Viktor Ivanovich stopped and gave the old woman the letter; it’ll keep her busy all night – she’s barely literate, too, reads syllable-by-syllable and writes horribly. The silly woman was happy, though, and kept thanking him and bowing after him. He laughed at her a little after he pulled away.
And then it started – as soon as he got to the camp. First, the director dragged him over the coals for leaving the little window in the warehouse ajar last night: someone had stolen four sleeping bags and a tent. He had to think on his feet to appease her – he was lucky he thought to remind her how he covered for her during the last audit, when the linen counts didn’t add up. She said she wouldn’t take it out of his salary, this time. But everyone’s stealing – he’s the only one who hadn’t taken even a single nail! Pleshner’s always guilty. How else?
He went to check the window: turned out the glass was cracked, so whoever got in, just pulled out the broken-off part from the frame, reached in, unlocked the window, and then put the piece of glass back where it was. Viktor Ivanovich took the window of its hinges and started replacing the glass – and then sliced his finger. Blood spurted everywhere; it took him forever to stop the bleeding by sucking on his finger, and the taste of blood lingered in his mouth.
And then his son showed up.
“Hey, Dad, thanks for the cover-up,” he said. “I hoped you wouldn’t be mad – we just went camping last night.”
The boy dropped a backpack at his feet. Inside: everything that was missing. Apparently, he and his friends decided to celebrate the end of the school year, and Mom let them spend the night outdoors.
Is that so? Of course, the bastard knew where to go. He didn’t go for the used or worn stuff, oh no – he picked the best sleeping bags and the brand new tent! Why didn’t he just come and ask for it?
Viktor Ivanovich wanted to control himself, but couldn’t. He grabbed his belt and... the worst thing was, the boy didn’t even understand why he was being punished. He just clenched his teeth (“That’s my boy!” Viktor Ivanovich thought) and then, after he broke free, snarled over his shoulder, like a stab:
“You bloody tight-ass!”
He said it and ran.
He – a tight-ass! That was too much. Viktor Ivanovich got on his bike, caught up with the kid in the village, and stopped him – to talk.
They talked for a long time, walking up and down the road. Viktor Ivanovich did most of the talking – he tried to make the boy understand that what he did was shameful. Finally, it seemed he got through to him. The boy broke down and started crying, and at that point he had to go ahead and give him the 40 rubles for the sneakers. The kid had been dreaming of those forever, and Viktor Ivanovich never got to use the money he put away for his birthday anyway.
They parted peacefully, more or less. Viktor Ivanovich went back to the camp; he wanted to fix the roof on one of the cabins – the shingles kept coming loose, so he climbed up there to nail them. Below him, music was playing; the group he’d just taken camping had gotten together to grill – and no one even as much as glanced at him, up on the roof, tapping with his hammer. Later, he ate at the cafeteria, the cooking lady gave him lunch; he ate it in the kitchen, didn’t go to sit at a table in the dining room – to heck with them all!
In the afternoon, he went to the spit. He wanted to look at the Lake. He sat there for a while, and felt better. He almost got attuned to nature, but it just wasn’t his day: that woman, who refused him for a Muscovite, she showed up arm-in-arm with that man, and he wearing only his swimming trunks, she in her swimsuit. They were laughing. At least he saw them first – he darted into the bushes, before they could notice him. Next to him, under the bush he spotted the mutt from the camp, Niurka. The little bitch found the shade to hide from the sun. She panted. He’d just seen her a minute ago mating with a village dog, and now she was here.
When the dog saw Viktor Ivanovich, she crawled towards him, wiggling solicitously, tail tucked between her legs and wagging. He stroked her head once, twice, and then suddenly kicked her, hard – she flew up into the air, and fled howling towards the village. He saw she was limping.
Tears burst from his eyes – he was so angry. He couldn’t breathe for a moment – his throat closed in a bitter spasm. No, you can’t go on like that – you can’t let your nerves do this to you!
Gradually, he felt himself again. For a while, he just stood there and looked at the setting sun – it always made him happy. It was almost dark when he locked the warehouse and his little office, got on his bicycle and rode home.
The sun was almost gone beyond the Lake. Everything around him was settling down, growing still. And everywhere it was green, and the water shimmered, and it was beautiful. This was peace.
In four days (exactly as the letter promised!) new people would come to the camp. Who knows what new good fortune might come his way. Viktor Ivanovich even snorted softly, caught up in the pleasant daydreaming.
He’ll handpick his next group, oh he will. He’ll put them through hell and high water – he’ll get all that big-city ennui (or whatever they call it) knocked out of them. They’ll come back revived, tanned, happy – they’ll remember him. And they’ll thank him.
When he stopped in the village, he heard women talking: Niurka, the little dog, had gone rabid. Grandma Leshcheva raised a switch at her to chase her away from the kids, and the dog turned on her and bit her leg. Vovka Leshchev, the old woman’s son, promised to find the bitch and shoot her. And he’ll do it for sure – he’s big on killing things.
Viktor Ivanovich rode home; he pushed the pedals, not feeling any exertion – the bike rolled on smoothly, at a good pace, as usual. He remembered the magic letter and smiled. Some luck it brought the old lady – three stitches. There’s your miracle on a silver platter.
15. Plesh is Russian for “bald spot.”
Eeny, meeny, miney, moe
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe, Catch a spider by the toe...”
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe, Catch a spider by the toe...”
The boy walks back and forth on the veranda.
He walks slowly and sings to himself, under his breath:
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe, Catch a spider by the toe...”
He’s been doing this for an hour at least. He is wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. It’s hot outside, but he can’t go swimming – Granny scares him with talk of the undertow. The undertow is cold like a sea-dog.
And where the sea-dog lives there are drowned people. The sea-dog eats them. Granny is in the garden, Mom is at work. The boy is some number of years old. He doesn’t know how many exactly. That’s why he is walking and singing:
“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe, Catch a spider by the toe...”
Sometimes, when he comes to “toe” the boy stubs his toe into the floor. Other times he doesn’t, just goes on singing, but he doesn’t stop walking. He walks like this: “eeny” he steps on a floorboard, “meeny” on another, and “miney-moe” he skips over one. Then again: “Catch” is a board, “a spider” is a board, and “by the toe” – skip a board. Sometimes he sings quietly, and sometimes he sings out loud.
Finally, Lyudka can’t take it any more and comes to the veranda door with a slipper in her hand. The boy freezes.