“You’re jealous!” The dark-haired man smiled. “I didn’t know that!”
Anger and disgust appeared on the face of Nikolai Borisovich for a moment. Without understanding what was doing, he stretched his hand forward and waved it. The sound of a slap broke the silence of the night. The brown top hat fell and rolled over the hard-packed snow. The red-haired man became ashamed. He stood up and pushed his nose into the collar of his shabby coat and walked along the boulevard. When he came to the Pushkin monument, he looked back at the brown-haired man, stood for a moment quietly and then, as if afraid of something, started running along Tverskoy Boulevard.
Vasily Ivanych sat in silence, motionless, for a long time. A woman passed him and, laughing, gave him his hat. He mechanically thanked her, stood up, and walked away.
“Now she’s going to scold me,” he thought, climbing the stairwell to the apartment. “She’ll be scolding me the whole night through. Damn her! I’ll tell her that I lost her stupid money!”
When he came to his door, he timidly rang the doorbell. The maid let him in.
“Congratulations!” she said, smiling broadly.
“What for?”
“See for yourself! Finally God has had some pity on you!”
Vasily Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders and entered the bedroom. There his wife, Olga Alekseevna, a short blonde with curlers in her hair, sat at the desk. Several finished, sealed letters were in front of her on the desk. The moment she saw her husband, she jumped to her feet and hung around his neck.
“You have come, finally!” she said. “I am so happy! You can’t believe how happy I am! I was hysterical for a while after this pleasant surprise. Here, read this!”
She jumped to the table and brought the newspaper to her husband’s face.
“Read this! My ticket won seventy-five thousand. Yes, I had a ticket. I give you my word on it. I hid it from you and kept it secret, because you would have pawned it.
“Nikolai Borisovich gave it to me as a gift when he was my fiancée, and then he did not want to take it back. That Nikolai Borisovich is such a nice man! Now we are very rich! You will change for the better now, you can change your life! I understand that you drank and lied to me because of our poverty, I know this. I understand you. I know that you are a clever and honest man.”
Olga Alekseevna walked across the room and laughed.
“What a surprise! I was waiting for you, pacing the room. I scolded and hated you for your dissipation, and then I got bored and sat down to read a newspaper. And then I saw it! I have already written letters to all my sisters, my mother. They will be so happy for me! Where are you going?”
Vasily Ivanovich looked at the newspaper. He stood speechless for a while, thinking about something, then replaced his hat and left the room, went out of the house and into the street.
“To Great Dmitovka Street, the furnished apartment N.N.,” he told the cabman.
He did not find the woman he was looking for there. The room was locked.
‘She’s probably at the theater. And after the theater she’ll go have supper. I’ll wait for a while.’
He waited. He waited for half an hour, then for an hour. He went along the corridor and spoke to a sleepy concierge. He heard the old clock downstairs strike three. Finally, out of patience, he started back down the stairs, but his luck returned.
At the entrance of the building, he bumped into her, a thin, tall brunette wearing a long boa. A man in dark blue sunglasses and a cheap fur hat followed her.
“Excuse me,” Vasily Ivanovich addressed the woman. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
The man and woman frowned.
“Wait a second,” the woman said to her companion and went to the nearest lamp post with Vasily Ivanovich.
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you—well, let’s talk business, Nadine,” started Vasily Ivanovich, stumbling. “It’s a pity you have this man with you, otherwise I would have told you everything.”
“What do you want? I don’t have time for this.”
“Oh, so you have new admirers and you’re in a hurry! Look at you! Do you remember some time ago, before Christmas, when you threw me out? You did not want to live with me because—because I did not make enough money for your lifestyle. But you were wrong. Yes. Do you remember the lottery ticket I gave you as a birthday gift? There, look here! Read! That ticket won seventy-five thousand!”
The woman took the newspaper into her hands and scanned it with eager, almost frightened eyes. And she found what she wanted.
At the same time another pair of eyes, reddened by tears and dumb from woe, looked in the jewelry box for the ticket. These eyes searched for the ticket the whole night through, and could not find it.
The ticket was gone, and Olga Alekseevna knew that her husband had stolen it.
On the same night, the red-haired Nikolai Borisovich turned restlessly in his bed and could not fall asleep until the morning. He was ashamed of that slap on the cheek.
AT THE CEMETERY
“Where are his jokes, his cases, and his tricks?”
—Hamlet
“Dear gentlemen, it is cold, and dark, shall we head home?”
The gust of wind touched the yellow leaves of old birch trees.
The leaves drenched us all with many droplets of water. One of us slid on the claylike soil and had to grab at a big gray cross in order to stop his slide downhill. Its inscription read,
‘A general, a secret councilor, decorated with orders and medals, George Black, is lying here.’
“I knew this man. He loved his wife, had medals of honor, and never read anything in his life. His stomach was working properly. He died from an accident. Truly, but if not for that accident he would have kept on living. He died as a victim of his own observations. One day, he was eavesdropping behind a door, which swung to hit him so hard he was given a severe concussion from the blow, dying shortly after. Now, look at this monument. This man hated poetry all his life, see his headstone there? Do you see the irony? His entire tombstone is completely covered with poetry; what an ironic twist of fate! Look, someone is headed our way.”
A man in a shabby old overcoat and a reddish complexion with a blue aftershave hue on his face was coming over to us. He had a bottle of vodka under his arm and a ham sandwich sticking out of his pocket.
“Do you know by any chance where I can find the grave of the actor Bugsy?” he inquired of us in a hoarse voice.
We led him over to the grave of that actor, who had passed away about two years ago.
“Are you an office worker?” we asked him.
“No, I am an actor. These days, it is hard to see a difference between an office worker and an actor, which we actors do not find very flattering.”
So, we finally found Bugsy’s grave. It had partially fallen down in the earth, and was covered with weeds, and did not look like a grave at all. There was small cheap cross on it, lying crooked to one side, covered with moss, looking worn out, as if it were ill. The inscription said, “… forgettable friend Mr. Bugsy.”
Time and the elements had worn out the prefix “un” from the word “unforgettable” and revealed the human lie.
The actor bowed in front of his friend’s grave, almost touching the grass, as he mentioned how his fellow actors and journalists had raised money for a great monument, then drank most of it away.
“How did you know they drank the funds away?” we asked.
“It’s very simple, they took an ad out in the local paper asking people to contribute to his monument, then spent it all getting drunk. To your health,”—he turned to us—“and to his eternal memory.”
“Our health will not get any better, and eternal memory is a very sad thing.”
“You are right! He was a famous artist, Mr. Bugsy. They brought lots of flowers and several wreaths for his funeral, but now he is completely forgotten! Those he had been kind to have forgotten him, and those he treated badly will never fo
rget him. For example, I will never forget him because he only acted with evil toward me. He’s a dead man now, God save his soul!”
“What bad things did he do to you?”
“He caused a huge misfortune for me, a terrible blow.” He sighed again, and an angry expression appeared on his face. “He was a bad man for me, God save his soul. When I was but a young man, I saw him perform, and decided to choose acting as my profession. He lured me from my parents’ home, brought me into the artistic life and gave me only tears and failure. The life of an actor is truly tragic! I lost both my youth and my sobriety. I do not remotely look now as if I was created in the image of God. I am completely broke, the heels on my shoes are worn out, my pants have turned into laces at the bottom and look like a chessboard covered with numerous dirty spots. And my face—it looks like a dog has been chewing on my face for a long time! I had liberal ideas, and free thought. He took away even my faith! If only I could have the talent of a great actor—but no, I just wasted my entire life.
“It’s getting cold, dear gentlemen. Would you like a drink? There’s enough for all of us. Ha-ha-ha! Let us drink for the peace of his soul. Even if he is dead, I do not like him; he was the only person in this world left to me, and now I am all alone. I am seeing him for the last time. The doctors have told me that I will soon die from alcoholism. So I came to say good-bye. We have to forgive our enemies.”
We left, and the actor kept on talking to the dead Mr. Bugsy as the cold drizzle started again. We returned to the major alley, where we met another funeral procession. Four porters dressed in white belts, wearing dirty high boots plastered with leaves were passing as they carried a brown coffin. It was getting dark, and they were in a hurry. The coffin swayed as they hurried along on their way.
“We have been here for only two hours, and we have just seen our third funeral procession, dear gentlemen. Should we not go home now?”
THE CONVERSATION OF A MAN WITH A DOG
It happened one winter, on a frosty night, with the sky lit by a full moon.
Alexander Ivanovich Singer plucked a little green devil from his sleeve, carefully opened the wicket-fence gate and entered his front yard.
“The man, as a human being,” he was philosophizing while trying to balance in mud and not to fall in a heap of garbage, “man is a bunch of dust, a hallucination, and ashes. For example, let us take my overseer Pavel Nikolayevich. He is the governor, so he is ashes as well, but his greatness is just a dream, a fog, an illusion—the wind will blow at it and it will disappear.”
“Grr-rrr-rrr!! Woof, woof!” The sounds of a dog interrupted the philosopher’s line of thought.
Mr. Singer looked to his side and saw a huge gray sheepdog, the size of a large wolf. It was sitting near the little house of the security guard, clinking with a chain. Mr. Singer thought about something, and his face took on a surprising expression. Then he shrugged his shoulders and smiled sadly.
“Grr-rrr-rrr! Woof!” the dog repeated.
“I do not understand.” Singer waved his hands at his sides. “You growl at a human being. I am here for the first time in my life. Don’t you understand that man is the crown of creation? Look at me, I am talking to you. Look! Am I human or not?”
“Grr-rrr! Woof!”
“Are you trying to make a point? Give me your paw.” Mr. Singer stretched his hand out towards the dog.
“You don’t want it? Then I will slap you, just lightly. I do this with affection!”
“Woof, woof! Grr-rrr!” The dog’s fur was raised as he snarled at the man.
“Aha, now I see your point. You want to bite me. I will take notice of this. So, you do not respect me, as a man, the crowning achievement of creation? This means that you can bite even Pavel Nikolayevich, doesn’t it? Do you really mean it? Everyone respects him, and you—you do not show any respect to him. Do I correctly understand your meaning? Does it mean that you are a socialist? Listen, you should tell me the truth—are you a socialist?”
“Grr-rrr! Woof! Woof!”
“What I was talking about? Do not bite! Wait! Yes, the ashes. The wind will blow, and the ashes will disappear. Puh! And what is the purpose of our existence, may I ask you kindly? We were born to our mothers, and then we eat, drink, and study science. Why? Why do we do this? This is all ashes. A man’s life does not cost anything! You are a dog and you cannot understand me, but if you could get into human … human psychology! If only you could understand me!”
Mr. Singer turned his head and spat on the ground.
“Dirt is on my lips! You think that I, Mr. Singer, an office worker, am the crown of creation and the king of all animals? You are mistaken! I am an idler, a bribe-taker, and a hypocrite. I am a bad man.”
Mr. Singer hit himself on the chest and began to weep.
“I am a gossiper as well. And I whisper in other people’s ears. Right now, I am reporting to the overseer on other people. Do you think that George Korney was fired without my help, hmm? Hmm? And what do you think—who was it, if not me, who stole the two thousand from the charity money and them blamed it all on Mr. Staples? Was it not me? Yes, I am a hypocrite, a Judas, a liar, a yes-man, an extortionist, and usurper. I really am a nasty, bad man.”
Mr. Singer wiped tears from his face with his sleeve, crying in earnest.
“Bite me! Eat me! Tear me to pieces! No one has said one sincere and kind word to me my entire life. They all say behind my back I am a mean person. When they talk to me and look me in the face, they smile and praise me. I really would prefer to be slapped across my face and scolded for all that I’ve done!
“Eat me, dog! Bite me! Tear me to pieces!”
Mr. Singer waved his hands in the air, trying to keep his balance, and then fell on top of the dog, “Yes, exactly like this, tear my face! I do not care. It is painful, but feel free to bite me, and my hands, too! Aha! Look, I am bleeding, this is what I deserve. Thank you, Buddy!
“You can tear my expensive fur coat as well. I received it as a bribe. I ratted on my neighbor, and for the money from that deal I bought this coat. And my hat as well, I do not care. What can I tell you? Time for me to go! Good-bye, dear dog! Good-bye, my friend!”
“Grr-rrr! Woof!”
Mr. Singer petted the dog one more time, let it bite his calf again, then covered himself with his torn overcoat and, wobbling heavily from side to side as a drunk man might, headed to his door.
When he woke up around midday the next day, Mr. Singer saw something very unusual. He noticed his head, his hands, and his legs were covered with bandages. Next to his bed, he spotted his wife, her face covered with tears, and the doctor with a concerned expression on his face.
THE WALLET
Three traveling actors—Mr. Popov, Mr. Smirnov, and Mr. Drummer (Balabaikin in Russian), were walking along the railway tracks one beautiful morning, when they found a wallet. Upon opening it, to their great surprise and pleasure, they were shocked to find twenty bank notes, six winning lottery tickets, and a check for three thousand rubles inside.
Elated with this fortunate and unexpected turn of events, they cried “Hurray, hurray!” They then sat down beside the railway tracks and began to talk about what they could do with this money.
“How much did we find in total?” Mr. Smirnov asked out loud, as he counted the money. “Oh my, we have about fifteen thousand four hundred fifty rubles cash plus lottery tickets. I would die for such money!”
“Not only am I happy for myself,” said Drummer, “but for you both as well, my dear friends. Now none of us will go hungry, or have to walk barefoot ever again. I am also happy about art, and what this will do for our profession, as we are all actors. First of all, brothers, I’m going to head straight for Moscow, to meet with the best clothes designer, Mr. Aiat. I will have him custom design me a real French costume. I do not want to take the farmers and secondary roles anymore. I will only take lead roles of playboys, from now on. I will also buy a beautiful hat and a classy suit.”
“First, I
suggest we have something nice to eat and drink,” decided Popov, the young romantic lead actor. “For the past three days, we’ve only been eating junk food. What do you think?”
“Yes, my dear friend,” Smirnov agreed. “We have lots of money and we have nothing to eat at the moment. You know what, Popov, you are the youngest here and you are the fastest walker. Here, take some money—here is ten from the wallet—and fetch us some food. My dear, see that small village over there? There, right behind that hill, see the top of the church? That looks like a nice little town, with a tavern; you should be able to find all we need. Buy a bottle of vodka, a pound of sausage, two loaves of bread, and some fish. We will wait for you here, my talented friend.”
Popov took the money and turned toward town. Mr. Smirnov, with tears in his eyes, hugged him three times, and called him his dearest friend, his angel, and his inspiration. Mr. Drummer also embraced him, with tears in his eyes, and the three pledged to their eternal friendship.
After all this, Popov walked along the tracks, heading for the village. He began to talk to himself. “What happiness is this? Between us, we did not have a single penny, and now we are rich. We’ve really made it big. As for me, I am going to return to my small home town, Kostroma, hire some staff and build a really nice theater. However, with only five thousand you cannot buy even a decent barn. If only the whole wallet were mine! That would make all the difference. Then I could build a huge theater! There you go! My compliments!” he pretended to direct people into his theater. “Truthfully, those two friends of mine—Smirnov and Drummer—are terrible actors. They have no talent. They are complete buffoons. They would waste this money on nothing important, but me, I would bring some happiness to our country and become famous. I know what I will do—I will poison the vodka. Unfortunately, they will die, but there will be a theater in the town of Kostroma, a huge and magnificent theater the likes of which this country has never seen. I seem to recall the British prime minister, McMahon, saying that any actions can be justified if they serve the proper purpose. And he was a great person.”