Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 29

He woke to the sound of a rooster crowing. He opened his eyes – gray morning light streamed through the window. The room was cold, his breath turned to vapor.

No heating, he realized. The stove wasn’t lit. Or maybe there’s no stove heating at all in this room?

He got up, went to the washstand, and splashed water from the pitcher on his face. The water was ice-cold – it stung his skin, made him fully awake.

He looked at himself in the small cracked mirror hanging above the washstand. Unshaven face, tousled hair, dark circles under his eyes. Wrinkled, dirty clothes.

I look like a bum, he thought. I need to get cleaned up. But how? No razor. No clean clothes. No hot water.

There was a knock on the door. Praskovia Pavlovna came in with a pitcher of hot water and a piece of soap.

“Good morning, dear,” she said. “Here’s some hot water for washing. And soap. I forgot to give it to you yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the pitcher.

The soap was dark, stinking, but apparently the only kind available.

“Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, “could I borrow some money? Five or ten rubles. I’ll pay you back tomorrow, I give you my word.”

The woman looked at him suspiciously:

“Borrow? Well, I’m not rich myself, dear. Where would I get money? You’ll have to manage on your own…”

“I understand,” Dmitry nodded. Of course she won’t give it to me. Why should she trust a stranger?

After Praskovia Pavlovna left, he sat on the bed and thought. He needed to act. Today. Otherwise tomorrow would be too late – the landlady would throw him out for non-payment.

What can I do right now? he reasoned. Go to Sennaya Square and try to sell something? But what? Try to find a job? But where and what kind? Ask Rodion Romanovich for help? But what can he do?

Suddenly a thought came – mad, desperate, but possibly the only one.

Meeting Dostoevsky, he thought. I know Fyodor Mikhailovich is living in St. Petersburg now. He hasn’t written Crime and Punishment yet, but he’s already known as the author of Poor Folk and Notes from the House of the Dead. What if I find him? Offer him a collaboration? Tell him I have ideas for novels?

But it was risky. First, where would he find Dostoevsky? Second, why should he accept an unknown foreigner? Third, what specifically could Dmitry offer him?

I could tell him the plot of Crime and Punishment, he thought. Say that I heard this story from an acquaintance. Dostoevsky will be interested, will start writing. And I’ll ask him for help – money, clothes, work.

It was a plan. Not perfect, but better than nothing.