Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 26

He sat on the bed and held his head in his hands. His thoughts tangled, overwhelming each other, not letting him concentrate.

So, he tried to organize the situation. I’m in 1856. In St. Petersburg. I have no money, no clothes except what I’m wearing, and they attract attention, no documents, no acquaintances. All I have is some Rodion Romanovich who for some reason decided to help me, and a landlady who expects me to pay for lodging.

The situation was catastrophic. But strangely – instead of panic, Dmitry felt some kind of cold excitement. As if this were a game, a puzzle to solve.

What do I need first? he reasoned. Clothes. I can’t walk around in jeans and a sweatshirt. Second – money. Without money I’ll starve. Third – a cover story. Who am I? Where from? Why did I come?

He stood and walked to the window. Beyond it was a typical nineteenth-century St. Petersburg courtyard – narrow, dirty, with piles of garbage in the corners, laundry hanging on ropes, children playing in the dirt. It smelled of slop, smoke, something sour and musty.

There’s the romance of the nineteenth century, he thought bitterly. In books everything looked beautiful – balls, duels, noble feelings. In reality – dirt, poverty, stench.

Praskovia Pavlovna returned with a tray on which stood a glass of tea in a glass holder and several pieces of black bread.

“Here, have some, dear,” she said, setting the tray on the dresser. “The tea is hot, with sugar. And fresh bread, baked today.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the glass and sipped.

The tea was strong, hot, very sweet. An unfamiliar taste – not like modern tea. More astringent, with some smoky aftertaste.

This is real Russian tea, he realized. Steeped in a samovar, boiled over coals.

The bread was different too – dense, heavy, smelling of sour dough. But delicious – real, alive, not like twenty-first-century store bread.

“Tell me, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he began carefully, “how much does it cost… well, to rent a room like this for a month?”

“Rent? Well, ten rubles, dear,” she answered. “That’s still cheap because the room is small, unfurnished. Other places charge fifteen.”

Ten rubles, Dmitry repeated to himself. How much is that in modern money? By purchasing power parity… probably thirty or forty thousand rubles. A lot. And I have zero.

“And if I want to buy clothes?” he continued. “Where can that be done and how much does it cost?”

Praskovia Pavlovna looked at him with interest:

“Clothes? What do you mean, dear, didn’t you come with any? Or were you robbed?”

“No, it’s just… my clothes…” Dmitry faltered, not knowing what to say. “They’re not suitable for the climate here.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” she agreed, eyeing his jeans. “Those pants of yours are some kind of strange. Form-fitting. We don’t wear such things here. Quite improper.”

Improper, Dmitry repeated. God, how different everything is. Even clothes – a question of morality.

“So tell me,” he asked, “where can I buy proper clothes?”

“Well, at the Sennaya market, dear, the rag dealers trade there. You can buy cheap. You’ll find a secondhand frock coat for about five rubles, pants for three, a shirt for one. Boots are more expensive though – seven or eight rubles for decent ones.”

So minimum sixteen rubles for clothes, Dmitry calculated. Plus ten for lodging. Plus at least a ruble a day for food. I need at least thirty rubles soon. Where can I get it?

Praskovia Pavlovna left, saying she’d come check on him in the evening. Dmitry was left alone with his thoughts.