Ludmilla Petrushevskaya - There Once Lived a Girl Who Seduced Her Sister's Husband, and He Hanged Himself

Three months later Clarissa moved into Valery’s spacious apartment. In time her son went to school, a girl was born, and one could say that life had finally stabilized for Clarissa and even begun to flow toward a peaceful, healthy maturity with its rotation of summer vacations, children’s illnesses, and major purchases. On the days when Valery was on duty, Clarissa would call the airport dispatcher, demanding again and again Valery’s flight information, and upon his return Valery would be forced to listen to reprimands for his wife’s inappropriate behavior. Other than that, nothing clouded Clarissa and Valery’s horizons.

He never came by invitation—he never received one. He simply announced himself (often with a lengthy insult) through the door, then pleaded his way inside. At the dinner table he yelled and pontificated, spat out his food and bared his only tooth, wishing both to stuff himself and to have his say. He spoke in non sequiturs, always in a terrible hurry, never explaining anything. He must have believed it was the prerogative of an erudite man like himself to speak any way he wanted; didn’t he spend all his unfilled and unpaid days in reading rooms, working on some obscure bibliography or biography? Just wait till it’s done, he predicted to his poor hosts and their guests; he’d throw in some dirty laundry, some famous names, and voilà—we’d have a bestseller on our hands. But first he needed to finish this magnum opus with the help, he said, of foreign grants and lecture fees that never materialized. In the meantime, he lectured gratis in the smoking rooms of public libraries, where he showed up empty-handed, with no tobacco or matches of his own. Hence, the awkward giggling and convoluted openings—“God has nothing to do with religion” or “All politicians want is to be reelected; may I bother you for a smoke?”

The people who knew him feared he might ask to stay the night; women of the house shared the expression, “I could sense he was on the verge of staying over.” Besides, he was old. (That didn’t stop him from announcing into someone’s intercom, “Let me in; it’s up!”) When he stayed, everything needed to be washed, aired, and dry-cleaned. Officially he was not homeless: after the divorce he was assigned an attic room with a ruined ceiling and exposed plumbing—imagine the smell. All he could do after the divorce was read, so he found refuge in public libraries, where he drank tap water and cadged leftovers from the cafeteria. Abandoned by his wife and children, he longed for hot food. On pension days his biggest splurge was a hot dog and sometimes one or even two hamburgers. Also on those days he’d call on his acquaintances, under the pretext of paying back a debt—thereby giving them reason to have him stay for dinner. The next day he’d be broke again and would go back to the same houses for another loan, or wait outside people’s offices, ambushing them with requests for money to buy medicine.

That’s how he lived for a long time, but things do change for someone like A.A., too. A fellow demagogue from the smoking room advised him about free health resort packages for the poor, and even helped him fill out an application at the office of social aid. That was over a year ago. Finally A.A. overheard someone bragging about going to a health resort for free. Ready to fight for his rights, he rushed to the social aid office and was informed that his request had been granted and that he had been expected at the resort two days ago. The woman at the counter blinked cleverly. He understood they were sending him in the off-season, in the worst weather, when no paying customer would go. He screamed and stomped his feet, but once outside he reconsidered. October wasn’t so bad. Pushkin liked October. And if you think about it, what is a health resort? Three meals a day, plus he could take extra bread to keep him full at night. At the thought of all that food, he began to salivate uncontrollably. He ran back to the library cafeteria to look for a leftover piece of bread.

First stop: his old flophouse, the scene of many battles. He spent the night there. In the morning he exchanged his smelly rags for some decent secondhand clothing. Then he raided local Dumpsters for a discarded suitcase and found one, in imitation leather. He already owned a hat—a knit beret. He tricked the attendant at the library cloakroom for a scarf. “I must have left it here and then forgot…. You see, I don’t have a woman to look after me, so things get lost….” The woman picked out a green rag that someone must have left ages ago and held it out with disgust. “This one yours? Was about to throw it out.” A.A. accepted the rag gratefully and scurried around the corner to try it on. The green scarf went nicely with his new dark jacket and black beret. Then the shoes: his smoking room buddies suggested he look through the Dumpsters near big department stores, as a lot of people tossed their old shoes there after buying new ones. A.A. found a decent-looking pair, a little too big, but that was even better. In the evening he packed his notes and a pen (cadged from the post office) into the suitcase. There were eight days remaining at the health resort and two weeks before his pension.

At dawn A.A. left his vile room and boarded the train without a ticket. For the entire trip he stood next to the exit, shaking from fear and cold. Arriving at the resort, he found everything still closed. He dozed in the lobby, sitting up, like a gentleman, until the cafeteria opened for breakfast. Once it did, he stuffed himself with kasha and bread, swallowed three cups of sweet tea, and then stormed the little library. Straight as a rod, with his pen and writing paper in hand and his green scarf draped over one shoulder, he began by loudly demanding works by Spengler and Kierkegaard from the cute librarian. She shrugged her plump shoulders and sent him to the mystery section. A.A. yelled louder: The library needed more books, and he happened to know a certain warehouse where publishers dumped unsold copies. Just give him a truck and he’ll bring back hundreds of books! The librarian seemed indifferent to the news: she didn’t have a truck, and besides, people on vacation wanted light reading, like mysteries and detective stories.

At this point an elderly lady interfered. She overheard A.A. bragging and asked to take down the address of that mythical warehouse. As for the library, she agreed: they needed more serious books for the patrons like Professor (meaning him) and a PhD like herself. Well, almost—her thesis was finished, it was waiting in her desk, and she needed only to defend it. “Me too,” A.A. agreed eagerly. “Mine’s also on my desk”—even though he had no desk. The cute librarian was forgotten; the educated pair was loudly discussing matters of cultural importance. Leaving the library, A.A. held the door for the lady, sweeping her off her feet with such chivalry.

They walked into the park, inhaling the smell of damp leaves and wood smoke, and sat down on a bench under an ancient tree. “To walk the blessed path,” A.A. pontificated, “one must give up his possessions—only then can one reach the sacred door; but what happens if one doesn’t own anything? Will the door open for him?” She listened to his blabbering, taking it in gratefully. They almost missed lunch. Again he gobbled down his portion and all the bread on the table; he asked the server if he could move to Tamara Leonardovna’s table, but apparently there was no room. Ready for another walk, he waited impatiently for her to finish, but the lady excused herself—she needed rest. A.A. went to his room, too, and stretched out on the clean sheets, almost crying with joy.

After dinner A.A. stuffed his pockets with bread, and together they walked over to the stream. Again she listened meekly; this time he expanded on Francis of Assisi, who had walked the blessed path and considered every insult God’s gift. Back in his room he made a mess of his squashed bread slices, to his roommate’s displeasure. A.A. headed off the impending confrontation by running out into the hall, where people were watching television. He flopped on a couch and proceeded to watch one program after the next, annoying everyone with vitriolic comments and wild laughter.