As he was walking and pondering his choices, his companions, Smirnov and Drummer were having the following discussion.
“Our friend Popov is a nice man,” Mr. Smirnov said with tears on his eyes. “I love him and I recognize his great talent. But do you know what I think? This money will destroy him. He will either waste it entirely on vodka, or he will start up one of his schemes, another faulty business enterprise, lose it all, and destroy himself. He is way too young to have such a large amount of money at his age, my dear friend. Don’t you agree, Drummer?”
“Yes,” Mr. Drummer agreed, as he clasped Smirnov around the shoulders in a brotherly manner.
“He still behaves like a child. What purpose will this money serve him? We are so different from him. We are family-oriented, positive people. For us, some extra money means so much more than just money.” There was a pause.
“You know what, brother, there is nothing more to say. Let us kill him later today, and get it over with. Then, we will both have eight thousand each. When we head back to Moscow, we will say that he was killed by a passing train. I love him dearly, as you well know, but I think in the interest of great acting, above all, and it is the right course of action to take. Besides, he has no real talent and he is as emotional as a piece of wood.”
“What did you say?” Smirnov inquired nervously. “He is such a nice, honest boy. But, on the other hand, to tell you the truth, he is a smart-ass, a nosy little bugger. We’ll kill him now, and he would even be grateful to us for sending him to a better place, I truly believe. Oh, my dear friend! He should not be sad, because when we get back to Moscow, we will write the most touching obituary for the newspapers. That’s what true friends would do!”
They did just as they had said. When Popov returned from the village with the food, his friends, Smirnov and Drummer, welcomed him back warmly, hugged him, and spoke to him for some time trying to convince him that he was a great actor, before killing him. Then, they put him on the railway tracks, to hide the evidence.
After dividing the money that they had found, Smirnov and Drummer, emotionally uplifted, sat down for a drink and a bite to eat, being completely sure that their crime would go unpunished.
But goodness always wins in the end, and evildoers are always punished. The poison Popov had put in the vodka was a very strong one. After their first shot, they were both lying breathless on the railway track.
An hour later, the crows were flying over them, crowing.
This story teaches us that no matter how an actor praises you, calls you his best friend and very talented, never forget that by trade he is, after all, an actor.
A DEAD BODY
It was a quiet, still night in August. The fog slowly lifted from over the field and covered everything as far as could be seen. In the full moon, it looked like either a quiet limitless sea or a huge white wall. The air was damp and cold. Dawn was still a long way off.
A few steps away from the edge of a huge forest, a small, flickering light could be glimpsed. Under a young oak lay a dead body, swathed from head to toe in clean white linen. A small amulet lay on its chest. Next to the dead body, there were two guards on duty, two local farmers who were doing one of the most unpleasant and disrespected duties in the neighborhood. One had a barely visible mustache and thick, dark eyebrows. He was sitting on the wet grass in a torn overcoat and peasant boots, stretching his legs, trying to pass the time with a little work. He made a loud noise as he drew his breath, carving a spoon from a piece of wood.
The second, elderly man was short, his face covered with smallpox scars, with a thin mustache and a small goatee. He sat with his hands clasped around his bent knees, motionless on the ground, looking at the fire. Right between them was a little bonfire, flickering slightly and almost dying, lighting their faces with a red glow. It was quiet: only the wood being scraped by the cutting knife and the firewood crackling as it burned could be heard.
“And you, Sam, do not fall asleep,” the young man said.
“I am not sleeping,” the man with the goatee said. “It is too scary for just one person to sit here alone.”
“You are a strange man, Sam! Others would laugh, tell stories, but you—well, you just sit here staring at the fire, like a scarecrow, with your eyes wide open. You cannot even say a word properly. You speak as if you are afraid of something. You’ve already passed fifty, and you have less intelligence than a child. Are you disappointed that you are a half-wit?”
“Yes, I am,” the goateed man replied gloomily.
“Then, what do you think, is it pleasant for the rest of us to be around your stupidity? You are a kind man, you don’t drink, but with this misfortune, you simply don’t have any brains. Since God took the ability to think away from you, then you should at least make the effort to try to think by yourself. Just try, Sam. When you hear people say something clever, you would do well to listen and think it over. Think! If you do not understand something, make an effort, try to understand the meaning of the word. Do you know what I am talking about? Make an effort! For if you do not, you will live out the rest of your life like this, and die a half-wit.”
Suddenly, there was a sharp, loud noise that came from the forest, from not too far off. It seemed that something fell from the top of a tree, making a shuffling noise as it fell to the ground. The night echo repeated the sound. The younger man trembled, looking at his friend with a questioning face.
“It’s an owl, it is out hunting little birds,” Sam stated gloomily.
“Sam, the birds should have flown south by now.”
“Yes, the time has come.”
“The nights are growing colder.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Herons are very tender and sensitive birds. A cold like this would be the death of them. I am getting cold, too. Can you put more wood on the fire?”
Sam stood up and disappeared into the dark forest.
While Sam was busy breaking up the dry branches, his friend closed his eyes, startled by every sharp sound. Sam brought a bunch of firewood from the bush and placed it on top of the bonfire. The fire lazily licked the black branches with its fiery tongue. Suddenly, as if given an order, the fire embraced the branches, illuminating the road, the contours of the bush, the dead body, and the faces of two men with a red glow.
The guardmen kept silent. The younger man bent his neck even lower as he nervously returned to his work. The man with the goatee sat motionless as before, without averting his gaze from the fire.
“Those who hate Zion will be ashamed by God,” they suddenly heard a male voice recite in the dark. Then they heard quiet steps and glimpsed a dark figure appear, lit by the crimson light of the bonfire. He was dressed in a long black overcoat and a white hat, wearing a dark knapsack on his back.
“God has his will for everything. Oh, my Lord,” the man spoke in a very high-pitched voice. “I saw light in the darkness, and rejoiced. First I thought you were one of locals bringing their herds to the pastures. But I figured that you could not be cowboys because I could not see your horses. Then I thought that you were robbers, or traveling gypsy musicians. However I thought that whatever happens will happen, and I hurried due to the cold. When I got closer, I realized that you were neither robbers nor traveling gypsies. Peace be to you!”
“Hello. What can we do for you?”
“Hey brothers, can you tell me how to get to the Mackuhin factory?”
“It is close by. Go straight, just keep on walking along this road for about two miles, and you will see the village of Ananovo. That is where we live. From there, my friend, turn right at the riverbank and after a while you will see the Ananovo Factory buildings in the distance, about three miles.”
“Thank God! And why are you sitting here?”
“We are on guard duty. Do not you see the dead body?”
“What? Where is the body? Oh my goodness!” The wanderer saw the dead body and trembled so hard his hands jittered.
This unusual situation lef
t a depressing impression on the stranger. He bent over, opened his mouth without saying a word, eyes bulging, and stood motionless for about three minutes, as if he did not believe his eyes. He then started mumbling very quickly, “Oh my God! I was walking without bothering anyone, and here I find this ordeal in the middle of the night. Oh my God!”
“Where are you going? Are you a clergyman?”
“No-no, I was just returning home from a visit to a monastery. Do you know the factory manager, Michael, Michael Polikarpych? I am his nephew. Oh my God! Everything in God’s hands. And what are you doing here?”
“We are guarding the body.”
“Oh yes, yes,” the man in the black overcoat mumbled. “And where did he come from, this dead man?”
“He is just a traveler who died passing through town.”
“So brothers, I have to go. I am scared to death! I am afraid of dead bodies over all else, and now look at this. When a person is living, no one cares, but when he is dead and decaying, we are afraid of him. Maybe he was a great general, or another important leader. How was he killed?”
“Who knows? Only God knows. Maybe he was murdered, maybe he died by himself. We have no idea.”
“Oh, yes, yes. And you know, brothers, maybe his soul is enjoying the pleasures of paradise.”
“His soul is still wandering around his body,” said one of the men on duty. “The soul does not go far from the body for three days.”
“Yes, so people say. So should I go straight, without turning?”
“Yes, until you get to the village. And then you have to turn right, at the riverbank.”
“When I get to the riverbank, I walk along it? All right, I’d better get going. Good-bye, brothers!”
The man in the back overcoat took about five steps along the road and then stopped. “I forgot to leave a penny for his burial. Brothers, can I put a penny here?”
“You should know better, because you have been visiting the monastery. If he died from natural causes, then it will be for his soul; if he killed himself, it’s a sin.”
“It’s true. If he killed himself, then it is better I keep my money, for all men are sinners…. Even if you give me ten thousand rubles, I would never stay here overnight. Good-bye, brothers.”
The man in the black overcoat walked away a few more steps and again stopped. “I cannot decide what I should do next,” he mumbled. “Should I stay here near the bonfire and wait till dawn? That is scary. To walk away into the darkness is scary, too. The whole way, the picture of the dead man will be all I can see. Here is my ordeal. I went for a few hundred miles, and it was all right, but now when I get closer to my house … Oh my goodness, I cannot walk anymore.”
“It’s true, this is scary.”
“I am not afraid of wolves, robbers, or darkness, but I am afraid of dead bodies. I’m scared, that’s all there is to it. Hey brothers, I am asking you—I beg you, please take me to the village!”
“We are not allowed to leave the body.”
“No one will know, brothers. I am telling you, no one will see it. God will reward you for this! Hey you, with the beard, please do me this favor! Hey you! Why are you so quiet?”
“He is our village fool,” answered the young man.
“Then you will please see me off, my friend! I will give you fifty kopecks.”
“If I could, I would,” the man said, rubbing the back of his head, “but it is not allowed. However, if Sam agrees to sit here by himself, I will. Hey Sam, will you stay by yourself?”
“Yes, I will,” the local fool replied.
“Then we’re agreed.”
The young man stood up, and went with the man in the black overcoat. A minute later, their steps and their conversation faded away. Sam closed his eyes, and sat quietly. The fire began to die out, getting darker and darker, until the dead body was covered with a big black shadow.
TOO MUCH TALKING!
(Abridged)
When the land surveyor Ivan Gavrilovich Smirnov came to the railroad station at Rottenville (Gnilushki in Russian) he asked around and found out that he had to go another thirty or forty miles to the plot of land he had been requested to survey. He would have to take a cab to get there.
“Can you please tell me, sir, where can I find a cab?” the land surveyor addressed a policeman on the station platform.
“What, a cab? This is such a remote place that you cannot even find a decent dog for one hundred miles around, not to mention cabs. Where are you going?”
“To Devkino, the estate of General Hohotov.”
“I think you should go to the station building over there. Sometimes you can find local farmers, and they can give you a lift. They do this on occasion for the passengers.” The policeman yawned.
The land surveyor gave a deep sigh and slowly walked toward the station building.
There, after a lengthy search, many conversations and hesitations, he found a huge peasant, a very gloomy fellow with a pox-bitten face, dressed in a well-worn peasant coat and peasant shoes.
“God only knows what kind of cab this is. I cannot tell which is the front or back seat, it is so dark.”
“You sit in this seat here and I will sit in the other seat, which we will call the front seat,” said the driver. Finally, the cab began to rock and a little later moved slowly from its place.
“Why are you going so slowly?” inquired the land surveyor as they crept their way along the country road filled with bumps and holes. He was quite surprised by the ability of the cabman to drive with such turtlelike slowness with all the shaking that occurred with each bump.
“We will get there,” answered the cabman to calm him down. “The cab will warm up. Then no one will stop it, it will go so fast.”
When they left the railroad station, it was getting dark. A completely black, frozen prairie stretched to the right of the land surveyor, seemingly without end. If you drive there you will probably reach the devil’s remotest place. At the horizon, where the land disappeared as it merged with the sky, the evening autumn sun was dying. To the left of the road, through the darkening air, you could see some hills, either hay bales or village dwellings. The land surveyor could not see what was happening in front of them due to the huge back of the driver obstructing his view. It was cold and frosty.
“What kind of a remote place is this,” the land surveyor thought, trying to keep his nose from getting cold with the collar of his winter coat. “Not a single soul around. Anything can happen here—strangers could attack you and rob you, and no one would know. There must be robbers everywhere in these kinds of places. No one would hear you, even if you screamed as loud as you could. This driver is not safe—look at his huge back. This enormous man could flick you with one finger—and I would be done for. Look at him—he has an animallike, suspicious face, too.”
“Hey, my dear man, what is your name?” asked the land surveyor.
“My name is Kleem.”
“So, Kleem, is it dangerous around here? Do you have any problems with robbers?”
“No, not at all. Who on earth could you rob out here?”
“That’s good. Listen, just in case, I brought three revolvers,” the land surveyor lied. “I can deal with ten robbers at a time, yes, I’d take care of them.”
It was getting increasingly dark. The car slowed down, made a squeaking, squealing noise and, as if unwillingly, turned to the left.
“Where is he taking me?” the land surveyor thought. “We were going straight, and now we’ve turned to the left. Maybe he’s bringing me to a secluded place or forest to try and rob me. Anything could happen out here.”
“So you say that it is not dangerous here. That’s a pity, because I like to fight with robbers. It only seems that I am a very thin and sick-looking man, but in fact I am as strong as a lion. One day three robbers attacked me, and what do you think happened? I kicked one with such a force that he died instantly. The other two were sentenced to hard labor in Siberia. I don’t know where I get m
y inner strength from. Really. One day, I fought a strong man like you, kicked him once, and then he fell over dead.”
Kleem looked back at the land surveyor, winked with all his face, and sped up a little bit.
“Yes, my good man,” the land surveyor continued. “You’d better not even try dealing with me on a narrow road. Not only would the robber be without hands and feet, but he would be punished by the court. I personally know a lot of judges and police offices. I am a government officer, a very important person, and all my bosses know where I am headed. They take great care that no harm comes to me. Everywhere on my way, there are undercover police officers, assigned with keeping me safe. Wait! Where are you going?”
“Can’t you tell? We’ve entered a forest.”
“Yes, this is definitely a forest,” the land surveyor thought. “I get scared so fast. It won’t do for him to notice that I am so scared. Why is he looking back at me so often? What’s going through his mind? In the beginning the cab was hardly moving, and now—look at how he is speeding.”
“Listen Kleem, why are you going so fast?”
“I am not going fast. We were warming up the cab earlier, and now it is warmed enough to run fast, and I can’t just stop it all at once. This is the way it works for it to be able to run fast.”
“That’s a lie, but I do not recommend that you go that fast. Can you slow down, please? Do you hear me? Slow down!”
“Why should I?”
“Because, because … my four friends are following us, and it is important that they be able to catch up with me. They promised to meet up with me by this forest, and it will be much more fun to go on as a group. They are huge guys, very strong, all wearing their guns. Why are you looking back at me? Why are you so nervous? You know, I’m really not that interesting. However, I have my handguns here. Wait a second, I will pull them out and show them to you.” The land surveyor pretended to be pulling something out of his pockets, when something unexpected happened, even in his state of being scared.
A Night in the Cemetery Page 12
