat, I ate the saveloys. After eating four saveloys, I lit my pipe and said, ‘You know, I came to you to escape persecution.’
‘Who’s been persecuting you?’ asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘A lady,’ I said. But Sakerdon Mikhailovich didn’t ask me anything; he just silently filled our glasses with vodka. So I went on, ‘We met in the bakery and I fell in love with her at once.’
‘Is she pretty?’ asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘just my type.’
We drank, and I went on, ‘She agreed to come and have some vodka in my room. We went to a shop together, but then I had to sneak out of the shop on my own.’
‘Not enough money?’ asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘No, I had just enough,’ I said, ‘but I suddenly remembered I couldn’t let her into my room.’
‘Why, was there another lady in your room?’ asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘Yes, it could be said there’s another lady in my room,’ I said with a smile. ‘I can’t let anyone into my room at present.’
‘Get married. You can invite me to the meal,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘No,’ I said, snorting with laughter. ‘I shan’t be marrying that lady.’
‘All right then, marry the one from the bakery,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘Why are you so keen to see me married?’ I asked.
‘Why not?’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling up our glasses. ‘To your conquests!’
We drank. The vodka was clearly starting to have its effect. Sakerdon Mikhailovich took off his fur hat with earflaps and flung it on the bed. I got up and began to pace about the room, already experiencing a certain giddiness.
‘What are your feelings about the dead?’ I asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘Entirely negative,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘I’m afraid of them.’
‘Yes, I can’t stand the dead either,’ I said. ‘If a dead person came my way, unless he were a relative of mine, I’d probably boot him one.’
‘One shouldn’t kick corpses,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘I’d boot him in the mug myself,’ I said. ‘I really can’t stand children or the dead.’
‘Yes, children are vile,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘But which do you think are worse, children or the dead?’ I asked.
‘Children are probably worse. They get in our way more often. At least the dead don’t burst into our lives,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘But they do!’ I shouted, and at once fell silent.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich looked at me intently.
‘Do you want more vodka?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I said. Getting a grip on myself, I added, ‘No, thank you, I don’t want any more.’
I went and sat down again at the table. For some time we say nothing.
‘I want to ask you,’ I say in the end. ‘Do you believe in God?’
A horizontal wrinkle appears on Sakerdon Mikhailovich’s forehead and he says, ‘Some things just aren’t done. It’s not done to ask a man to lend you fifty roubles if you’ve just seen him put two hundred in his pocket. Whether to give you the money or not is up to him; and the most pleasant and convenient way for him to refuse is to lie, to say he doesn’t have the money. But you have just seen that the man does have the money and you have therefore made it impossible for him to refuse simply and pleasantly. You have deprived him of the right of choice – and that’s mean. It’s a rude and tactless way to behave. And to ask someone “Do you believe in God?” is also a rude and tactless way to behave.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘the two things are quite different.’
‘And I’m not comparing them,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘Well then,’ I said, ‘let’s leave it at that. Only forgive me for asking such a rude and tactless question.’
‘By all means,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘After all, I refused to answer you.’
‘I wouldn’t have answered either,’ I said. ‘Only for a different reason.’
‘And what would that be?’ Sakerdon Mikhailovich asked languidly.
‘The way I see it,’ I said, ‘I don’t think there are people who believe or who don’t believe. There are only those who want to believe and those who want not to believe.’
‘So, those who want not to believe must already believe in something?’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘While those who want to believe are people who don’t believe in anything at all?’
‘You may be right,’ I said. ‘I don’t know.’
‘And in what do they believe or not believe? In God?’ asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
‘No,’ I said. ‘In immortality.’
‘Then why did you ask me if I believe in God?’
‘Somehow it just seems a bit silly to ask “Do you believe in immortality?”’ I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich. I got to my feet.
‘What, are you leaving?’ Sakerdon Mikhailovich asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’s time I went.’
‘What about the vodka?’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. ‘There’s only a little left – a glass each.’
‘Let’s finish it, then,’ I said.
We finished up the vodka and ate the remains of the boiled meat.
‘It’s time I left,’ I said.
‘Goodbye,’ said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, escorting me through the kitchen and out onto the stairs. ‘And thanks for bringing something with you.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Goodbye.’
And I left.
On his own now, Sakerdon Mikhailovich cleared the table, tossed the empty vodka bottle on top of the cupboard, put his fur hat with earflaps back on his head and sat on the floor beneath the window. Sakerdon Mikhailovich’s hands were behind his back and could not be seen. His bare legs, in Russian boots with the tops cut off, poked out from beneath his dressing gown, which had ridden up.
I was walking down Nevsky Prospekt, deep in my own thoughts. I must go and see the house manager now and tell him everything. And once I’ve dealt with the old woman, I’ll stand outside the bakery for days on end, until I meet that sweet young lady. After all, I owe her forty-eight kopeks for the bread. I have the perfect excuse to search for her. The vodka I had drunk was still having an effect, and everything seemed to be going well and straightforwardly.
On the Fontanka I
stopped at a stall and, with my remaining change, I bought a large mug of kvass.2 The kvass was sour and I went on my way with a foul taste in my mouth.
On the corner of Liteinaya some drunk staggered into me. It’s a good thing I don’t have a revolver; I’d have killed him there and then.
I must have walked all the way home with my face twisted with rage. In any event, almost everyone I met turned round to look at me.
I went into the house manager’s office. A short, dirty, snub-nosed, one-eyed and straw-haired girl was sitting on the table; looking into a pocket mirror, she was daubing on her lipstick.
‘Where’s the house manager?’ I asked.
The girl said nothing, continuing to daub on her lipstick.
‘Where’s the house manager?’ I repeated sharply.
‘He’s coming tomorrow, not today,’ answered the dirty, snub-nosed, one-eyed and straw-haired girl.
I went back out onto the street. The cripple with the artificial leg was walking along the other side; his leg and stick were knocking loudly. Six boys were walking behind the cripple, making fun of his gait.
I went in through the street door and began climbing the stairs. I stopped on the first floor. A horrible thought had entered my head: the old woman must have begun to decompose. I hadn’t shut the windows and people say that the dead decompose quicker if a window is left open. How utterly stupid of me! And that damned house manager won’t be here till tomorrow! I stood there for a few minutes irresolutely and then went on up the stairs.
I stopped again by the door to my apartment. Perhaps I should go to the bakery and wait there for the sweet young lady? I could beg her to let me stay two or three nights with her. But then I remember she has already bought some bread today, which means she won’t be going to the bakery. And going there would have been a waste of time anyway.
I unlocked the door and went into the corridor. There was a light on at the end of the corridor and Marya Vasilyevna, holding some kind of rag in her hand, was rubbing it with another rag. Seeing me, Marya Vasilyevna shouted out, ‘Shome old man came ashking for you!’
‘What old man?’ I said.
‘Dunno,’ answered Marya Vasilyevna.
‘When was it?’ I asked.
Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida (Penguin Classics) Page 41