Sentimental Tales

by Mikhail Zoshchenko

  Sergey Petrovich was so anxious to get this money that, for a single moment, he even clearly saw it in his hand—three twenty-kopeck pieces with one ten-kopeck coin.

  Trying to think through everything calmly, Sergey Petrovich went from acquaintance to acquaintance in his mind, begging them in the strongest terms to lend him the amount he needed. But suddenly he came to the conclusion that, in reality, he wouldn’t manage to borrow the money. Especially before the first of the month.

  Then Sergey Petrovich began to ponder other means of wriggling out of this ugly situation. Perhaps he could sell something?

  Yes, of course, he would sell something!

  Sergey Petrovich quickly rifled through his dresser, his desk, and his trunk. Nothing—absolutely nothing. Worthless rubbish. Couldn’t he hawk his last remaining suit? The landlady’s dresser and couch? His old boots, maybe—but how much would they fetch?

  Here’s what he’d do. Yes, Sergey Petrovich would go right out and sell his meat grinder. He’d gotten it from his late mother, and now it just sat there in a basket. I mean, why the hell hadn’t he hawked it earlier?

  Sergey quickly knelt beside the bed and pulled out a basket full of dusty domestic junk. Brimming with hope, Sergey removed all kinds of things and objects from the basket, evaluating each of them in his mind. But, yet again, all of it was pure rubbish, of no worth whatsoever. A heap of dusty vials, encrusted bottles, powder boxes with rolled-up recipes. Some sort of heavy counterweight pendant from a pull-down lamp, filled with small shot. A rusty door bolt. Two little hooks. A mousetrap. A shoe tree for boots. A piece of a boot shaft. But then, finally, the meat grinder.

  Sergey wiped it clean with a handkerchief and lovingly hefted it in his hand, weighing and evaluating it in his mind.

  It was a pretty massive, solid meat grinder with a handle. Back in 1919, they’d used it to grind oats.

  Sergey blew the last speck of dust off the thing, wrapped it in a newspaper, and, tossing on his coat, ran headlong to the market.

  Sunday’s trade was in full swing. People were standing and walking around the square, muttering and waving their arms. They were hawking trousers, boots, and griddlecakes fried in sunflower oil. The roar was terrible, the smell acrid.

  Sergey pushed his way through the crowd and found a place off to the side, in full view. He unwrapped his precious burden and held it in his palm, handle up, inviting all passersby to glance at the goods.

  “Meat grinder,” our hero muttered, attempting to speed things along.

  Sergey stood there for a fairly long time—but no one approached him. One full-bodied lady did inquire about the price as she walked past. Upon learning that the price was a ruble and a half, she went into such a state of nervous agitation and indescribable rage that she began to scold and reproach Sergey Petrovich for the whole market to hear, calling him a scoundrel and a marauder. In closing, she proclaimed that he, his machine, and his great-grandmother taken together weren’t worth more than a ruble and a quarter.

  The crowd that had gathered pressed the expansive lady out of the way.

  One enterprising young man immediately separated from the crowd, examined the meat grinder, pulled out his wallet, and, slapping it against his palm, said that a ruble and a half was indeed unheard of these days, and that the meat grinder was decidedly not worth that amount. It was in bad shape. Its blade was dull—I mean, look at that godawful blade. But if the meat grinder’s owner wished, he could receive twenty kopecks in cash that very minute.

  Sergey refused, proudly shaking his head.

  He stood there for some time after that, perfectly still. No one approached him. The crowd had thinned out long ago.

  Sergey Petrovich’s hands were extremely numb and his heart ached.

  But then he suddenly glanced at the market clock and flew into total panic. It was already a quarter to four, and he hadn’t made a bit of progress.

  At that point Sergey decided, without losing any more precious time, to sell the meat grinder to the first willing customer at any price, so that he could immediately dash off somewhere else and secure the rest of the money.

  He sold the meat grinder to some shaggy devil for fifteen kopecks.

  The shaggy one took his sweet time counting out the coins into Sergey Petrovich’s outstretched hand, and the expression on his face was especially offensive. After counting out thirteen kopecks, he declared, “That’ll do ya.”

  Sergey wanted to cuss the miserable customer in the strongest possible terms, but after glancing at the clock again, he sighed and darted home.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon.

  4

  Clutching the thirteen kopecks in his fist, Sergey rushed home. Along the way, he pondered various plans and possibilities of acquiring the remaining sum. Alas, his head firmly refused to come up with anything. His forehead was covered with sweat, and his temples throbbed feverishly. The thought that he had less than three hours left prevented him from pondering the situation calmly.

  Sergey Petrovich came home and cast a melancholy gaze around his room.

  He had decided to hawk some basic element of his bedding—the pillow, perhaps, or a blanket. But now he considered the possibility that, after the cinema, the girl might very well want to visit his humble abode. What would he tell her then? I mean, really—how would he explain the missing blanket? Shame and disgrace. After all, curiosity might drive the young lady to inquire about it herself: “Pray tell, Sergey Petrovich,” she might say, “where’s your blanket?”

  At this thought, Sergey Petrovich’s heart bled and pounded furiously, and he decisively rejected this unworthy plan.

  But suddenly a new happy thought dawned upon his poor head.

  His aunt. His own dear aunt. Aunt Natalya Ivanovna Tupitsyna. Sergey Petrovich’s own dear aunt. I mean, what was he, a total moron? Why hadn’t he thought of her earlier, the hollow-headed idiot?

  Sergey Petrovich’s whole being was now seized by the joy and cheer that had abandoned him earlier. He launched into some sort of wild African dance, howling and whipping his coat above his head. Tossing the coat onto his shoulders as he flew down the stairs, Sergey Petrovich set off at a good brisk trot to 4 Gazovaya Street, to see his own dear aunt.

  Sergey Petrovich saw his aunt fairly infrequently—no more than twice a year, really, on her birthday and Easter. All the same, she was his own dear aunt. She’d understand. By god, she’d understand. She loved Sergey well enough. You could even say she was mad about her nephew. She had even told him that, after her death, he could have the three men’s suits that once belonged to her late husband, who had died six years earlier from a perfectly noncommunicable disease—typhoid fever.

  Surely his own dear aunt would give him a hand in this sticky situation.

  Here, at last, was Gazovaya Street. And here was attractive No. 4—two stories, with tiny little windows.

  Sergey raced through the gate into the courtyard. He shot up to the second story without pausing for breath. The next moment he was in the kitchen.

  Two old women were bustling about at the stove. These were the landladies—the quarrelsome Belousov sisters. The younger and more venomous of the crones was down on her hands and knees in front of the open oven, taking coals out and smothering them out of sheer miserliness. The other crone, the older Belousov, was wiping dishes with a greasy towel. Some little fellow—perhaps an offshoot of the Belousovs—sat on a stool, shamelessly gobbling down boiled potatoes.

  A tremendous number of cockroaches scurried on the wall in front of the stove. A metal clock with weights hung near the window. Its pendulum swung with terrible speed, hoarsely, grindingly beating out the rhythm of the cockroaches’ existence.

  When Sergey Petrovich entered the kitchen, the women exchanged mysterious glances. They waved their arms at him, as if inviting him to behave more quietly and not spit so much. Droning over each other, they began to report that his aunt, Natalya Ivanovna Tupitsyna, had been seriously ill for two weeks
now, and was even, so to speak, at death’s door. A doctor had come out to examine her and didn’t say anything especially terrible. He just shrugged his shoulders and prescribed some powders. The next day, toward evening, the powders made the sick woman’s legs give out and stopped her tongue and stomach from working. If things went on in this way, with god’s help, today or tomorrow, old woman Tupitsyna would move on to another, better world. And as her only legitimate heir, Sergey Petrovich would have to arrange all the coffins and graves on his own, because they certainly didn’t have time to work selflessly for god-knows-whose benefit.

  Upon hearing these words about his status as heir, Sergey Petrovich took heart and immediately raised the topic of money, but the crones, shocked by his behavior, began to reprimand him for his impatience. Now, after the old woman croaks—that’s a different matter. But until that happens, he wouldn’t get a kopeck out of this house. Sergey Petrovich’s heart sank. His last hope had collapsed. He could barely make out what the women were saying. He pushed the sniveling crones aside and slowly, somewhat unsteadily, went down the hall to his aunt’s room.

  His aunt lay in her bed, perfectly still, breathing hoarsely and heavily. Sergey Petrovich looked around the room, shooting a quick glance at the old woman’s yellow face, with its sharp nose and closed eyes. Sergey Petrovich’s breath caught, and he tiptoed carefully back to the kitchen.

  He didn’t pity his dying aunt. At that moment, he wasn’t even thinking of her. His only thought was that he certainly wouldn’t get any money out of her that day.

  Sergey Petrovich stood in the kitchen a full five minutes, almost completely still. A terrible pallor spread over his face.

  Out of respect for his unbearable grief, the two old women tried not to move either. They just sighed soundlessly and dabbed at their lips and eyes with the corners of their headscarves. The kitchen was almost completely silent. All one could hear was the rude little fellow, still smacking his lips and gobbling down potatoes, and the kitchen clock, still rhythmically beating out the movement of time.

  Then Sergey Petrovich sighed noisily, glanced sidelong at the ticking clock, and froze in complete and utter stupefaction.

  It was after five o’clock.

  The minute hand was rounding its first quarter.

  For the second time that day, Sergey Petrovich’s heart bled. He had an ache in his side. His whole head was drenched in sweat, and his throat was dry and coarse.

  Suddenly, this draining anxiety gave way to wild, total despair.

  Sergey Petrovich was seized by such a profound nervous frenzy that he barely found his way to the stairs. First he stumbled into the closet, then bumbled, twice, into the bathroom, then spooked the little fellow off the stool, aiming to smack him in the mug. At last the old crones, making signs of the cross, helped him to the door.

  His arms and legs were in such a tizzy that he barely made it through the courtyard.

  It was only out on the street that Sergey Petrovich got some sort of hold of himself. He plodded home, trying to think of nothing. Nevertheless, thoughts of every kind descended upon his head. He attempted to alleviate his predicament with irony.

  “There you are, brother Sergey,” he muttered. “Screwed.”

  But irony didn’t help.

  He came home and dropped into bed, completely exhausted.

  “What’s the big deal?” Sergey tried to console himself. “So you’ve got no money! You call that trouble? That ain’t trouble—that’s chicken shit. Why poison your last drop of blood? I’ll just go over there and tell her straight out—I’m broke. Big whoop. Life’s full of little stumbling blocks.”

  But some kind of stubbornness, some stupid desire to get the money no matter what, would let him think of nothing else.

  It seemed to him that the whole meaning of life rested on this question. Either he, Sergey Petrovich Petukhov, would acquire this pitiful sum and take the girl out, so that they could spend the evening as all normal people do, merry and carefree—or he’d be forced to acknowledge his own weakness and be thrown over the side of life.

  Sergey Petrovich lay perfectly still. Grand fantastic plans and scenes began to take shape in his mind.

  For example, he’s strolling down the street and finds a wallet. Or he enters a shop, induces panic and fear in the clerks, and absconds with a tidy sum’s worth of goods. Or he walks into the State Bank, hustles the employees into the washroom, and makes off with a bag full of ten-kopeck pieces.

  After every such fantasy, Sergey would grin hopelessly and rebuke himself for his impractical approach to events.

  He begged himself not to worry, but rather to enumerate—methodically, rigorously, in order, without haste, and without indulging in tempting illusions—all possible solutions to his problem.

  But suddenly everything around him—the bed, the room, the pillow—became unbearable. Almost at a run, Sergey Petrovich went out into the street.

  Muttering and taking big strides, he walked along the avenue.

  Without noticing, he stopped at a watch shop and stared for a long time at the round white face of the clock on display in the window.

  He stood there for a long time, watching the minute hand move. It moved very slowly, and Sergey Petrovich’s throat grew drier with its every movement.

  It was six o’clock in the evening.

  The minute hand had even made it some distance past twelve.

  Sergey Petrovich turned abruptly and walked onward. Passing the State Bank, he gave a wry grin and drummed his fingers on the sign.

  And on he went, grinning.

  He walked for a long time down this street and that. And then he saw his aunt’s house again.

  5

  After standing in front of his aunt’s house for some time, Sergey Petrovich took a decisive step into the courtyard and began to climb the stairs.

  His vague thoughts suddenly took distinct shape.

  Sure thing. What’s the big deal? He’ll walk into his aunt’s room and just take something. Or maybe he’ll wake her and ask for it. He’s got no reason to hide anything from her. After all, he’s an heir—he has every right. He has the right, for instance, to open a dresser or some night table and take some petty little trifle. What’s the big deal? I mean, he could even warn those two dumb crones.

  Sergey Petrovich climbed to the second story, went up to the door, and stood there for a couple minutes, gripped by indecision.

  Then he gently tugged at the handle. The door was closed.

  Sergey Petrovich wanted to shake the handle a bit louder, but suddenly he heard footsteps in the kitchen. Someone was walking toward the door.

  Without knowing why, Sergey Petrovich took fright and leaped in one bound onto the steps leading to the attic.

  Just then the hook rattled, the door opened, and one of the landladies, the elder Belousov, walked out onto the landing with a bucket full of slops. She didn’t notice Sergey Petrovich and began to descend the stairs.

  After waiting a bit, Sergey Petrovich quickly and decisively went up to the unlocked door, carefully opened it, and walked into the kitchen.

  The kitchen was empty.

  Then, tiptoeing gently and quietly, Sergey Petrovich went down the hall and entered his aunt’s room. It was dark.

  Sergey was seized by an irrational fear bordering on terror. He took three paces toward his aunt’s bed and froze, having stepped on the old woman’s soft felt slippers. A shudder ran through his body.

  Sergey Petrovich was calmed, somewhat, by the regularity of his aunt’s quiet breathing, hoarse though it was. He walked right up to the bed, groped about until he found the night table, and came closer.

  Suddenly, with a careless movement of his jittery hand, he knocked some sort of vial off the tabletop. Then, close on the vial’s heels, a tablespoon crashed to the floor with a terrible clatter. The aunt moved her head slightly and mumbled something.

  Sergey Petrovich froze, trying not to breathe.

  Footsteps sounded in th
e next room. Someone’s restless, shuffling feet were moving down the hall.

  Sergey Petrovich darted about the room. He ran to the window. Then he turned back, threw open the door, and took off down the dark hall. In his haste, he knocked down the younger Belousov crone, leapt over her body, and ran on.

  The old woman hollered terribly, and her scream echoed loudly throughout the house.

  Sergey Petrovich dashed into the kitchen, put out the light, and rushed out onto the landing.

  He wanted to race downstairs in one breath, but suddenly, up from below, came the sound of hurried footsteps. The crone’s terrible scream had roused the whole house, if not the whole street.

  Now people of some sort were running up the stairs. Sergey darted about on the landing and again, as before, jumped onto the steps leading to the attic. He sat down—nearly fell down—on the steps at the closed attic door, his heart pounding fiercely. There wasn’t enough air. With mouth agape, Sergey Petrovich sat and listened in horror to what was happening below.

  People of some sort rushed into the apartment. Someone or other was squealing desperately.

  And someone else was shouting and weeping through tears.

  Then ten people or so raced out of the apartment and rushed downstairs.

  After waiting a few minutes—or maybe as long as half an hour—Sergey Petrovich began to descend the stairs. He crossed the courtyard slowly, almost thoughtfully, in a state of complete, icy calm, with his hands behind his back. He encountered no one and found himself out on the street.

  There, at the gate, a crowd of people had gathered.

  “Well?” someone asked Sergey Petrovich. “D’you get ’im?”

  Sergey Petrovich muttered something in response and quietly, somewhat unsteadily, set off for home.

  He slunk to his room like a shadow. Then he went into the kitchen and glanced at the landlady’s alarm clock.

  It was a quarter to nine.

  Sergey Petrovich grinned, took off his jacket and trousers, and for a long time paced his room in his underpants. He was trying to determine exactly where he had been at seven o’clock in the evening. He couldn’t.