Читать книгу A Man from the Future. 1856 - Евгений Платонов - Страница 41

1. Third Day Without Money

Dmitry woke from cold. The room was so cold that his breath turned to vapor. He lay under a thin blanket, huddled in his frock coat, looking at the ceiling.

Third day, he counted. Third day with almost no food. Yesterday – a crust of bread in the morning and evening. The day before – the same. Today it’ll be the same. Three more weeks until my first wages. How will I make it?

His stomach ached – not just rumbling from hunger, but actually aching, with a dull, sickening pull. His head spun when he stood up. His legs trembled.

I always thought I understood poverty, he reflected, slowly getting out of bed. I read about it in Dostoevsky and Nekrasov. I saw homeless people on the streets of the twenty-first century. But that wasn’t understanding. That was observation from the side, from a warm apartment window. Now I understand – real hunger isn’t just wanting to eat. It’s when your stomach aches, your head spins, your hands shake. When you think about food every second. When the smell of bread from a bakery causes physical pain.

There was a knock on the door. Praskovia Pavlovna came in with a tray – a glass of tea and a tiny piece of black bread.

“Here, dear, eat something,” she said and sighed. “I can’t give you more. You understand, I’m not wealthy. I can feed you like this for a week, maybe two. But not longer. I have to feed my own children.”

“Thank you, Praskovia Pavlovna,” Dmitry took the glass with trembling hands. “You’re very kind. I’ll try to find additional work.”

“God willing, dear. Because I see you’re getting thinner. You’ve gone very pale. I hope you don’t get sick.”

She left, and Dmitry was alone with his tea and the tiny piece of bread. He ate slowly, stretching it out, chewing each crumb as long as possible.

In the twenty-first century I threw away more food in a day than I eat now, he thought bitterly. Uneaten burgers, leftover pizza, stale bread – all in the trash. And here every crumb is worth its weight in gold.

2. School and Children

Dmitry came to school half an hour early – he wanted to sit somewhere warm. The classroom had a stove and it was relatively warm.

Krupov met him in the corridor:

“Good morning, Dmitry Sergeevich! How are you feeling?”

“Well, Ivan Petrovich, thank you,” Dmitry lied.

Krupov looked at him carefully:

“You’re pale, my friend. And you’ve lost weight. Maybe you need help?”

Yes, Dmitry almost cried out. Yes, I need help! I’m dying of hunger! Give me some money!

But aloud he said:

“No, everything’s fine. I’m just a bit tired.”

“Make sure you don’t overwork yourself,” Krupov patted him on the shoulder. “Health is more important. And come to my room for tea at lunch – we’ll have some.”

Tea, Dmitry thought desperately. Just tea again. But I need bread. Meat. Real food. But I can’t ask. Too shameful.

The lesson began. The children came – cheerful, noisy, rosy-cheeked. They’d been fed at home, given warm clothes, sent to study. They had a childhood.

And there are children who don’t, Dmitry thought, looking at them. Children who work at factories from age ten. Who go hungry. Who die from disease. And no one helps them. No one.

He taught the children writing, but his thoughts were far away. The letters blurred before his eyes, his head spun.

“Dmitry Sergeevich,” called little Vanyechka Petrov, “are you all right?”

“No, Vanyechka, everything’s fine,” Dmitry smiled. “I’m just a bit tired.”

“Did you eat today?” asked the girl with braids. “Mama says that if you don’t eat, your head will spin.”

What a smart girl, Dmitry thought. Smarter than me. I forgot I’m not a superhero. That I need food to live.

“I did eat, Mashenka, thank you,” he lied again.

But after the lesson, when the children had left, he remained sitting at the desk, his head in his hands. He didn’t have the strength to walk home.

3. Decision

In the evening, walking home across Sennaya Square, Dmitry saw a crowd of men outside a tavern. They stood waiting for something.

He approached closer. From the tavern came out a fat man in a dirty apron – the owner, apparently.

“Need a man to wash the floors, carry out the slop!” he shouted. “I’ll pay fifteen kopecks for the evening! Work till midnight! Who’s interested?”

The men were silent. For them, laborers, this work was humiliating. They were used to carrying heavy things, not washing floors like women.

Fifteen kopecks, Dmitry thought. If I work every evening, that’s ninety kopecks a week. Almost four rubles a month. I can buy bread, porridge, maybe even a little meat.

“I’ll do it,” he said, raising his hand.

The men looked at him – with confusion, with contempt. An intellectual, in a frock coat, going to wash floors. Either completely desperate or some kind of drunkard.

“You?” the owner looked him over. “Can you manage? You’re not some weakling?”

“I can manage,” Dmitry said firmly.

“All right then, come on. There’s a lot of work. Come at eight in the evening.”

I’m a teacher, Dmitry thought as he walked home. I’m a historian with a university education. In the twenty-first century I was a systems administrator, worked in an office, made decent money. And now I’ll be washing floors in a tavern for fifteen kopecks. For kopecks. There’s the price of pride in the nineteenth century – nothing.

But hunger was stronger than shame.

4. First Evening in the Tavern – Shock and Disgust

At eight o’clock, Dmitry came to the tavern. The owner – his name was Savely Kuzmich – showed him a bucket of water, a rag, and said:

“Here, get started. Wash the floors, wipe the tables, carry out the slop. If a customer throws up – clean it. If they fight – call me, don’t get involved yourself. Understand?”

“Understood,” Dmitry nodded.

“Well, get to work. The evening’s just beginning.”

Dmitry took the rag – gray, damp, with the sharp smell of cheap soap – and looked at the floor. Wooden boards were covered with something sticky, cigarette butts lay in the corners, someone had stepped in dirt and smeared it across the floor.

My God, he thought. Am I really going to do this?

He knelt down – and immediately felt something damp and disgusting soak into his pants. He tried to touch the rag to the floor – but his hand jerked back on its own.

I can’t, he thought in panic. Can’t touch this filth with my bare hands!

He looked around – maybe there was a stick, a mop? But Savely Kuzmich was already watching him suspiciously: