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Fiction

The Rat

By Tanya Malyarchuk
Translated from Ukrainian by Michael M. Naydan
Ukraine's Tanya Malyarchuk shares secrets of pest control.

1

This is impossible, Tamara Pavlivna convinces herself, it’s impossible. I live on the seventh floor of a brick building, and the seventh floor—it’s gotta be too high for him. He couldn’t have done this. He doesn’t have enough daring and gall. For his kind, even the second floor is too high. How could he have figured it out? How did he conspire to do this? Everything pointed to him being there, though.

Tamara Pavlivna surveys her kitchen fastidiously. She pulls her kitchen utensils out of the cabinets, sniffs every plate and pan, and rummages through boxes filled with grains and pasta.

And the worst thing, Tamara Pavlivna thinks, is that I have no clue what to do. Moving the pans and pasta around—that’s not a solution. Tamara Pavlivna had never been in a similar situation. She had never been in such close proximity to him. To her enemy.

There might even be more than just one of them, Tamara Pavlivna thinks to herself. If that’s true—then I’m doomed. I have to get the hell out of here.

I’ll gather up just the bare essentials—my passport, money, and my pictures of Sofia Rotaru—and get away from here. Because I’m not going to live in the same apartment with my enemy. I have my pride. I love hygiene and cleanliness. I’m just nuts about cleanliness. Look at my apartment: everything is sparkling and smells nice. Not a bit of dust. Everything in its proper place. Arranged uniformly and neatly, by size and color. But he (or they) has ruined everything. He broke into my perfectly antiseptic life and desecrated it. Now I reek. Yes, I already smell myself reeking. There is no disinfectant that can save me from this horrible odor of rottenness. Tamara Pavlivna tries to push the refrigerator aside, and then suddenly leaves it in peace and plops down on a chair near the window.

But what can I do, she thinks, when he jumps out from behind the refrigerator? I’m defenseless against him. He’ll jump out and right off will throw himself at me. He’ll rip up my face with his claws. He’ll gouge my eyes out. He’ll bite off my nose with his narrow little teeth that are sharp as a razor. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to move the refrigerator and set him free. Maybe he can’t crawl out from underneath it because he has such a big fat belly. No, that’s a mistake, to move the refrigerator. Let him sit there like he’s in prison, and I’ll think about what to do in the meantime.

Tamara Pavlivna notices that she’s shaking from fear and disgust. She feels sorry for herself. Why did this have to happen? Did she deserve this for something bad she’d done? And how is it that someone creeps into your house out of the blue, without permission and ruins your peace and quiet, ruins everything you’ve been painstakingly taking care of for so many years with so much hard work?

I hate him, Tamara Pavlivna thinks. How intensely I hate him.

She gets dressed, puts her passport into her handbag with money and the pictures of Sofia Rotaru, closes the kitchen door tightly, then locks the apartment with her key, and goes outside. Grandma Alevtyna, as always, is sitting on a bench next to the entrance to the building, resting.

“Are you going somewhere, Tamara Pavlivna?” Grandma Alevtyna asks. “If you’re going to the store, please buy me some sugar. I’ll give you the money for it when you come back.”

Tamara Pavlivna can’t handle it. It’s so hard for her. She has to share her troubles with someone. Crying, she hugs Grandma Alevtyna and says hopelessly: “A rat has chased me out of my house.”

Grandma Alevtyna has heard more than enough during her life. It was impossible to scare her or get her riled up by anything. Fearless Grandma Alevtyna has been sitting on that bench by the entrance for thirty-plus years and has helped countless people. People would sit down next to her as though they were just going to rest for a minute, but in truth they would tell her all their problems and listen to her sage advice in response.

But Tamara Pavlivna’s matter won’t be an easy one, Grandma Alevtyna thinks. You’ve come back, she thinks, you’ve come back to take revenge on me.

“Tamara Pavlivna, how do you know it’s a rat?” Grandma Alevtyna asks in a really sweet voice, so as not to stir up an even bigger commotion. “Have you seen him? Rats rarely scamper into tall brick buildings. Mice, maybe, but not rats.”

“It’s a rat,” Tamara Pavlivna answers and starts to sob even harder. “I know it’s a rat. I hear him. I can smell his scent! I hear him digging at the parquet floor behind the refrigerator and his contented heavy breathing!”

“Well, well, Tamara Pavlivna, I believe you,” Grandma Alevtyna says and pats her neighbor on the back. “It’s impossible to confuse a rat with a mouse. I believe you. If you say it’s a rat, then it’s a rat. Only one of those can breathe heavily behind the refrigerator.”

“Boy is he breathing heavily!” Tamara Pavlivna cries. “And the way he scratches—you get goose bumps! And he snores from time to time! If you could just hear him snore! Like . . . Like . . ..”

“Like a man,” Grandma Alevtyna prompts her.

“Like a man! Like a damn guy!”

Grandma Alevtyna dolefully wags her head, and her hands, unnoticeable to Tamara Pavlivna, begin to twitch nervously.

You’ve come back, rat, Grandma Alevtyna thinks, after so many years. You’ve not become lazy. Though you’ve been so awfully lazy. But I’m not afraid of you, Grandma Alevtyna asserts to herself, because I have no reason to be afraid of you. I have no guilt before you, quite the opposite—I’ve done what I had to do.

“What am I to do now?!” Tamara Pavlivna wrings her hands hysterically. “I can’t go back there! I can’t cross the doorstep of my own apartment. He’s sitting there! He’s lurking! Rejoicing!”

“First off,” Grandma Alevtyna begins, “you need to calm down and stop being afraid of him. That’s what he wants. For us to be afraid of him. But in fact he’s just a rat. Dirty, foul, shabby, and putrid, but not dangerous.”

“I know what to do,” says Tamara Pavlivna, “buy rat poison! He’ll eat it and die.”

How young and inexperienced she still is, Grandma Alevtyna thinks, while looking at the forty-year-old Tamara Pavlivna. Naïve. She thinks she can deal with him in such an easy way.

“Yes, maybe so,” Grandma Alevtyna continues. “But the rat won’t touch the poison. He won’t eat it.”

“Why?” Tamara Pavlivna is surprised. “It’s a special rat poison. He won’t suspect anything. He’ll eat it and croak. Why wouldn’t a rat eat a special rat poison?”

“Because he’s cunning.”

Cunning. You, rat, were cunning, Grandma Alevtyna thinks, but I was even more cunning. I fooled you. It couldn’t have been any other way with you—only with even greater cunningness.

“Once,” Grandma Alevtyna says, “a rat ran into my house. I battled with him for four years.”

“For four years?!” Tamara Pavlivna’s head started spinning.

“Yes, four years. We had a kind of game. Who’ll fool whom. Who’ll turn out to be the more cunning. And he lost.”

Grandma Alevtyna proudly straightens up on the bench, as though she’s still fighting with someone.

“Here’s what I’ll tell you, Tamara Pavlivna, go back home. In the end it’s your home, so fight for it. Don’t be afraid of the rat. Live with him. Study his character. Wheedle your way into his confidence. And then, when he stops hiding from you, when he trusts you and lets down his guard—inflict the deadly blow. At the most unexpected moment. Stealthily. Right in the back. In a way befitting a real woman.”

Imagine to yourself that Grandma Alevtyna wasn’t always a grandma. Once, and this was really long ago, she was just Alevtyna. Not a beauty, but also not ugly. Not super smart, but not stupid. Not rich, but not poor. And she had a husband, with whom she lived for four years.

They got acquainted in the technical high school. Alevtyna worked there as a custodian, and he—as a guard. His name was Omelyan. He was fat and clumsy. He loved to laugh boisterously and tell crude jokes.

Omelyan looked at Alevtyna as though he were looking at a full bowl of Salad Olivier that you had to eat up so it didn’t go bad by the next day. Alevtyna mistook this hungry look of his for passion. She married him and brought him home to her house, a tiny cramped two-room apartment.

Omelyan grew accustomed to the place right away. He set out his things, which didn’t match anything of hers, throughout the apartment. He filled up the rooms with his unpleasant scent that truly resembled the odor of rotten potatoes. He was continually rummaging through something, dragging all kinds of crap from the street onto the balcony, saying: you never know when you might need something.

He never brushed his teeth in the morning and, in fact, never even brushed them at all. He never washed his thick red head of hair, never cut the hair that grew from his ears and nose, and grew a long feminine fingernail on the pinky finger of his right hand, which he used as a can opener.

But the worst would happen at night. Omelyan had the habit of eating at night. While Alevtyna was asleep, he would wander into the kitchen and gobble up everything left and right. Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, cold, raw, fried, stewed, marinated, and even inedible stuff. Pig lard with tangerines, meat with ice cream, pasta with caramel candies, hot dogs with plum preserves, anchovies together with aluminum spoons.

“What’s the difference what you eat with what,” he used to say, “if everything mixes up in your stomach anyway.” Omelyan left mountains of dirty dishes in his wake, piles of feathers, bones, and crumbs; empty cans, large bottles, glasses, and cups; eggshells on the floor and cooking oil stains on the windowsill. His eyes after the nightly feasts would become tiny and red, sated and happy. The eyes of a rat who’s living well. Alevtyna recognized them. She understood she had gotten lost and would be even more lost if she didn’t fight against him. She had brought home a rat, so now she needed to fight him. It was either him or her.

“Don’t even think about it,” Omelyan warned Alevtyna. “I’m not that stupid. You can’t get rid of me. I’m cunning.”

Tamara Pavlivna goes home and quickly turns on all the lights. At first glance nothing had changed. Everything was the way it had been. But this was just at first glance. He’s been moving around here, Tamara Pavlivna thinks. He’s already been everywhere. And he’s probably even been lying on my bed. And in the bathroom. And he’s sniffed everything on the table. He’s left his disgusting putrid odor everywhere.

But really, why do I have to give up my house to him? The house is mine, and I’ll stay in it, not him.

Tamara Pavlivna turns on the television to keep from being too afraid. But she knows that there—in the kitchen behind the refrigerator—her enemy is lurking. Breathing heavily. Waiting for a suitable moment to strike.

“Ratty-watty!” Tamara Pavlivna suddenly begins to speak. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to do anything bad to you. Just the opposite, I’ll feed you. What would you like? Some bread? Or sausage? Or maybe a bit of both?”

Silence from the other side of the refrigerator. His heavy breathing stopped too.

Tamara Pavlivna cuts a slice of white bread and tosses it behind the refrigerator.

“Maybe you’d like me to spread some butter on the bread?” Tamara Pavlivna never would have guessed she was capable of such sweet tones. “Some water? Surely you must be really thirsty.”

“Do you want something to drink? Water? Milk? Beer? I have beer for you. You love beer, don’t you?”

The game had looked like this:

“My love,” Alevtyna chirped, “I’ve never even thought about anything like that!”

Omelyan distrustfully screwed up his little red eyes.

“I don’t want to get rid of you! I want to grow old with you and breathe my last on the same pillow with you! That’s what I want.”

Omelyan said:

“Come on, what makes you think I believe you?”

But he liked it. Omelyan could see that Alevtyna was afraid of him, and he didn’t demand any more from his spouse. Fear and love—those are the same thing. At least that’s what Omelyan thought, and to a certain degree, he was right.

He became really careful. He would buy food and prepare it himself. He never let Alevtyna out of his sight. He never left her alone for long, so as not to give her time to plan an attack in detail. Alevtyna would smile and constantly called Omelyan her “love.” She asked him how things were at work and whether he didn’t happen to have a stomachache.

“It doesn’t ache, my love, it doesn’t ache at all,” Omelyan answered triumphantly, looking at his hundred-liter-sized gut. “I have an iron stomach.”

But Omelyan did run into bad luck once. The technical school was robbed on his watch. Thieves had carried off a demonstration machine from the laboratory’s office. Omelyan swore that he didn’t sleep a single second that night. Because he’s like that—very conscientious. He guarded his school faultlessly. He loved it. He even volunteered to poison all the cockroaches in the school. Then this fiasco happens. Nearly unbelievable. They carried out the machine without breaking a single lock, window, or door.

Omelyan came home like a beaten dog. Alevtyna rushed to him with hugs to welcome him.

“My love, how are things at work?”

“Bad,” Omelyan answered. “A machine was stolen last night. They reprimanded me, and they’ll take the money for the machine out of my pay.”

“My poor boy!”

Alevtyna kissed her husband on the head and belly, leaned up against him, purred and fawned over him, like a real purebred cat.

“You just lie down and rest,” Alevtyna hummed, “you need to rest, my love. You’re just stressed.”

True, Omelyan thought, I have to rest. I’m stressed. And he lay down. He covered himself with a blanket, pulling it nearly over his head, so you could just see his tiny squinty red eyes. And he couldn’t sleep. Even at this very difficult moment he was afraid of lowering his guard.

Toward evening Omelyan’s temperature spiked. He moaned under the blanket and Alevtyna constantly sat next to him and kept talking sweetly to him:

“My poor boy! Don’t you worry over that machine! Everything will be fine! You just need to rest. Trust me.”

“I’m cunning,” Omelyan kept repeating in his fever. “I’m so cunning! What happened to my cunningness?”

Tamara Pavlivna spreads the bread with butter, puts a layer of liver sausage on it, and throws it behind the refrigerator. On the other side there’s a crunching and a satisfied heavy breathing.

He’s eating, Tamara Pavlivna jubilates, he trusts me.

A month has already passed when Tamara Pavlivna took to fighting him.

“You are my dear little ratty-watty,” she says to him before going to sleep. “I’m going to bed. Don’t be sad there without me. Keep busy with something, amuse yourself. My apartment is at your disposal. Run around as much as you’d like. Don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything bad to you, but have a little bit of decency. Don’t jump over my bed at night.”

Sometimes in the middle of her sleep Tamara Pavlivna rises up suddenly, because it seems to her that he’s right next to her, maybe even under the covers, somewhere really close. In a panic she turns on a night lamp and gazes into the murk of the room. Into every nook and cranny. Nothing anywhere. Silence.

“You know,” Tamara Pavlivna says, cleaning an already clean kettle, “it’s somehow even more cheerful with you, my ratty-watty. Before, I was so lonely, I didn’t have anyone to say a word to. And now you see—I talk incessantly. I tell you everything. I’m jabbering like a chatterbox. You’ll have to forgive me. Do you want some more sausage? I bought Moskovksa sausage. It’s so good, so fatty.”

Omelyan will never forget that kiss. Alevtyna had never kissed him like that before. So passionately.

She bent over him—wet from the perspiration from his fever, exhausted, and miserable—and she kissed him on the lips. Omelyan got incredibly dizzy. He felt somehow quiet and blissful. Not frightened at all.

“Alevtyna,” he said, in his raspy voice, “tell me. Tell me the truth. Do you love me?”

Alevtyna gazed devotedly into Omelyan’s eyes. Thirty seconds, a minute, two. Omelyan kept waiting, and this waiting for him was the most intolerable he had ever felt in his life. He wanted her to say “yes.” After that infinitely lengthy moment, Omelyan would have given his shallow rat soul just to hear her say “yes.”

“I love you,” Alevtyna finally answered.

Omelyan was blossoming. The world around him choked from happiness.

“I knew it,” Omelyan said. “And now, Alevtyna, honey, bring me something to eat.”

Tamara Pavlivna rises up on her snow-white bedding with a shout of despair, but this time for a different reason. The rat had nothing to do with it. She had had a nightmare. She dreamed of Sofia Rotaru.

“My little ratty-watty!” Tamara Pavlivna wails. “How bad I feel! What a terrifying dream I had!”

Tamara Pavlivna loves Sofia Rotaru. She watches every one of her concerts on TV. From the newspapers she finds out tidbits about the problems in her life. And it seems to Tamara Pavlivna, well, she’s certain, that Sofia Rotaru knows about her. She must feel the same strong love for her. Judge for yourself. Each time one of her concerts is on TV, Sofia Rotaru looks right at Tamara Pavlivna. Tamara Pavlivna even tried an experiment. She moved away from her TV to the side, and Sofia Rotaru followed her with her eyes. She sings just for Tamara Pavlivna. She loves her, too. Tamara Pavlivna has no doubt about that.

“And here,” Tamara Pavlivna wails, “I dreamed I was in a concert hall. I’m collecting my money to buy a ticket, and I buy a bouquet of red roses and wait. Sofia Rotaru is on stage singing, as always superbly, and looking just at me. I notice this right away. I smile at her, and she smiles back. I become so happy because my assumptions are confirmed. Sofia Rotaru knows about me, she was waiting for me to finally come to one of her concerts, I give her the bouquet of roses, I start to talk to her.

“She loves me too. And this is natural, ratty-watty, love for love—it has to be like this in this world. The concert is ending, they’re presenting Sofia Rotaru with armfuls of flowers, and I’m not in a rush. I’m waiting for the crowd to disperse. I want to be alone with her. Finally it’s just me standing there with her. The hall is empty. Just she and I. I’m happy—so is she. I extend my bouquet to her. Sofia Rotaru thanks me. I say: I’ve come. And Sofia Rotaru says: thank you very much, come again. I don’t understand. I think, she must be too embarrassed to take the first step. I grab hold of her arm, look her in the eye and say: it’s me, don’t you recognize me? Sofia Rotaru wrenches her arm away, pushes me away, and tries to leave. I think she must be afraid. I say: don’t be afraid of me, it’s me, you were waiting for me, right? And here, ratty-watty, something awful happens. Nightmarish. Two big, tall guys grab me under the arms and drag me to the exit. I scream out: Sofia, Sofia honey, what are you doing? Don’t push me away! It’s me! I love you! But she stands there on the stage and keeps silent. She coldly watches them throw me out into the street like a bad dog. And they toss me out. Into a puddle. I land with a splash. Tears of sorrow mix with mud, and I understand that I’ve been left so lonely, ratty-watty, if only you could know this. How alone I’ve been left!”

Tamara Pavlivna’s body quivers from her heavy sobbing.

Suddenly in the dusk of her bedroom two little red lights shine. The lights come closer. They’re already very close.

“Ratty-watty, is that you?”

There are small but confident little footsteps on Tamara Pavlivna’s bed.

“Little one, have you come to commiserate with me?”

Tamara Pavlivna stops crying. There it is—the crucial moment. Right next to her face, across from her, the reddish snout of her enemy. Tamara Pavlivna strokes the rat along his back, and the rat licks her hand. A single innocent movement, the tiniest single effort—and Tamara Pavlivna will be free again. The thin little neck will crack—and that’ll be it. Here it is—the crucial moment.

Alevtyna gives Omelyan a great big bowl of fried potatoes. Omelyan’s favorite food. The potatoes are steaming, still hot, right from the frying pan, with onions and pepper. Omelyan sets the plate down before him and breathes in the fragrant aroma with relish.

The entire time Alevtyna is next to him, as though she were a soldier on a critical military operation. She’s slightly pale, but Omelyan doesn’t notice it.

“Alevtyna honey, thank you,” Omelyan says, “the potatoes are fried so well, on both sides, just the way I love them best.”

“To your health, my love,” Alevtyna answers.

Omelyan gobbles down the potatoes, and Alevtyna observes him with satisfaction.

“Eat, my love, eat,” she says, “and chew well, don’t just gobble everything down all at once, chew it well.”

Omelyan chews everything well. He doesn’t gobble everything all at once.

How nice, he thinks, when sometimes everything can suddenly change for the better. Just this morning Omelyan had been sure that his life was over, but now he’s happy again. Alevtyna loves him, he loves her and he loves eating. You’re having your cake and eating it too. Both love and food. And you don’t have to be careful. The war was nearly over. They will both get old together and die on the same pillow.

Suddenly the fork falls out of Omelyan’s hands.

“Alevtyna,” he screams, “my stomach has started to hurt!”

“My love, this is just temporary. It’ll pass in a moment. Maybe the food was too good. It happens.”

“My stomach! My stomach! It really hurts!”

“My poor boy!”

Omelyan is writhing on the bed. He’s screaming. Alevtyna stands next to him, coolly, as though she were a soldier who wants to see the bomb he launched destroying a big city.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Alevtyna says. “Be patient. The doctors will help you.”

And she smiles.

“Alevtyna!” Omelyan’s face lights up from a dreadful realization. “You poisoned me! You poisoned me!”

“I poisoned you, my love,” Alevtyna purrs. “Be patient. It’ll all pass in a second.”

2

Grandma Alevtyna sits on the bench next to the building entrance. It’s getting dark. For the first time after two long winter months a fresh spring wind starts to blow from the west. Grandma Alevtyna breathes the scent of it deep into her chest.

Tamara Pavlivna has bought Grandma Alevtyna the sugar.

“Thank you, Tamarochka Pavlivna,” Grandma Alevtyna says, “if it weren’t for you I’d have long been drinking unsweetened tea.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie! That’s what neighbors are for. It’s no trouble for me to buy you sugar.”

Tamara Pavlivna sits on the bench next to Grandma Alevtyna. Tamara Pavlivna is beaming with happiness—Grandma Alevtyna immediately notices an essential change in her bearing.

“Tamarochka Pavlivna, how are things with you?”

“Good, thank you!”

“How is . . . er . . . your guest?”

“I did things the way you told me to. He’s gone.”

“That’s wonderful!” Grandma Alevtyna rubs her hands victoriously.

How good it is, she thinks, that women know how to be in solidarity. Women never abandon each other during times of trouble.

Tamara Pavlivna enters her apartment. She goes to the kitchen right away to make herself tea.

“Something really funny happened at work today,” Tamara Pavlivna says out loud. “Olena Prokopiv broke her arm . . .” She slurps her tea, it’s hot. “Everything’s gotten more expensive in the stores. A carton of ten eggs is already eight hryvnas!”

Tamara Pavlivna sighs. She looks into the depths of her kitchen.

“I’m so lonely,” Tamara Pavlivna finally says, “very lonely. But now it’s easier for me. I have you.”

With gratitude to Svitlana Barnes for her astute editorial suggestions and to Alla Perminova for her assistance with certain sticky wickets. 

“Щур” © Tanya Malyarchuk.  By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Michael Naydan. All rights reserved.

English Ukrainian (Original)

1

This is impossible, Tamara Pavlivna convinces herself, it’s impossible. I live on the seventh floor of a brick building, and the seventh floor—it’s gotta be too high for him. He couldn’t have done this. He doesn’t have enough daring and gall. For his kind, even the second floor is too high. How could he have figured it out? How did he conspire to do this? Everything pointed to him being there, though.

Tamara Pavlivna surveys her kitchen fastidiously. She pulls her kitchen utensils out of the cabinets, sniffs every plate and pan, and rummages through boxes filled with grains and pasta.

And the worst thing, Tamara Pavlivna thinks, is that I have no clue what to do. Moving the pans and pasta around—that’s not a solution. Tamara Pavlivna had never been in a similar situation. She had never been in such close proximity to him. To her enemy.

There might even be more than just one of them, Tamara Pavlivna thinks to herself. If that’s true—then I’m doomed. I have to get the hell out of here.

I’ll gather up just the bare essentials—my passport, money, and my pictures of Sofia Rotaru—and get away from here. Because I’m not going to live in the same apartment with my enemy. I have my pride. I love hygiene and cleanliness. I’m just nuts about cleanliness. Look at my apartment: everything is sparkling and smells nice. Not a bit of dust. Everything in its proper place. Arranged uniformly and neatly, by size and color. But he (or they) has ruined everything. He broke into my perfectly antiseptic life and desecrated it. Now I reek. Yes, I already smell myself reeking. There is no disinfectant that can save me from this horrible odor of rottenness. Tamara Pavlivna tries to push the refrigerator aside, and then suddenly leaves it in peace and plops down on a chair near the window.

But what can I do, she thinks, when he jumps out from behind the refrigerator? I’m defenseless against him. He’ll jump out and right off will throw himself at me. He’ll rip up my face with his claws. He’ll gouge my eyes out. He’ll bite off my nose with his narrow little teeth that are sharp as a razor. Maybe he’s just waiting for me to move the refrigerator and set him free. Maybe he can’t crawl out from underneath it because he has such a big fat belly. No, that’s a mistake, to move the refrigerator. Let him sit there like he’s in prison, and I’ll think about what to do in the meantime.

Tamara Pavlivna notices that she’s shaking from fear and disgust. She feels sorry for herself. Why did this have to happen? Did she deserve this for something bad she’d done? And how is it that someone creeps into your house out of the blue, without permission and ruins your peace and quiet, ruins everything you’ve been painstakingly taking care of for so many years with so much hard work?

I hate him, Tamara Pavlivna thinks. How intensely I hate him.

She gets dressed, puts her passport into her handbag with money and the pictures of Sofia Rotaru, closes the kitchen door tightly, then locks the apartment with her key, and goes outside. Grandma Alevtyna, as always, is sitting on a bench next to the entrance to the building, resting.

“Are you going somewhere, Tamara Pavlivna?” Grandma Alevtyna asks. “If you’re going to the store, please buy me some sugar. I’ll give you the money for it when you come back.”

Tamara Pavlivna can’t handle it. It’s so hard for her. She has to share her troubles with someone. Crying, she hugs Grandma Alevtyna and says hopelessly: “A rat has chased me out of my house.”

Grandma Alevtyna has heard more than enough during her life. It was impossible to scare her or get her riled up by anything. Fearless Grandma Alevtyna has been sitting on that bench by the entrance for thirty-plus years and has helped countless people. People would sit down next to her as though they were just going to rest for a minute, but in truth they would tell her all their problems and listen to her sage advice in response.

But Tamara Pavlivna’s matter won’t be an easy one, Grandma Alevtyna thinks. You’ve come back, she thinks, you’ve come back to take revenge on me.

“Tamara Pavlivna, how do you know it’s a rat?” Grandma Alevtyna asks in a really sweet voice, so as not to stir up an even bigger commotion. “Have you seen him? Rats rarely scamper into tall brick buildings. Mice, maybe, but not rats.”

“It’s a rat,” Tamara Pavlivna answers and starts to sob even harder. “I know it’s a rat. I hear him. I can smell his scent! I hear him digging at the parquet floor behind the refrigerator and his contented heavy breathing!”

“Well, well, Tamara Pavlivna, I believe you,” Grandma Alevtyna says and pats her neighbor on the back. “It’s impossible to confuse a rat with a mouse. I believe you. If you say it’s a rat, then it’s a rat. Only one of those can breathe heavily behind the refrigerator.”

“Boy is he breathing heavily!” Tamara Pavlivna cries. “And the way he scratches—you get goose bumps! And he snores from time to time! If you could just hear him snore! Like . . . Like . . ..”

“Like a man,” Grandma Alevtyna prompts her.

“Like a man! Like a damn guy!”

Grandma Alevtyna dolefully wags her head, and her hands, unnoticeable to Tamara Pavlivna, begin to twitch nervously.

You’ve come back, rat, Grandma Alevtyna thinks, after so many years. You’ve not become lazy. Though you’ve been so awfully lazy. But I’m not afraid of you, Grandma Alevtyna asserts to herself, because I have no reason to be afraid of you. I have no guilt before you, quite the opposite—I’ve done what I had to do.

“What am I to do now?!” Tamara Pavlivna wrings her hands hysterically. “I can’t go back there! I can’t cross the doorstep of my own apartment. He’s sitting there! He’s lurking! Rejoicing!”

“First off,” Grandma Alevtyna begins, “you need to calm down and stop being afraid of him. That’s what he wants. For us to be afraid of him. But in fact he’s just a rat. Dirty, foul, shabby, and putrid, but not dangerous.”

“I know what to do,” says Tamara Pavlivna, “buy rat poison! He’ll eat it and die.”

How young and inexperienced she still is, Grandma Alevtyna thinks, while looking at the forty-year-old Tamara Pavlivna. Naïve. She thinks she can deal with him in such an easy way.

“Yes, maybe so,” Grandma Alevtyna continues. “But the rat won’t touch the poison. He won’t eat it.”

“Why?” Tamara Pavlivna is surprised. “It’s a special rat poison. He won’t suspect anything. He’ll eat it and croak. Why wouldn’t a rat eat a special rat poison?”

“Because he’s cunning.”

Cunning. You, rat, were cunning, Grandma Alevtyna thinks, but I was even more cunning. I fooled you. It couldn’t have been any other way with you—only with even greater cunningness.

“Once,” Grandma Alevtyna says, “a rat ran into my house. I battled with him for four years.”

“For four years?!” Tamara Pavlivna’s head started spinning.

“Yes, four years. We had a kind of game. Who’ll fool whom. Who’ll turn out to be the more cunning. And he lost.”

Grandma Alevtyna proudly straightens up on the bench, as though she’s still fighting with someone.

“Here’s what I’ll tell you, Tamara Pavlivna, go back home. In the end it’s your home, so fight for it. Don’t be afraid of the rat. Live with him. Study his character. Wheedle your way into his confidence. And then, when he stops hiding from you, when he trusts you and lets down his guard—inflict the deadly blow. At the most unexpected moment. Stealthily. Right in the back. In a way befitting a real woman.”

Imagine to yourself that Grandma Alevtyna wasn’t always a grandma. Once, and this was really long ago, she was just Alevtyna. Not a beauty, but also not ugly. Not super smart, but not stupid. Not rich, but not poor. And she had a husband, with whom she lived for four years.

They got acquainted in the technical high school. Alevtyna worked there as a custodian, and he—as a guard. His name was Omelyan. He was fat and clumsy. He loved to laugh boisterously and tell crude jokes.

Omelyan looked at Alevtyna as though he were looking at a full bowl of Salad Olivier that you had to eat up so it didn’t go bad by the next day. Alevtyna mistook this hungry look of his for passion. She married him and brought him home to her house, a tiny cramped two-room apartment.

Omelyan grew accustomed to the place right away. He set out his things, which didn’t match anything of hers, throughout the apartment. He filled up the rooms with his unpleasant scent that truly resembled the odor of rotten potatoes. He was continually rummaging through something, dragging all kinds of crap from the street onto the balcony, saying: you never know when you might need something.

He never brushed his teeth in the morning and, in fact, never even brushed them at all. He never washed his thick red head of hair, never cut the hair that grew from his ears and nose, and grew a long feminine fingernail on the pinky finger of his right hand, which he used as a can opener.

But the worst would happen at night. Omelyan had the habit of eating at night. While Alevtyna was asleep, he would wander into the kitchen and gobble up everything left and right. Sweet, salty, sour, bitter, cold, raw, fried, stewed, marinated, and even inedible stuff. Pig lard with tangerines, meat with ice cream, pasta with caramel candies, hot dogs with plum preserves, anchovies together with aluminum spoons.

“What’s the difference what you eat with what,” he used to say, “if everything mixes up in your stomach anyway.” Omelyan left mountains of dirty dishes in his wake, piles of feathers, bones, and crumbs; empty cans, large bottles, glasses, and cups; eggshells on the floor and cooking oil stains on the windowsill. His eyes after the nightly feasts would become tiny and red, sated and happy. The eyes of a rat who’s living well. Alevtyna recognized them. She understood she had gotten lost and would be even more lost if she didn’t fight against him. She had brought home a rat, so now she needed to fight him. It was either him or her.

“Don’t even think about it,” Omelyan warned Alevtyna. “I’m not that stupid. You can’t get rid of me. I’m cunning.”

Tamara Pavlivna goes home and quickly turns on all the lights. At first glance nothing had changed. Everything was the way it had been. But this was just at first glance. He’s been moving around here, Tamara Pavlivna thinks. He’s already been everywhere. And he’s probably even been lying on my bed. And in the bathroom. And he’s sniffed everything on the table. He’s left his disgusting putrid odor everywhere.

But really, why do I have to give up my house to him? The house is mine, and I’ll stay in it, not him.

Tamara Pavlivna turns on the television to keep from being too afraid. But she knows that there—in the kitchen behind the refrigerator—her enemy is lurking. Breathing heavily. Waiting for a suitable moment to strike.

“Ratty-watty!” Tamara Pavlivna suddenly begins to speak. “Don’t be afraid of me. I’m not going to do anything bad to you. Just the opposite, I’ll feed you. What would you like? Some bread? Or sausage? Or maybe a bit of both?”

Silence from the other side of the refrigerator. His heavy breathing stopped too.

Tamara Pavlivna cuts a slice of white bread and tosses it behind the refrigerator.

“Maybe you’d like me to spread some butter on the bread?” Tamara Pavlivna never would have guessed she was capable of such sweet tones. “Some water? Surely you must be really thirsty.”

“Do you want something to drink? Water? Milk? Beer? I have beer for you. You love beer, don’t you?”

The game had looked like this:

“My love,” Alevtyna chirped, “I’ve never even thought about anything like that!”

Omelyan distrustfully screwed up his little red eyes.

“I don’t want to get rid of you! I want to grow old with you and breathe my last on the same pillow with you! That’s what I want.”

Omelyan said:

“Come on, what makes you think I believe you?”

But he liked it. Omelyan could see that Alevtyna was afraid of him, and he didn’t demand any more from his spouse. Fear and love—those are the same thing. At least that’s what Omelyan thought, and to a certain degree, he was right.

He became really careful. He would buy food and prepare it himself. He never let Alevtyna out of his sight. He never left her alone for long, so as not to give her time to plan an attack in detail. Alevtyna would smile and constantly called Omelyan her “love.” She asked him how things were at work and whether he didn’t happen to have a stomachache.

“It doesn’t ache, my love, it doesn’t ache at all,” Omelyan answered triumphantly, looking at his hundred-liter-sized gut. “I have an iron stomach.”

But Omelyan did run into bad luck once. The technical school was robbed on his watch. Thieves had carried off a demonstration machine from the laboratory’s office. Omelyan swore that he didn’t sleep a single second that night. Because he’s like that—very conscientious. He guarded his school faultlessly. He loved it. He even volunteered to poison all the cockroaches in the school. Then this fiasco happens. Nearly unbelievable. They carried out the machine without breaking a single lock, window, or door.

Omelyan came home like a beaten dog. Alevtyna rushed to him with hugs to welcome him.

“My love, how are things at work?”

“Bad,” Omelyan answered. “A machine was stolen last night. They reprimanded me, and they’ll take the money for the machine out of my pay.”

“My poor boy!”

Alevtyna kissed her husband on the head and belly, leaned up against him, purred and fawned over him, like a real purebred cat.

“You just lie down and rest,” Alevtyna hummed, “you need to rest, my love. You’re just stressed.”

True, Omelyan thought, I have to rest. I’m stressed. And he lay down. He covered himself with a blanket, pulling it nearly over his head, so you could just see his tiny squinty red eyes. And he couldn’t sleep. Even at this very difficult moment he was afraid of lowering his guard.

Toward evening Omelyan’s temperature spiked. He moaned under the blanket and Alevtyna constantly sat next to him and kept talking sweetly to him:

“My poor boy! Don’t you worry over that machine! Everything will be fine! You just need to rest. Trust me.”

“I’m cunning,” Omelyan kept repeating in his fever. “I’m so cunning! What happened to my cunningness?”

Tamara Pavlivna spreads the bread with butter, puts a layer of liver sausage on it, and throws it behind the refrigerator. On the other side there’s a crunching and a satisfied heavy breathing.

He’s eating, Tamara Pavlivna jubilates, he trusts me.

A month has already passed when Tamara Pavlivna took to fighting him.

“You are my dear little ratty-watty,” she says to him before going to sleep. “I’m going to bed. Don’t be sad there without me. Keep busy with something, amuse yourself. My apartment is at your disposal. Run around as much as you’d like. Don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything bad to you, but have a little bit of decency. Don’t jump over my bed at night.”

Sometimes in the middle of her sleep Tamara Pavlivna rises up suddenly, because it seems to her that he’s right next to her, maybe even under the covers, somewhere really close. In a panic she turns on a night lamp and gazes into the murk of the room. Into every nook and cranny. Nothing anywhere. Silence.

“You know,” Tamara Pavlivna says, cleaning an already clean kettle, “it’s somehow even more cheerful with you, my ratty-watty. Before, I was so lonely, I didn’t have anyone to say a word to. And now you see—I talk incessantly. I tell you everything. I’m jabbering like a chatterbox. You’ll have to forgive me. Do you want some more sausage? I bought Moskovksa sausage. It’s so good, so fatty.”

Omelyan will never forget that kiss. Alevtyna had never kissed him like that before. So passionately.

She bent over him—wet from the perspiration from his fever, exhausted, and miserable—and she kissed him on the lips. Omelyan got incredibly dizzy. He felt somehow quiet and blissful. Not frightened at all.

“Alevtyna,” he said, in his raspy voice, “tell me. Tell me the truth. Do you love me?”

Alevtyna gazed devotedly into Omelyan’s eyes. Thirty seconds, a minute, two. Omelyan kept waiting, and this waiting for him was the most intolerable he had ever felt in his life. He wanted her to say “yes.” After that infinitely lengthy moment, Omelyan would have given his shallow rat soul just to hear her say “yes.”

“I love you,” Alevtyna finally answered.

Omelyan was blossoming. The world around him choked from happiness.

“I knew it,” Omelyan said. “And now, Alevtyna, honey, bring me something to eat.”

Tamara Pavlivna rises up on her snow-white bedding with a shout of despair, but this time for a different reason. The rat had nothing to do with it. She had had a nightmare. She dreamed of Sofia Rotaru.

“My little ratty-watty!” Tamara Pavlivna wails. “How bad I feel! What a terrifying dream I had!”

Tamara Pavlivna loves Sofia Rotaru. She watches every one of her concerts on TV. From the newspapers she finds out tidbits about the problems in her life. And it seems to Tamara Pavlivna, well, she’s certain, that Sofia Rotaru knows about her. She must feel the same strong love for her. Judge for yourself. Each time one of her concerts is on TV, Sofia Rotaru looks right at Tamara Pavlivna. Tamara Pavlivna even tried an experiment. She moved away from her TV to the side, and Sofia Rotaru followed her with her eyes. She sings just for Tamara Pavlivna. She loves her, too. Tamara Pavlivna has no doubt about that.

“And here,” Tamara Pavlivna wails, “I dreamed I was in a concert hall. I’m collecting my money to buy a ticket, and I buy a bouquet of red roses and wait. Sofia Rotaru is on stage singing, as always superbly, and looking just at me. I notice this right away. I smile at her, and she smiles back. I become so happy because my assumptions are confirmed. Sofia Rotaru knows about me, she was waiting for me to finally come to one of her concerts, I give her the bouquet of roses, I start to talk to her.

“She loves me too. And this is natural, ratty-watty, love for love—it has to be like this in this world. The concert is ending, they’re presenting Sofia Rotaru with armfuls of flowers, and I’m not in a rush. I’m waiting for the crowd to disperse. I want to be alone with her. Finally it’s just me standing there with her. The hall is empty. Just she and I. I’m happy—so is she. I extend my bouquet to her. Sofia Rotaru thanks me. I say: I’ve come. And Sofia Rotaru says: thank you very much, come again. I don’t understand. I think, she must be too embarrassed to take the first step. I grab hold of her arm, look her in the eye and say: it’s me, don’t you recognize me? Sofia Rotaru wrenches her arm away, pushes me away, and tries to leave. I think she must be afraid. I say: don’t be afraid of me, it’s me, you were waiting for me, right? And here, ratty-watty, something awful happens. Nightmarish. Two big, tall guys grab me under the arms and drag me to the exit. I scream out: Sofia, Sofia honey, what are you doing? Don’t push me away! It’s me! I love you! But she stands there on the stage and keeps silent. She coldly watches them throw me out into the street like a bad dog. And they toss me out. Into a puddle. I land with a splash. Tears of sorrow mix with mud, and I understand that I’ve been left so lonely, ratty-watty, if only you could know this. How alone I’ve been left!”

Tamara Pavlivna’s body quivers from her heavy sobbing.

Suddenly in the dusk of her bedroom two little red lights shine. The lights come closer. They’re already very close.

“Ratty-watty, is that you?”

There are small but confident little footsteps on Tamara Pavlivna’s bed.

“Little one, have you come to commiserate with me?”

Tamara Pavlivna stops crying. There it is—the crucial moment. Right next to her face, across from her, the reddish snout of her enemy. Tamara Pavlivna strokes the rat along his back, and the rat licks her hand. A single innocent movement, the tiniest single effort—and Tamara Pavlivna will be free again. The thin little neck will crack—and that’ll be it. Here it is—the crucial moment.

Alevtyna gives Omelyan a great big bowl of fried potatoes. Omelyan’s favorite food. The potatoes are steaming, still hot, right from the frying pan, with onions and pepper. Omelyan sets the plate down before him and breathes in the fragrant aroma with relish.

The entire time Alevtyna is next to him, as though she were a soldier on a critical military operation. She’s slightly pale, but Omelyan doesn’t notice it.

“Alevtyna honey, thank you,” Omelyan says, “the potatoes are fried so well, on both sides, just the way I love them best.”

“To your health, my love,” Alevtyna answers.

Omelyan gobbles down the potatoes, and Alevtyna observes him with satisfaction.

“Eat, my love, eat,” she says, “and chew well, don’t just gobble everything down all at once, chew it well.”

Omelyan chews everything well. He doesn’t gobble everything all at once.

How nice, he thinks, when sometimes everything can suddenly change for the better. Just this morning Omelyan had been sure that his life was over, but now he’s happy again. Alevtyna loves him, he loves her and he loves eating. You’re having your cake and eating it too. Both love and food. And you don’t have to be careful. The war was nearly over. They will both get old together and die on the same pillow.

Suddenly the fork falls out of Omelyan’s hands.

“Alevtyna,” he screams, “my stomach has started to hurt!”

“My love, this is just temporary. It’ll pass in a moment. Maybe the food was too good. It happens.”

“My stomach! My stomach! It really hurts!”

“My poor boy!”

Omelyan is writhing on the bed. He’s screaming. Alevtyna stands next to him, coolly, as though she were a soldier who wants to see the bomb he launched destroying a big city.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Alevtyna says. “Be patient. The doctors will help you.”

And she smiles.

“Alevtyna!” Omelyan’s face lights up from a dreadful realization. “You poisoned me! You poisoned me!”

“I poisoned you, my love,” Alevtyna purrs. “Be patient. It’ll all pass in a second.”

2

Grandma Alevtyna sits on the bench next to the building entrance. It’s getting dark. For the first time after two long winter months a fresh spring wind starts to blow from the west. Grandma Alevtyna breathes the scent of it deep into her chest.

Tamara Pavlivna has bought Grandma Alevtyna the sugar.

“Thank you, Tamarochka Pavlivna,” Grandma Alevtyna says, “if it weren’t for you I’d have long been drinking unsweetened tea.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetie! That’s what neighbors are for. It’s no trouble for me to buy you sugar.”

Tamara Pavlivna sits on the bench next to Grandma Alevtyna. Tamara Pavlivna is beaming with happiness—Grandma Alevtyna immediately notices an essential change in her bearing.

“Tamarochka Pavlivna, how are things with you?”

“Good, thank you!”

“How is . . . er . . . your guest?”

“I did things the way you told me to. He’s gone.”

“That’s wonderful!” Grandma Alevtyna rubs her hands victoriously.

How good it is, she thinks, that women know how to be in solidarity. Women never abandon each other during times of trouble.

Tamara Pavlivna enters her apartment. She goes to the kitchen right away to make herself tea.

“Something really funny happened at work today,” Tamara Pavlivna says out loud. “Olena Prokopiv broke her arm . . .” She slurps her tea, it’s hot. “Everything’s gotten more expensive in the stores. A carton of ten eggs is already eight hryvnas!”

Tamara Pavlivna sighs. She looks into the depths of her kitchen.

“I’m so lonely,” Tamara Pavlivna finally says, “very lonely. But now it’s easier for me. I have you.”

With gratitude to Svitlana Barnes for her astute editorial suggestions and to Alla Perminova for her assistance with certain sticky wickets. 

“Щур” © Tanya Malyarchuk.  By arrangement with the author. Translation © 2014 by Michael Naydan. All rights reserved.

ЩУР

1

Це неможливо, переконує себе Тамара Павлівна, це неможливо. Я живу на сьомому поверсі нового цегляного будинку, а сьомий поверх – це для нього зависоко. Він не зміг би. Йому не вистачило б сміливості і нахабства. Для таких, як він, і другий – зависоко. Як він примудрився? Як йому це вдалося? Однак усе вказує на те, що він таки є.

Тамара Павлівна прискіпливо оглядає свою кухню. Виймає з шафок кухонне приладдя, обнюхує кожну тарілку і каструльку, порпається в пакетах з крупами і макаронами.

І найгірше, думає Тамара Павлівна, я навіть не знаю, що робити. Переставляти каструлі і макарони – це не вихід. Тамара Павлівна ніколи раніше не потрапляла в подібну ситуацію. Не була в такій безпосередній близькості з ним. З ворогом.

Він може бути і не один, думає Тамара Павлівна. Якщо так – то я пропала. Мені треба тікати звідси.

Зберу мінімальні пожитки, якийсь там паспорт, гроші і фотографії Софії Ротару – і піду собі геть. Бо жити в одному помешканні з ворогом я не буду. У мене є гордість. Я люблю гігієну і чистоту. Я просто помішана на чистоті. Подивіться на мою квартиру: усе сіяє і пахне. Ніякої пилюки. Речі на своїх місцях. Вискладені рівненько і акуратно, у гармонії з величиною і кольором. А він (чи вони) все зіпсував. Увірвався в моє ідеально вичищене життя й упослідив його. Тепер я смерджу. Так, я вже відчуваю, як засмерджуюсь. Ніяка дезінфекція не врятує мене від цього жахливого запаху гнилизни.

Тамара Павлівна пробує відсунути холодильник, а потім раптом дає холодильнику спокій і сідає на стілець біля вікна.

А що я зроблю, думає вона, коли він вискочить звідти, з-поза холодильника? Я ж безборонна супроти нього. Він вискочить і першим ділом кинеться на мене. Роздере пазурами обличчя. Виїсть очі. Відкусить ніс своїми тоненькими і гострими як леза зубками. Може, він тільки того й чекає, щоб я відсунула холодильник і випустила його на свободу. Може, він не може пролізти попід ним, бо має таке товсте-товстелезне черево. Ні, це помилка – відсувати холодильник. Нехай там сидить, як у тюрмі, а я тим часом подумаю.

Тамара Павлівна помічає, як уся трясеться від страху й огиди. Їй так шкода себе. Ну чого так мусило статися? Хіба вона чимось це заслужила? І чого взагалі так буває, що хтось ні сіло не впало влізає без дозволу в чиєсь житло і руйнує його затишок, руйнує все, над чим людина працювала довгі роки, ціною великих зусиль і старань.

Ненавиджу, думає Тамара Павлівна. Як я сильно ненавиджу.

Вона одягається, складає в сумочку паспорт, гроші і фотографії Софії Ротару, щільно зачиняє кухню, а потім – на ключ – квартиру, і виходить надвір. Біля під’їзду на лавці, як завжди, сидить бабця Алевтина. Відпочиває.

– Йдете кудись, Тамарочко Павлівно? – питає бабця Алевтина. – Якщо в магазин, то купіть мені, будь ласка, цукру. А я гроші віддам.

Тамара Павлівна не витримує. Їй так тяжко. Вона мусить поділитися з кимсь своїм горем. Плачучи, вона обіймає бабцю Алевтину і приречено каже:

– Щур вигнав мене з моєї хати.

Бабця Алевтина і не таке чула за своє життя. Її неможливо чимось налякати чи збентежити. Безстрашна бабця Алевтина просиділа на лавочці під під’їздом тридцять з лишком років і допомогла силі-силенній людей. Люди підсідають до неї, ніби просто щоб хвильку перепочити, а насправді щоб розповісти свою біду і почути у відповідь мудру пораду.

Але справа Тамари Павлівни не буде легкою, – так думає бабця Алевтина. Ти повернувся, думає вона, ти прийшов, щоб відімстити мені.

– Звідки ви, Тамарочко Павлівно, знаєте, що то таки щур? – солоденьким голоском, так, щоб не зчинити ще більшого переполоху, запитує Тамару Павлівну бабця Алевтина. – Ви його бачили? У високі цегляні будинки щури рідко забігають. Миші можуть, а щури навряд чи.

– Це щур, – відповідає Тамара Павлівна і заходиться ридати ще дужче. – Я знаю, що це щур. Я чую його. Я чую його запах! Чую, як він підриває паркет за холодильником і як задоволено посопує!

– Ну-ну, Тамарочко Павлівно, я вірю вам, – каже бабця Алевтина і погладжує сусідку по спині. – Щура неможливо сплутати з мишами, я вірю вам. Як ви кажете, що це щур, значить щур. Тільки він може посопувати за холодильником.

– І посопує! – плаче Тамара Павлівна. – І шкребеться так, що мурашки по тілу бігають! І хропе деколи! Якби ви чули, як він хропе! Як… як…

– Як чоловік, – підказує бабця Алевтина.

– Як чоловік! Як мужик!

Бабця Алевтина скрушно похитує головою, і її руки непомітно для Тамари Павлівни починають нервово посіпуватися.

Ти прийшов, думає бабця Алевтина, через так багато років. Не полінувався. Хоч був такий страшенно лінивий. Але я тебе не боюся, твердить про себе бабця Алевтина, бо я не маю чого тебе боятися. Я нічим перед тобою не завинила, а навпаки – зробила те, що мусила.

– Як мені тепер бути?! – Тамара Павлівна заламує в істериці руки. – Я не можу туди повернутися! Я не зможу переступити поріг власної квартири. Він там сидить! Причаївся! Торжествує!

– Найперше, – починає бабця Алевтина, – треба заспокоїтися і перестати його боятися. Він цього хоче. Щоб його боялися. Але насправді це всього лишень щур. Брудний, гидкий, облізлий і смердючий, але не небезпечний.

– Я знаю, що зробити, – каже Тамара Павлівна, – купити щурячої отрути! Він з’їсть і вмре.

Яка вона ще молода і недосвідчена, думає бабця Алевтина, дивлячись на сорокарічну Тамару Павлівну. Наївна. Хоче так легко з ним упоратися.

– Так то воно так, – провадить бабця Алевтина, – але щур отруту не зачепить. Він не буде її їсти.

– Чому? – дивується Тамара Павлівна. – Отрута спеціально щуряча. Він нічого не запідозрить. З’їсть і здохне. Чого щур має не їсти спеціальну щурячу отруту?

– Бо він хитрий.

Хитрий. Ти був хитрий, думає бабця Алевтина, а я була ще хитріша. Я тебе обдурила. З тобою інакше не можна було. Тільки ще більшою хитрістю.

– Колись, – каже бабця Алевтина, – до моєї хати теж був забіг щур. Я боролася з ним чотири роки.

– Чотири роки?! – Тамарі Павлівні йде обертом голова.

– Так, чотири роки. У нас була така гра. Хто кого обдурить. Хто виявиться хитрішим. І він програв.

Бабця Алевтина гордо випростується на лавці, ніби ще досі з кимсь воює.

– Ось що я вам скажу, Тамарочко Павлівно, повертайтеся до себе додому. Врешті-решт це ваш дім, тож поборіться за нього. Не бійтеся щура. Живіть з ним. Вивчіть його характер. Втріться до нього в довіру. А потім, коли він вже перестане від вас ховатися, коли довіриться вам і втратить пильність – тоді завдайте смертельного удару. У найнесподіваніший момент. Спідтишка. У спину. Як і годиться справжній жінці.

Уявіть собі, що бабця Алевтина не завжди була бабцею. Колись, і це було дуже давно, вона була просто Алевтиною. Не красунею, але й не потворою. Не мудрою, але й не дурною. Не багатою, але й не бідною. І вона мала чоловіка, з яким прожила чотири роки.

Вони познайомилися в технічному училищі. Алевтина працювала там прибиральницею, а він – сторожем. Називався Омелян. Був товстий і незграбний, любив голосно реготати і кидати масними жартами.

Омелян дивився на Алевтину як на повну миску салату олів’є, який треба з’їсти, щоб не зіпсувався до завтра. Алевтина сплутала цей його голодний погляд з пристрастю. Одружилася з ним і привела до себе додому, у тісну квартирку на дві кімнати.

Омелян відразу тут прижився. Обклав квартиру своїми речами, які ні до чого не пасували. Заполонив кімнати своїм неприємним запахом, який дуже нагадував запах гнилої картоплі. Безперервно в чомусь порпався, тягав з вулиці на балкон усілякий непотріб і казав при цьому: ніколи не знаєш, що тобі може пригодитися.

Він не чистив уранці зуби і взагалі їх ніколи не чистив. Ніколи не мив свою густу руду шевелюру, не підстригав волосся, що росло з вух і носа, а на мізинному пальці правої руки відрощував довгий жіночий ніготь, який використовував як відкривачку для бляшаних консервів.

Омелян безперервно в хаті курив і збивав сигаретний попіл в улюблені вазони Алевтини. Постільна білизна під ним завжди була чорною, а шкарпетки, коли б не одягалися, завжди смерділи каналізацією.

Але найгірше відбувалося вночі. Омелян мав звичку вночі їсти. Алевтина засинала, а він брів на кухню і жер усе підряд. Солодке, солоне, кисле, гірке, холодне, сире, смажене, тушковане, мариноване, неїстівне. Сало з мандаринами, м’ясо з морозивом, вермішель з карамельками, сосиски зі сливовим повидлом, кільку разом із алюмінієвими ложками.

– Яка різниця, що з чим їсти, – казав він, – якщо в животі все одно все змішається.

Після себе Омелян залишав гори брудного посуду, купи пір’я, кісток і крихт, спорожнілі банки, бутлі, склянки і горнята, яєчну шкаралупу на підлозі і плями олії на підвіконнику. Його очі після нічних трапез ставали маленькі і червоні, ситі і задоволені. Очі щура, якому добре живеться. Алевтина впізнала їх. Вона зрозуміла, що пропала і пропаде ще більше, якщо не буде боротися. Привела додому щура, то тепер мусить з ним боротися. Або він, або вона.

– Навіть не думай, – попередив Омелян Алевтину. – Я не такий дурний. Ти не зможеш мене позбутися. Я хитрий.

Тамара Павлівна повертається до себе додому і швидко вмикає всюди світло. На перший погляд – нічого не змінилося. Усе як було, так і є. Але це тільки на перший погляд. Він ходив тут, думає Тамара Павлівна. Уже всюди побував. І на моєму ліжку, напевно, полежав. І у ванній. І на столі все обнюхав. Усюди залишив свій огидний гнилий запах.

Але дійсно, чому я маю віддавати йому свою хату? Хата моя, і я в ній залишуся, не він.

Тамара Павлівна вмикає телевізор, щоб не так сильно боятися. Але вона знає, що там – у кухні за холодильником – причаївся її ворог. Сопе. Чекає зручного моменту, щоб напасти.

– Щурику! – раптом заводить Тамара Павлівна. – Не бійся мене. Я нічого поганого тобі не зроблю. Навпаки, нагодую тебе. Що ти любиш? Хліб? Чи ковбаску? Чи, може, і те, і те?

По той бік холодильника тиша. Сопіти також перестало.

Тамара Павлівна відрізає шматок білого батона і кидає його за холодильник.

– Чи, може, помастити батон маслом? – Тамара Павлівна ніколи не здогадувалася, що здатна на такі ніжні інтонації. – А води? Тебе напевно мучить спрага.

Хочеш питоньки? Воду? Молоко? Пиво? У мене є для тебе пиво. Ти любиш пиво, правда?

Гра виглядала так:

– Коханий, – щебетала Алевтина, – я навіть і не думала про таке!

Омелян недовірливо мружив свої маленькі червоні оченята.

– Я не хочу тебе позбуватися! Я хочу зістарітися з тобою і вмерти на одній подушці! Ось чого я хочу.

Омелян казав:

– Так-так, я тобі взяв і повірив.

Але йому було приємно. Омелян бачив, що Алевтина боїться, а більшого від своєї дружини він і не вимагав. Страх і любов – це одне і те ж. Принаймні, так думав Омелян, і в дечому він мав рацію.

Він став дуже обережним. Їжу купував і готував собі сам. Ніколи не обертався до Алевтини спиною. Ніколи не залишав її саму надовго, очевидно, для того, щоб не дати часу детально спланувати напад. Алевтина всміхалася і незмінно називала Омеляна «коханим». Розпитувала, як ідуть справи на роботі і чи його раптом не болить сьогодні живіт.

– Не болить, моя люба, зовсім не болить, – переможно відповідав Омелян, гладячи себе по столітровому череві, – і знаєш, Алюсю, мене ніколи не болить живіт. Він у мене залізний.

А якось з Омеляном сталося нещастя. Під час його зміни обікрали технічне училище. Винесли з лабораторного кабінету демонстраційний верстат. Омелян міг поклястися, що не спав тієї ночі жодної секунди. Бо він такий – дуже сумлінний. Він бездоганно сторожив своє училище. Він любив його. Він навіть добровільно витруїв з училища всіх тарганів. І тут такий прокол. Майже неймовірний. Винесли верстат, не зламавши жодного замка, жодного вікна чи дверей.

Омелян прийшов додому як побитий пес. Алевтина з обіймами кинулася його зустрічати.

– Коханий, як справи на роботі?

– Погано, – відповів Омелян. – Уночі вкрали верстат. Мені виписали догану, а гроші за верстат вирахують із зарплатні.

– Біднесенький!

Алевтина цілувала чоловіка в голову і черево, тулялася до нього, муркотіла і ластилася, як справжня породиста кішка.

– Ти лягай відпочинь, – підспівувала Алевтина, – тобі треба відпочити, коханий. У тебе стрес.

А дійсно, думав Омелян, мені треба відпочити, у мене стрес. І ліг. Укрився пледом майже з головою, так що виднілися лише його вузенькі червоні оченята. І не спав. Він боявся в цей важкий для себе момент втратити пильність.

Під вечір у Омеляна піднялася температура. Він постогнував під одіялом, а Алевтина незмінно сиділа поруч і лагідно приговорювала:

– Мій біднесенький! Не переймайся ти цим верстатом! Усе буде добре! Тобі треба відпочити. Довірся мені.

– Я хитрий, – повторював у лихоманці Омелян, – я такий хитрий! Що сталося з моєю хитрістю?

Тамара Павлівна намащує хліб маслом, кладе згори плястерик ліверної ковбаси і кидає за холодильник. По той бік – хрускіт і задоволене похропування.

Він їсть, радіє Тамара Павлівна, він довіряє мені.

Уже минув місяць, як Тамара Павлівна взялася з ним боротися.

– Ти мій щурику дорогий, – каже вона перед тим, як йти спати, – я лягаю спати. Не сумуй там без мене. Займися чимось, розважся. Моя квартира до твоїх послуг. Бігай, скільки тобі заманеться. Не бійся. Я нічого поганого тобі не зроблю, але і ти май совість. Не стрибай уночі по моєму ліжку.

Іноді посеред сну Тамара Павлівна зривається, бо їй здається, що він щойно був десь поруч, можливо, навіть під ковдрою, десь зовсім близько. Вона панічно вмикає нічник і вдивляється в присмерки кімнати. У кожен куток і закапелок. Нічого ніде. Тиша.

– А знаєш, – каже Тамара Павлівна, чистячи і без того чистий чайник, – мені якось навіть веселіше з тобою, щурику. Раніше я була така самотня, не мала до кого й слова промовити. А тепер бачиш – говорю без упину. Усе тобі розповідаю. Теркочу, ніби якась базарна баба. Ти мені вибач. Хочеш ще ковбаски? Я купила палку «Московської». Така добра, така жирна.

Омелян ніколи не забуде того поцілунку. Алевтина досі не цілувала його так. Так пристрасно.

Вона нахилилася над ним, мокрим від хворобливого поту, виснаженим, нещасним, – і поцілувала в губи. Омелянові запаморочилося в голові. Стало якось затишно і блаженно. Стало зовсім не страшно.

– Алевтино, – прохрипів він, – скажи мені. Скажи правду. Ти любиш мене?

Алевтина віддано дивилася Омелянові в очі. Тридцять секунд, хвилина, дві. Омелян чекав, і це чекання було для нього найнестерпнішим у житті. Він хотів, щоб «так». Тої довжелезної безкінечної миті Омелян віддав би свою мілку щурячу душу, тільки аби вона сказала «так».

– Я люблю тебе, – нарешті відповіла Алевтина.

І Омелян розцвів. Світ навколо захлинувся від щастя.

– Я знав це, – сказав Омелян. – А тепер, Алевтинко, принеси мені щось поїсти.

Тамара Павлівна зривається на своїй білосніжній постелі з криком відчаю, але цього разу з іншої причини. Щур тут ні до чого. Їй приснився кошмар. Їй приснилась Софія Ротару.

– Щурику! – голосить Тамара Павлівна. – Як мені погано! Який страшний мені приснився сон!

Тамара Павлівна любить Софію Ротару. Дивиться по телевізору кожен її концерт. Вичитує з газет найменші подробиці перипетій її життя. І Тамарі Павлівні здається, ні, вона впевнена, що Софія Ротару знає про це. Вона мусить відчувати таку сильну до себе любов. Посудіть самі, кожного разу під час свого концерту в телевізорі Софія Ротару дивиться просто на Тамару Павлівну. Тамара Павлівна навіть експериментувала. Відходила від телевізора вбік, і Софія Ротару вела очима за нею. Вона співає тільки для Тамари Павлівни. Вона теж її любить. Тамара Павлівна не сумнівається.

– І ось, – голосить Тамара Павлівна, – мені приснилося, що я в залі, на її концерті. Назбирала грошей на квиток, купила великий букет червоних троянд і чекаю. Софія Ротару на сцені, співає, як завжди, пречудово, і дивиться тільки на мене. Я це відразу помічаю. Я всміхаюся їй, а вона усміхається у відповідь. Я стаю така щаслива, бо мої здогади підтверджуються. Софія Ротару знає про мене, вона чекала, коли нарешті я прийду на її концерт, подарую їй букет троянд, заговорю до неї.

Вона теж мене любить. І це природно, щурику, любов за любов – так у цьому світі мусить бути. Концерт закінчується, Софії Ротару дарують оберемки квітів, а я не поспішаю. Жду, коли натовп розійдеться. Хочу побути з нею наодинці. Нарешті стою тільки я і вона. Порожня зала. Тільки я і вона. Я щаслива – вона теж. Простягаю їй свій букет. Софія Ротару дякує. Я кажу: я прийшла. А Софія Ротару: дуже вам дякую, приходіть ще. Я нічого не розумію. Думаю, напевно, встидається зробити перший крок. Я ловлю її за руку, ловлю її погляд і кажу: це я, ти впізнаєш мене? Софія Ротару вириває руку, відштовхує мене, хоче йти. Думаю, напевно боїться. Кажу: не бійся мене, це я, ти ж чекала мене, правда? І тут, щурику, стається щось страшне. Кошмарне. Двоє високих чолов’яг хапають мене попід пахи і тягнуть до виходу. Я кричу, благаю, пручаюся, а вони незворушні, як груди каміння. Я кричу: Софіє, Софійко, куди ж ти? Не відштовхуй мене! Це я! Я тебе люблю! А вона стоїть на сцені і мовчить. Холодно спостерігає за тим, як мене, ніби шкодного пса, викидають на вулицю. І викидають. У калюжу. Я бовтаюся там, сльози жалю змішуються з болотом, і я розумію, що залишилася такою самотньою, щурику, якби ти тільки міг це знати. Якою самотньою я залишилась!

Тіло Тамари Павлівни здригається від тяжких ридань.

Раптом у присмерках її спальні зблискують два червоні вогники. Вогники наближаються. Вони вже зовсім близько.

– Щурику, це ти?

На постелі Тамари Павлівни дрібні, але впевнені крочки.

– Мій маленький, ти прийшов пожаліти мене?

Тамара Павлівна перестає плакати. Ось він – цей відповідальний момент. Просто біля її лиця, навпроти, руда мордочка ворога. Тамара Павлівна гладить щура по спині, а щур лиже їй руку. Один невинний рух, одне найменше зусилля – і Тамара Павлівна знову стане вільною. Тонка шийка хрусне – і все. Ось він – цей відповідальний момент.

Алевтина подає Омеляну величезну тарілку смаженої картоплі. Улюблена Омелянова їжа. Картопля парує, ще гаряча, щойно зі сковорідки, з цибулею і перчиком. Омелян кладе тарілку поперед себе і з апетитом вдихає духмяний аромат.

Алевтина весь час поруч, ніби солдат на відповідальній військовій операції. Вона трохи бліда, але Омелян цього не помічає.

– Алевтинко, дякую тобі, – каже Омелян, – картопля так добре підсмажена, з двох сторін, саме як я найбільше люблю.

– На здоров’я, коханий, – відповідає Алевтина.

Омелян наминає картоплю, а Алевтина задоволено за цим спостерігає.

– Їж, мій коханий, їж, – каже вона, – тільки пережовуй, не ковтай усе зараз, добре пережовуй.

Омелян пережовує. Він не ковтає все зараз.

Як гарно, думає він, як іноді раптово все може змінитися на краще. Ще сьогодні вранці Омелян був переконаний, що його життя скінчено, а тепер він знову щасливий. Алевтина любить його, він любить її і поїсти. І ось є і те, й інше. І любов, і їжа. І не треба бути обережним. Війна завершилась. Вони разом зістаріються і вмруть на одній подушці.

Зненацька виделка випадає в Омеляна з рук.

– Алевтино, – кричить він, – мене заболів живіт!

– Коханий, це тимчасово. Зараз мине. Може, ти занадто смачно поїв. Так буває.

– Живіт! Мій живіт! Він дуже болить!

– Біднесенький!

Омелян корчиться на ліжку. Кричить. Алевтина незворушно стоїть поруч, ніби солдат, що хоче бачити, як його бомба знищує велике місто.

– Я викличу «швидку», – каже Алевтина. – Потерпи. Лікарі тобі допоможуть.

І всміхається.

– Алевтино! – обличчя Омеляна прозріває від жахливого здогаду. – Ти отруїла мене! Ти отруїла мене!

– Отруїла, коханий, – муркоче Алевтина, – потерпи. Зараз усе мине.

2

 

Бабця Алевтина сидить на лавці біля під’їзду. Вечоріє. Уперше за два довгі зимові місяці із заходу подув свіжий весняний вітер. Бабця Алевтина вдихає його запах на повні груди.

Тамара Павлівна купила бабці Алевтині цукру.

– Дякую, Тамарочко Павлівно, – каже бабця Алевтина, – якби не ви, то пила б я несолодкий чай ще довго.

– Ну, що ви, дорогенька! Навіщо тоді сусіди. Мені зовсім не тяжко купувати вам цукор.

Тамара Павлівна підсідає на лавку до бабці Алевтини. Тамара Павлівна світиться щастям – бабця Алевтина відразу фіксує суттєву зміну в її поведінці.

– Тамарочко Павлівно, і як у вас справи?

– Добре, дякую!

– Як ваш… е-е… гість?

– Я зробила так, як ви сказали. Його більше нема.

– От і чудово! – бабця Алевтина переможно потирає руки.

Як добре, думає вона, що жінки вміють бути солідарними. Жінки ніколи не залишать одна одну в біді.

Тамара Павлівна заходить до своєї квартири. Відразу йде на кухню, щоб приготувати собі чаю.

– Сьогодні на роботі таке смішне сталося, – уголос каже Тамара Павлівна, – Олена Прокопів зламала руку… – сьорбає чай, він гарячий. – У магазинах знову все подорожчало. Десяток яєць уже вісім гривень!

Тамара Павлівна зітхає. Дивиться кудись у глиб своєї кухні.

– Я така самотня, – врешті каже Тамара Павлівна, – дуже самотня. Але тепер мені легше. У мене є ти.

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