Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 31

They left the house together – Dmitry in his strange jeans and sweatshirt, Rodion in his worn frock coat. It was a gray, cold October day with drizzle. The sky hung low, like a dirty rag.

Dmitry walked and looked around with avid curiosity. He’d seen twenty-first-century St. Petersburg thousands of times – but this was a completely different city. The streets were narrower, the buildings lower and gloomier, the pavement made of cobblestones that hurt to walk on in his thin modern shoes. Instead of automobiles, carriages drawn by horses moved along the roads, and the occasional hired cab.

People were dressed heavily, in dark colors – men in long frock coats and greatcoats, women in full skirts and scarves. Everyone moved slowly, as if under the weight of exhaustion. Gray, tormented, indifferent faces.

There they are, nineteenth-century people, Dmitry thought. Not heroes from novels, not characters from historical films. Ordinary people who work, get tired, suffer. Like me in the twenty-first century. Like all people at all times.

The smells were unbearable. Horse manure – there was plenty of it on the streets, no one cleaned it up. Smoke from stoves – black, pungent, sinking into the lungs. Slop – it was poured directly onto the streets from windows. Unwashed bodies – in the nineteenth century there wasn’t a shower in every apartment, people washed rarely, the crowd reeked of sweat and dirt.

How do they stand this? Dmitry wondered. How can people live in such stench?

But then he understood: they simply didn’t know anything different. For them it was normal. This was how life smelled.

Rodion walked in silence, absorbed in his thoughts. Sometimes he muttered something to himself – Dmitry couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was anxious, tense.

What is he thinking about? Dmitry wondered. Could he really be planning a crime? Or am I making it up after reading Dostoevsky?

They turned onto a narrow street, then another, even narrower. The houses here stood so close to each other that it seemed they would soon touch. The windows were small, dirty, and behind them were visible dark rooms. From courtyards peeked ragged children with hungry eyes.

“The poorest people live here,” Rodion said quietly, noticing Dmitry’s gaze. “Those who have nowhere to go. Craftsmen, day laborers, prostitutes, thieves. The bottom of St. Petersburg.”

The bottom of St. Petersburg, Dmitry repeated to himself. I thought the bottom was the twenty-first century, office work, meaningless existence. Turns out it can be worse. Much worse.

Finally they came out onto a large square. Sennaya. Dmitry recognized it – he’d read descriptions by Dostoevsky, Nekrasov, other writers. But reading was one thing, seeing with your own eyes was another.

The square was enormous, filled with people, carts, horses. Everywhere stood stalls, tables, goods simply laid out on the ground. Merchants shouted, calling to customers. Customers haggled, cursed, examined goods. Beggars asked for alms. Cabdrivers waited for passengers. Police officers slowly strolled about, keeping an eye on order. The smell here was even stronger – a mixture of rot, slop, horse manure, unwashed bodies, cheap vodka, and something sickeningly sweet that Dmitry couldn’t identify.

A market, he realized. A real old-fashioned market. Not a supermarket with air conditioning and sterile counters, but a living, dirty, noisy bazaar.

“That rag dealer over there,” Rodion pointed to the corner of the square, where an old man with a long gray beard was sitting. “He buys all kinds of things. Maybe he’ll buy your clothes.”

They approached. The old man looked Dmitry over with a sharp gaze – from head to toe.

“What are you selling, young sir?” he asked hoarsely.

“Clothes,” Dmitry answered. “American. Very good quality.”

“American?” The old man squinted. “Show me.”

Dmitry took off his sweatshirt – underneath was a t-shirt. The old man took the sweatshirt in his hands, felt it, smelled it, turned it over.

“Strange fabric,” he muttered. “Soft, but strong. Doesn’t look like ours. And the cut is unusual. Is this some kind of coat?”

“Yes, something like that,” Dmitry nodded.

“What about the pants?” The old man pointed at the jeans.

“Selling those too.”

“Take them off, let me see.”

Take off my jeans in the middle of the square? Dmitry was horrified. But there’s no other way. He looked around – no one was paying particular attention. You saw all kinds of things at Sennaya. He quickly took off his jeans, remaining in his underwear – fortunately, modern boxer briefs that looked like short pants.

The old man took the jeans, examined them, felt the pockets, the zipper. The zipper particularly interested him.

“What’s this contraption?” he asked, pulling the slider up and down.

“A fastener,” Dmitry explained. “Instead of buttons.”

“Clever invention,” the old man approved. “The Americans are good with mechanics. Well, a real curiosity. I’ll give three rubles for everything.”

“Three?” Dmitry protested. “These are unique items! There’s nothing like them in Russia!”

“That’s exactly why three, not two,” the old man smirked. “Who needs these curiosities? You can’t wear them – it looks ridiculous. You could only sell them to a museum. Or to some rich man with money to burn. Three rubles – and be grateful.”

Rodion touched Dmitry on the shoulder:

“Agree. It’s a fair price.”

Dmitry clenched his teeth. Three rubles. For clothes that cost five thousand in the twenty-first century. But there was no choice.

“All right,” he agreed. “Three rubles.”

The old man took a wallet from his pocket, counted out three worn paper rubles, and handed them to Dmitry.

Nineteenth-century money, Dmitry thought, examining the bills. Real, not museum pieces. With the portrait of the emperor, a double-headed eagle. These are historical artifacts! And for me – just a way not to starve to death.