Boots
They made a trip into town for spare parts and Sergei Dukhanin went into a shop and saw a smashing pair of ladies' boots. And that put an end to his peace of mind because he suddenly wanted to buy those boots for his wife. Just for once, he thought, I could give her a real treat. Something really beautiful. And those boots are it. She has never had a pair like that even in her dreams.
Sergei spent some time admiring the boots, then flicked the glass of the shop counter with his finger-nail and asked cheerfully, "How much do you want for those dazzlers?"
"What dazzlers?" the salesgirl questioned blankly.
"Those over there-the boots."
"Dazzlers... Sixty-five rubles."
Bloody hell! Sergei opened his mouth to say it, but in fact said, "Aye, and they've got a sting in them too."
The salesgirl eyed him with scorn. Snooty lot, these shopgirls. Even if it was only a bag of millet they were selling you, they'd do it as if they were paying back a forgotten debt.
Still, never mind them. Sergei had sixty-five rubles on him. In fact, he had seventy-five. But... He went out into the street, lit a cigarette and started thinking. You had to face it, of course, those boots weren't really the thing for country mud. True, she'd be careful with them. Put them on about once a month to go out in. And never in the mud, only when it was dry. But think of the joy! What a moment it would be when he took the boots out of his case and said, "These are for you."
Sergei went to a stall not far from the shop and queued for beer.
He pictured his wife's eyes shining at the sight of those boots. She could be just like a kid sometimes, happy to the point of tears. And she was a fine girl anyway. They have plenty to put up with, our wives do, Sergei thought to himself. It's bad enough for them with our booze-ups as it is to say nothing of the kids and the house to look after. It must take some guts to stand it. We men can get away from it all for a bit-at work or having-a drink with someone. That gives us a break. But they're at it from morning to night, all the hours that are made.
The queue was moving slowly. Those who had been served already kept bringing up their mugs for a "refill". Sergei continued to ponder.
Of course it's not as if she was going about barefoot. It's not as bad as all that! Why make out it is? She's as well shod as the rest of the village. They're nice to look at, of course, but they're more than we can afford. If I did get her a pair she is sure enough to start scolding. What's the good of them to me, she'd say, at that price? You ought to have got something for the girls, an overcoat or something- winter's coming on.
At last Sergei's turn came round. He took two mugs of beer, found himself a quiet corner and began sipping slowly, thinking the while.
Yes, that's the way you've been living for forty-five years. You keep on thinking to yourself one day things will ease up a bit and we'll enjoy ourselves. But the years go by till all of a sudden you'll be ready for the grave, and then you'll realise you've spent all your life waiting for something. But why the hell should we wait? Why not give joy when you get the chance? And here it is. You've got the money, there's a smashing pair of boots going, so take them and make someone happy! You might never have another chance. The girls haven't reached the marrying age yet, they can make do without anything special. But this is the chance of a lifetime.
Sergei went back to the shop.
"Well, let's have a look at 'em," he said.
"What?"
"Those boots."
"What do you want to look at them for? What size do you need?"
"I don't know the size. I'll guess from the look of 'em."
"Fancy shopping without knowing the size. They have to be tried on, they're not bedroom slippers."
"I can see that from the price."
"So there's no point in looking at them, is there?"
"Suppose I want to buy them?"
"How can you when you don't even know the size?"
"What's that to you? I want to have a look at 'em."
"You're wasting your time. If everyone has a look just for the sake of looking..."
"Now listen here, my dear," Sergei snapped, losing his temper. "I'm not asking you to show me your knickers because I don't want to see them, but I am asking you to show me the boots you have on this counter."
"Don't you be rude in here! You drink yourself stupid, and then off you go..."
"Who's going off where? How do you know what I've had to drink? You haven't bought me any, have you?"
The salesgirl threw down one boot in front of him.
Sergei took it, turned it over in his hands, felt the leather, flicked the flossy sole with his finger-nail, and carefully slipped his hand into its soft, caressing depths.
Soft as a featherbed, he thought joyfully.
"Sixty-five exactly?" he asked.
The salesgirl stared at him in silent fury.
Good lord, she hates me, Sergei reflected in astonishment. The silly bitch!
"I'll take them," he said hurriedly. At least that would mollify her a bit and make her realise he wasn't bothering her for nothing. "Do I pay you or at the desk?"
Still staring at him, the girl said quietly, "At the desk."
"Sixty-five exactly or plus some kopeks?"
The girl went on staring at him and, when Sergei looked more closely into her eyes, he saw that they really were white with hatred. Losing his nerve, he asked no more questions, put down the boot and went to pay at the cash desk.
What's biting her? Is she crazy or what-getting so het up? She won't live long at that rate.
The price turned out to be exactly sixty-five rubles. Sergei gave the salesgirl the receipt from the cash desk. Not daring to look into her eyes, he let his gaze rest on a point just above her flat chest. Not exactly brimming over with health, he thought pityingly.
But the girl stood staring at him without taking the receipt. Sergei looked up and saw that her eyes now expressed both hatred and an odd kind of satisfaction.
"Give me the boots, please."
"At the wrapping counter," she said quietly.
"Where's that?" Sergei asked, also quietly, feeling that he himself was beginning to hate this flat-chested salesgirl.
She stared without answering.
"Where is the wrapping counter?" Sergei smiled straight into her eyes. "Eh? Don't look at me like that, dear-1'm married. I know I'm the kind they all fall for, but what's the use? You'll just have to put up with it, that's all. Now, where did you say that wrapping counter was?"
The girl's small mouth opened in surprise. It was too much for her.
Sergei went off to look for the wrapping counter. Oh, he breathed out, I never knew I had it in me. Fancy taking it out of her like that! Still, that'll teach her not to get mad for nothing. Standing there in such a temper.
He collected the boots and went back to the transport depot for the journey home (they had driven into town in their lorries, two other drivers and a mechanic).
Sergei walked into the watch office, imagining that everyone would want to know at once what he had in his box. The box attracted no attention. No one took any notice of him either. As usual, they were arguing. In town they had seen a young priest walking along the street and now they were trying to work out how much the blighter earned. Vitka Kibyakov, pale and pock-marked, with big mournful eyes, was outshouting the others. Even while he was bawling his head off and insulting everyone else, his eyes retained their perpetual look of melancholy wisdom, as though they were watching Vitka himself in hopeless sorrow.
"Don't you know he has a chauffeur-driven car?!" the File was shouting (Vitka had been nicknamed the File). "Even while they're in training, they get a grant of a hundred and fifty a month! Understand? A grant!"
"They do have cars, that's true, but not the young ones. What are you trying to tell me? The ones that have chauffeur-driven cars are these-the apostles? No, not apostles-what are they called?'"
"Hear that? The apostles have chauffeur-driven cars! There's a dimwit for you! You're an apostle yourself!"
"A grant of a hundred and fifty? Then how much are the wages?"
"D'you think he's going to be persecuted for nothing? He must get five hundred rubles minimum."
"But he must be a believer."
"If your salary is five hundred rubles, you can be a believer. I'd be a believer too if I got that much."
"Imagine him a believer."
Sergei didn't want to get involved, though he could have argued if he had wanted to. Five hundred rubles a month for a young priest. That was certainly too much. But he had no desire to argue about that just now. He wanted to show them the boots. He took them out of the box and started examining them. Now they'd shut up about their blooming priest. This would keep them quiet. But it didn't. They just glanced. One of the drivers held out his hand and Sergei passed him the boot. The driver (Sergei didn't know him) took it, also felt the leather, and flicked the sole with an iron finger-nail. Then he tried to put his dirty paw into its snow-white, feather-soft inside. Sergei took the boot away.
"Where are you pushing your great piston?"
The driver laughed.
"Who's it for?"
"My wife."
Then they did shut up.
"Who?" the File asked.
"For Klavka."
"Let's see it."
The boot was passed round. They all fingered the leather top and flicked the sole, but no one ventured to feel inside. They only pinched open the top and peered into the white, fluffy depths. One of them even blew inside for some reason. Sergei experienced an unfamiliar sense of pride.
"How much were they?"
"Sixty-five."
They all stared at Sergei in astonishment. He felt slightly confused.
"Are you crackers?"
Sergei took the boot away from the File.
"Well, Sergei's done it this time!" the File proclaimed. "What's the good of them to her?"
"She'll wear them!"
Sergei wanted to be calm and sure of himself, but he was quivering inwardly. And the thought that the price of the boots represented half a motor- scooter had lodged stubbornly in his brain. Half a motor-scooter. Half a motor-scooter. He knew it was not half, or anywhere near half, but the thought persisted. Half a motor-scooter.
"Did she tell you to buy them?"
"Why should she tell me? I just bought them."
"When will she wear them?" they questioned Sergei cheerfully. "Everywhere knee-deep in mud and he turns up with boots that cost sixty-five rubles!
"They're winter boots."
"But where can you go in them in winter?"
"And anyway they're for a town girl's leg. Klavka's won't get into them-that's for sure. What size does she take? They'd just about fit on her nose, and that's all."
"What size does she take?"
"Oh, go to..!" Sergei lost his temper completely. "Why should you care anyhow?"
Another burst of laughter.
"We're sorry, Sergei, old chap! After all, you didn't pick up that sixty-five rubles in the street, did you?"
"It's me that earned it and me that spent it, and that's all there is to it."
"She told you to get rubber ones, I suppose?"
"Rubber my foot!.." Sergei was on edge. "You'd do better to talk about the priest and the wages he gets."
"More than you do."
"Look at the bastards counting other people's money." Sergei stood up. "Have you got nothing better to do?"
"What are you getting all hot under the collar for? You've slipped up and we've told you about it, that's all. No need to get worked up."
"Me? No! I'm not worked up. It's you that's worrying your heart out over me! Real old worry-guts, aren't you? Anyone'd think I'd borrowed the money off him. What are you sitting there worrying for? Sits there worrying, the poor bugger, till he's blue in the face."
"I worry because I can't stick the sight of fools. I feel sorry for them ..."
"Sorry my eye! He's sorry!"
"Yes, I am."
"Go and get your face back to normal."
"And you come with me, eh? Give those boots a send-off."
They kept it up for a bit longer, then set off for home.
On the way home Sergei was finally vanquished by the mechanic (they travelled in the same lorry).
"What did she give you the money for?" the mechanic asked. He put the question without malice. "For something else?"
Sergei respected the mechanic, so he kept his temper.
"No, nothing else. Let's drop it."
They arrived in the village towards evening.
Sergei wasted no time on goodbyes or going for a swig of vodka to celebrate their homecoming. He went home.
When he arrived, Klavdia and the girls were having supper.
"You're late back, aren't you?" Klavdia said. "I thought you'd be staying the night."
"Well, by the time we'd picked the stuff up and taken it to the depot, and by the time they'd parcelled it out for the various districts..."
"Didn't you buy anything, dad?" his elder daughter, Grusha,asked.
"What, for instance?" Sergei asked. On the way home he had decided that if Klavdia started snapping at him and saying they were too dear and he ought to have bought something else, he'd just go straight to the well and throw the boots down it.
"Well, something. Anything?"
"Yes, I did."
All three turned and looked at him from the table. The way he'd said that "Yes, I did" clearly indicated that it wasn't a four-ruble head-square or a meat-grinder that the master of the house had bought. They turned and waited.
"I'm not the master of my own house, somehow," thought Sergei at that moment. "I sit here dumbstruck, dammit. What for?"
"It's in my case." Sergei sat down on a chair and fumbled for his cigarettes. He was so nervous his hands were trembling.
Klavdia lifted the box out of the case, and the boots looked up at her out of the box... by electric light they were even more dazzling. They seemed to be laughing there in that box. His daughters jumped up from the table, oohing and aahing.
"Gracious me! Who're they for?"
"Who d'you think? You of course!"
"Goodness gracious!.." The slipper flew off Klavdia's foot. The bed creaked as she plumped herself down on it...
One of those smart city boots sild boldly on to the sturdy peasant leg-and then stuck. Sergei felt a stab of anguish. It wouldn't go on. The top was too tight.
"What size are they?"
"Thirty-eight."
No, it wouldn't go on. Sergei stood up, took a grip on the boot and tried to pull it. No good.
"And they're my size."
"This is where they're tight-in the calf."
"I've got such awful big legs!"
"Just a minute! Try putting on a very thin stocking. "
"What's the use! Can't you see?"
"Yes, I can..."
"Oh, bother! What a big leg I've got!"
The excitement died down.
"Oh, dear!" Klavdia sighed. "What a leg to have! How much were they?"
"Sixty-five." Sergei lighted a cigarette. He thought Klavdia had not heard the price. "They cost sixty-five rubles."
Klavdia looked at the boot, mechanically stroking the smooth top with her palm. Tears shone in her eyes, on her lashes... Yes, she had heard the price well enough.
"Oh, bother these legs of mine!" she said. "For once in my life I'm lucky except that they don't fit! Oh, dear, oh, dear!"
Sergei felt another stab of pain, of pity, of love, somewhat neglected. He put his hand on his wife's as it stroked the boot, and squeezed it. Klavdia looked up at him. Their eyes met. Klavdia gave a shy little laugh and shook her head as she used to before, when she was young, in a mischievous, mannish way, but with pride and self-respect.
"Well, Grusha, you're in luck." She held out the boot to her daughter. "Try it on now."
The girl was overwhelmed.
"That's right!" said Sergei, and shook his head as his wife had done. "If you finish your tenth class well, they're yours."
Klavdia burst out laughing.
...Before going to bed Sergei usually sat for a while on a low stool by the kitchen door and smoked his last cigarette. That night he did the same. He sat there, smoking and thinking, or rather not thinking, but reliving the experience of his shopping expedition, trying to comprehend its unexpected and, so it seemed to him now, profound meaning. He felt light at heart. It would be a pity if something now were to spoil such a good mood, such a rare, treasured moment.
Klavdia was making up the bed. "Aren't you coming!" she called.
He waited on purpose, to see what she would say next.
"Sergei, love!"
Sergei rose, spat on the stub of his cigarette and went inside, smiling to himself and shaking his head. But he didn't think, so that's what made her sweet-buying those boots. No, it wasn't because of the boots. That wasn't it.
It was because, because... Never mind. It was good.
|
