“Now that’s a load of bull if I ever heard one!” Maxim Maximych waves at the paper dismissively, kneads a new Belomor cigarette, lights up.
“That Beanhill – Kolka, the one they call an ‘operator’ – he’s a dyed-in-the-wool thief and bandit, and the auditor lady was there in the boiler room the first time: she heard him call Hamiddulin a dirty goat. That day, Igoryok – Hamiddulin – he was drunk too, so what? He had a good heart, it’s just that Beanhill bullied him, so he was his whipping boy, ran to fetch him booze and such. That Beanhill, he had it coming – he wasn’t such a big boss on the inside, mark my word. And now Igoryok’s gotta sit 14 years in a special prison... and you say, he’s a star! Some star indeed...”
Maximych is so angry he jams his unfinished cigarette into the ashtray, grinds it. He gets up, goes to the door.
“In violation of the factory’s operating procedure,” he mocks. “You couldn’t get into the fucking boiler room on a tightrope, you hear me?” He doesn’t know why he is yelling at his old wife, so he adds, softly: “All right, I’ll go water now. It’s no use waiting for them now – they don’t show up ‘til dinnertime.”
He leaves.
Antonina Pavlovna clears the table, washes the dishes, thinks. She plans how she will share the news with her neighbor. It’s not anything special, of course, just a regular bit of news, but the fact that it made the first channel – that’s different.
Maxim Maximych waters his potatoes. It’s been dry, the earth is hard and caked solid; chinks of it come off like flint. He swears at the dirt, the sun and the potatoes, and in-between, when he stops for a break at the well, he repeats in amazement: “Would the shock loosen its grip on the minds of the operator’s family, his colleagues’ minds?”
“He ain’t got no family – that bitch – never had one and never will!”
He fills his bucket-sized watering can and, bending under its weight, carries it to the next row of potatoes.
Devil’s Bride
That Alexandra Konstantinovna Zaikina was a witch was not doubted by anyone in her neighborhood. One – she kept her curtains drawn, two – her fence and gates were solid plank, three – she had no TV set, and four – her cat was black and her chickens piebald. And if that weren’t enough – she’d go spend two months every winter with her grandkids in Leningrad and lock her place with two locks. No one, mind you, would ever be seen going in or out of there, feeding her animals, but in the spring – voila! – they’re all there and in perfect health.
“And she’s proud, too! I asked her once to put a blood spell on my Lyoshenka, so he’d finally get rid of his mange, but she just laughed at me,” complained Tanka Solodkova, Zaikina’s neighbor and, in the old days, her closest friend.
“What else would you expect from that crippled bitch! I wouldn’t ask her for a drink of water.”
“No, ladies, I know better – she used to do spells for me in the old days, before she got mixed up with those devils.”
Everyone knows Zaikina’s devil story.
A while back, in ‘47 or ‘48, Tanka and Alexandra – people called her Shurka then – were thick as thieves. Tanka was always a go-get-em kind of girl, and Shurka was born sort of lop-sided, grew up awkward, not a match for quick Tanka – so they stuck together. At work, they were side by side, but spent their nights apart. Tanka went out with the zampolit;16 Shurka listened to her stories the following morning, and sighed to herself, but she didn’t envy Tanka. Tanka was a beauty, Shurka was a cripple, and she knew it; to each her own, that’s how her mother, Lord rest her soul, raised her. Tanka, then, waitressed in the officers’ cafeteria, and Shurka washed the dishes there. And the zampolit was a handsome man: shiny boots with steel heels, brown strap across his chest. Single. Quick to laugh. Kind to Shurka, too – Shurka let him and Tanka into her hay-loft, why not, her house was too big for her alone anyway.
And then one day this happened. Shurka went to bed, and forgot to lock the doors. She was just lying there, without lights, and couldn’t sleep. Maybe thinking of Tanka’s stories – no one could go to sleep doing that. Shurka was dreaming. And suddenly she heard this click-click sound, like someone in the mudroom was stepping lightly on shod hooves. She pulled the blanket over her head. And then the door to her room opened all by itself, and closed just like that. Shurka peeked out – there’s no one there. And the next instant – something black, and smelly, and creaky darted to the bed from the corner, and reached his arms under the blanket.
“Sh-h-h,” the thing hissed.
“Who are you?” she asked and froze.
“The devil!”
Shurka couldn’t make another peep. And he climbed on top of her, pressed down on her, tickling her with his stubble, and whispered, “Don’t be scared, I’m not a scary kind of devil, I give gifts to those I love.”
And indeed, she felt with him like she got a great present. Then he vanished – and she didn’t even see how.
In the morning she was angry with herself: she knew better than to believe in demons, but then she’d remember the way his hooves clicked on the floor... and the feel of goose bumps on her skin, and a sweet, sweet tingling.
She kept mum that day, and didn’t say a word to Tanka. The following night, she left the door unlocked on purpose, but thought up a trick: put her bedside lamp under the bed, so she could click it on when he showed up. She wanted to see him.
She waited and wondered: would he come? Or not? He didn’t.
He came two days later. Clicked in the mudroom. Shurka lay quiet, as if she were asleep, and held her hand on the switch. He asked: “Are you asleep?” and that’s when she pushed it – click! But the light didn’t come on – she only knocked the lamp over under the bed – that’s how scared she was. And he made a sort of a bubbling sound: “Oh-ho-ho, you can’t look at the devil. I make the lights go out just by being there.” Then he rolled on top of her again, the beast!
The lamp convinced Shurka. The next morning, she told Tanka everything – her friend laughed her head off:
“You, Shurka, are long overdue for a real guy – you’re liable to go nuts if you keep carrying on like this. I’ll set you up with one, if you want – he’s not much to look at, but serviceable.”
“No, Tanka, he’s really a deviclass="underline" he turns lights off just by being near them.”
“I’ve had enough of this – you’re making it all up!”
Tanka had no interest in devils: first she had the zampolit, now she found herself a Gypsy with money. Shurka, however, took offense, and said mean things to Tanka. So they fought. And it’s lasted forever. “Stupid cripple” and “fat rat” are about the mildest things Shurka’s heard ever since.
Shurka kept to herself, but she didn’t need Tanka anymore anyway. She could spend her day dreaming, and then at night her devil would come. As soon as she’d hear him clicking in the mudroom, the lights would go off, and he would come in. He was nice and kind to her.