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

Since the gonorrhea incident, this was Semyon’s first major victory on the family front. Polina had always made more money than he did: she was an expert in military telephone equipment, while he (who had a PhD, by the way) lazed about in his underfunded research institute. After Semyon’s STD, Polina began to eat separately, and Semyon, in his humiliation, would steal her food, saying, “So what did our hag cook for herself?” Still, if Polina was sick, then Semyon would drag himself to the pharmacy and even sweep the hall before the doctor’s visit. He considered Polina’s illnesses a result of her own folly; she should expose herself to cold, he lectured—a sick person must stay cold and hungry, like in a TB clinic! Polina had to crawl to the bathroom in a winter coat. She would call Marina, crying and swearing (while Semyon eavesdropped on the other line), and in return had to listen to the latest installment in the saga of Marina’s daughter, who had picked up an illegal out-of-towner who didn’t have a place to stay and who spent one night a week in the daughter’s bed while Marina tried to sleep in her walk-through room (poor daughter, Polina thought). How could she reveal her secret to them—to Marina and Semyon?

And so she traveled to that faraway provincial town (an hour by train, an hour by bus, another hour by foot) all by herself. She found out the cost of a proper funeral and realized that even if she sold her earrings she couldn’t afford to bury her aunt, who was going to be wrapped in plastic and thrown in some nameless hole. What could she do? Her son was again without work, Semyon was useless, and she herself would probably end up like Aunt Galya. She also found out that she could claim her aunt’s apartment if she gathered the necessary papers.

On the train back Polina wept out loud. Her aunt’s apartment was her only hope of escape. Also, this was the first time she was doing something just for herself; until now, everything she had done was for him, for Clapper—all the cooking, the cleaning, even her haircuts. She was a good-looking woman, but here she was, her charms wasted on one man, her only love, and he’d had to go and get a disease.

Back in Moscow, Polina flew around gathering paperwork, ignoring her husband’s screams, which now sounded more like pleas—yes, Semyon suspected something. Two months later she lawfully entered Aunt Galya’s apartment. She was met with the familiar smell of heart medicine and old clothes; saw peeling wallpaper and locked chiffoniers, which she easily pried open with a penknife. Inside she found pressed layers of ancient dresses that used to clothe generations of her family, all those women who had been buried in a coffin or without one, like poor Aunt Galya. For the past thirty years her aunt had lived alone in that squalid apartment without ever asking her, Polina, for assistance, although she had Polina’s number and kept it in a visible spot on the wall. She also kept a shroud, slippers, and a cross—her funeral outfit—in a little bundle next to the bed; it was as though her aunt were asking her, Polina, for a last favor. Next to the bundle was a checkbook with some savings, to pay for the funeral, but the money was now worthless. Polina tossed the bundle with the other trash and kept only a family album and an ancient record player with some records wrapped in cloth sacks. Polina took these treasures home, thinking she’d impress her grateful family.

She arrived home late at night, and listened to Semyon’s screams that he wasn’t going to let a venereal slut use a shared bathroom; that first she must bring a note from the clinic, et cetera. Polina said nothing: she suddenly felt a surge of joy at the thought that soon she would escape this nightmare—that she had a way out. So that Semyon wouldn’t lose his last marbles when she disappeared, Polina told him about an old aunt who was completely paralyzed and whom Polina wanted to bring home, to Moscow, because the aunt’s children refused to take care of her. On hearing this Semyon yelled that he refused to clean up after some old hag, spat at Polina’s family pictures and records, and disappeared into his room—his dungeon, as Polina called it, where the window was always open and the lights didn’t work.

The next Saturday Polina celebrated her birthday. She cooked a meal, her trio of a family arrived, and after they stuffed themselves the shining Polina offered to play some old records and show family photographs (she slyly had added the best pictures of her young self to the album). She hoped that Nikola, the heir, would express an interest in family history, but he looked indifferently at the faded snapshots and shifted his attention to the TV to watch soccer. Polina’s son and daughter-in-law again brought up the housing question: now they wanted Polina and Semyon to register Nikola as a resident of their apartment. “The fuck I will,” yelled educated Semyon. “So that five years from now you could kick us both out? Ain’t gonna happen! The Liapins,” he continued, “registered their son at his grandmother’s. The next day he announced he was going to have the place renovated, and he moved his grandmother to her sister’s for three days; in the meantime he sold the apartment and left the country with the money!”

“And we know a certain babushka who lost her marbles and married some old idiot and registered him! Her daughter almost lost her mind! She’d been waiting for the old witch’s apartment for decades!”

“Great idea, thanks,” Semyon replied brightly. “I’ll get married, too. Better than getting old with this venereal hag!”

“As you wish, but remember: I did your son a favor by registering him at my apartment, where nothing belongs to him, and now I’m getting punished for my kindness!” fat Alla concluded glumly, and went to get her coat.

They stomped out, forgetting the photographs. Polina cried a little over the dirty dishes and in the morning departed for her new home. At this point we could conclude our story, but life continued, and soon came the spring. Polina dug a tiny vegetable patch outside her new window and planted a few simple things like carrots and calendula. Every day she woke up and went to bed with a sense of quiet happiness. She tended her plants, walked to the village for goat milk, and gathered herbs in the fields, but after two months of this simple life she ran out of money and had to go to Moscow to collect her pension. She had forgotten the scandals, the constant humiliation, even Clapper—for good, she hoped. Nonetheless, after collecting her pension Polina forced herself to visit her former nest: she needed dry goods like flour and sugar, and also pickling jars. Without taking off her rubber boots she stomped into her old apartment and immediately saw Semyon sitting on her sofa in her room in filthy pajamas, smiling like a baby. His hair was completely white, he was unshaved, his chin was trembling, and the phone was lying disconnected on the floor. “Why is the phone disconnected?” Polina asked calmly. “I couldn’t get through.” Semyon nodded meekly and tried to fit the cord into the phone. His hands were shaking. Polina reconnected the phone, and immediately it rang; their son was calling from out of town, worried because his father hadn’t answered the phone in three days. “I’ll be back in a week!” the son said, and hung up.

Polina toured the apartment. In Semyon’s dungeon she pulled off the stinking sheets and threw them into the tub; in the blackened kitchen she swept up the shards and trash and placed the dirty kettle on the stove. When Semyon, clean and shaved, was lying in a fresh bed and Polina was spoon-feeding him cereal, he stopped moving his toothless jaws, looked at her slowly, and whispered, “You must be hungry. Have a bite yourself.”