Five Palms

March 6, 2020

There are days when it seems as though the whole town has conspired to send you its most insufferable inhabitants — and not one at a time but all at once, to make sure. The sixth of March was just such a day, and it began with three people already standing at the shop door at half past seven, while Grisha was still coming down the iron stairs.

The first was a man in a beaver hat. The hat was so big and so fluffy that you could not at first see the man under it — and the man was small and round, with a round rosy face on which fitted little eyes, a little nose and a big drooping moustache like a walrus's. He wore a coat with a beaver collar, under the coat a suit, under the suit, as later emerged, a waistcoat, and from the waistcoat pocket hung a watch chain — a real pocket watch, with a lid. In his hand the man held a leather folder and pressed it to his stomach as though it held state secrets.

The second was a lady. The lady was tall and thin, in a fox fur coat and a little hat with a veil, with a face that at once expressed displeasure with everything in the world — and in her arms sat a little dog. The dog was ginger, fluffy, with a sharp foxy muzzle, and regarded the world with exactly the same expression as its mistress, so that Grisha, seeing them, was for a moment unsure which of them was holding which.

The third was a couple — a young man and a young woman in identical sports jackets, who kept whispering to each other and every so often began to quarrel — also in a whisper, but such a furious one that it could be heard the length of Krivaya.

"Good morning," said Grisha. "We open at ten."

"I know," said the man in the beaver hat. "I'm first."

"Excuse me," said the lady. "I came earlier."

"When you came, I was already standing here."

"You weren't standing. You were walking up and down. Whoever walks up and down isn't standing in a queue."

"I was warming myself!"

"Warm yourself at home."

The little dog in the lady's arms gave a yap — short and contemptuous — and the man in the beaver hat stepped back.

Grisha, as instructed, said:

"The master sees people in order of the queue. Five people a day. Whoever's signed up, goes in."

"Signed up?" repeated the man in the hat. "Signed up where? I haven't signed up anywhere!"

"Nobody's signed up," said Grisha. "That's just how I say it. Whoever came first."

"Me!" said the man in the hat and the lady at the same time.

The couple in sports jackets, who had meanwhile been joined by a fourth — a middle-aged man in work overalls who smelled of fish — watched all this in silence and with interest, as people watch at the circus.

Grisha scratched the back of his head. In his four pages of instructions there was nothing for this case. There was a point headed "If clients quarrel with each other" — but it was about something else: a husband and wife who come together and can't decide which of them goes first. It said: "Let the woman go first." Grisha thought and decided this would do.

"We let the woman go first," he said.

The lady lifted her chin triumphantly. So did the dog. The man in the beaver hat turned so crimson that his moustache seemed to stand on end.

"I," he said, "for your information, am the deputy head of a department! Of the town administration!"

"Pleased to meet you," said Grisha, because that was what you were supposed to say when someone introduced himself.

"Kubyshkin! Panteleimon Sysoyevich!"

"Pleased to meet you," Grisha repeated, and made a mental note, just in case: Kubyshkin.

"And I," Panteleimon Sysoyevich went on, swelling with colour, "I do not intend to stand behind… behind a dog!"

"It is not a dog," said the lady in an icy voice. "It is a Spitz."

---

At ten the shop opened, and the lady in the fox coat went in first.

Her name was Angelina Markovna. Grisha learned this when he asked her name for the book — and learned at the same time that she was "not just anybody," that her late husband "held a position," that she herself "kept a luxury cosmetics shop on the avenue," and that she had come not for her own sake.

"For whose?" asked Grisha, because that was what you were supposed to ask.

"For Zhuzhu's," said Angelina Markovna.

Grisha looked at her. Then at the dog. The dog looked at Grisha.

"Zhuzhu," Angelina Markovna repeated, seeing that he did not understand, "is him. He's unwell. The vets throw up their hands. I want to know what awaits him. 'Caution' — that's what I need."

"The master reads palms," Grisha said cautiously. "People's."

"Zhuzhu has a paw."

"That's not a palm."

"Young man," said Angelina Markovna, and her voice became an icicle, "I shall pay five silvers. Or ten. Whatever you say. Photograph the paw."

Grisha was at a loss. Then he pulled himself together and did what he always did when he didn't know what to do: said "One moment" and went behind the curtain.

"Master," he whispered, "there's a lady out there. With a dog. She wants you to read for the dog."

Behind the curtain it was quiet. Then Kesha said:

"What?"

"The paw. The dog's. 'Caution.' She says she'll pay ten silvers."

Again it was quiet. Then from behind the curtain came a sound Grisha had never heard before and did not at once recognise. The master was laughing. Quietly, chokingly, as if trying to hold it in and failing.

"All right," Kesha said at last. "Photograph the paw. Five silvers. Not ten."

---

Grisha spent twelve minutes photographing Zhuzhu's paw.

Zhuzhu did not wish to be photographed. Zhuzhu struggled, growled, tucked his paw under himself, and when Grisha did manage to extract it — tried to bite. Angelina Markovna held him and murmured, "Zhuzhu, my treasure, be patient, it's for your own good," and Zhuzhu looked at Grisha with such hatred, as if Grisha intended not to photograph that paw but to cut it off.

At last Grisha took the picture: a pink pad, four smaller pads, ginger fur between them. Light from the side, as was proper. He carried the picture behind the curtain.

Kesha looked. Thought. And — to his own surprise — saw something. Not much: a dog's month was like a little puddle compared with the lake of a human one — but there was something. Kesha dipped his pen.

"Caution. March. Don't give him chocolate. The kind in the blue box in the kitchen. On the nineteenth don't let him out on the balcony. Otherwise a calm month. He will live a long time yet."

Angelina Markovna read it, gasped and pressed Zhuzhu to her chest.

"Chocolate!" she said. "How does he know about the chocolate?! But I… I hide it! I put it on the top shelf…"

"The master sees," said Grisha.

Angelina Markovna put five silvers on the table, thought, and put down two more. Then she looked at the black coins lying at the edge, pursed her lips but said nothing, and left, carrying Zhuzhu, who looked back on the way out and gave Grisha such a look that Grisha understood: he and Zhuzhu would meet again.

---

Second came Panteleimon Sysoyevich Kubyshkin.

He came in the way he probably came into offices: flinging the door open, puffing, carrying his stomach before him like a banner. He looked around. He saw the green curtain. He headed straight for it.

"You can't go in there," said Grisha, stepping into his path.

"I can," said Kubyshkin.

"Nobody can. The master doesn't meet clients."

"I'm not a client. I'm Kubyshkin."

"You're a client," said Grisha firmly. This part of the instructions he knew best of all: "If a client tries to get behind the curtain." It said: "Stand in the way. Don't push. Don't shout. Repeat: the master needs to concentrate. Repeat until he gets tired."

"The master needs to concentrate," said Grisha.

"I need to concentrate too!" said Kubyshkin. "I have an assessment on Monday! On it depends — do you understand, young man? — on it depends whether I take the chair of head of department! Or whether that… that… Sviridov takes it! I must know! I must speak to your master in person!"

"The master needs to concentrate," said Grisha.

"I'll pay!"

"The master needs to concentrate."

"Double!"

"The master needs to concentrate."

Kubyshkin drew breath to say something more, but, looking at Grisha — at his guileless, utterly impenetrable face — suddenly let the air out like a punctured ball and sat down on the chair.

"Very well," he said. "Very well. 'Work.' How much?"

"Two silvers."

"Is that all?" Kubyshkin seemed offended. "But this is… this is a career at stake!"

"Two silvers," said Grisha. "Open your palm, please."

Kubyshkin took off his glove — leather, fur-lined — and held out his palm. His palm was plump, pink and soft as a bun, and on the ring finger sat a thick gold signet ring. Grisha led him to the window.

---

Third came the young couple in sports jackets.

Their names were Denis and Alina, and they were going to get married. That is, Alina was going to, and Denis — so Grisha gathered from their whisperings — was going to, but not entirely. Or entirely, but not now. Or now, but not to Alina. Here Grisha got completely lost.

They wanted "Kin and Strangers." Both of them. Each about the other.

"Let him say whether he's lying to me or not," said Alina.

"Let him say who keeps ringing her at night," said Denis.

"Nobody keeps ringing me!"

"Then who's 'Lyoshik'? You've got 'Lyoshik' in your phone!"

"Lyoshik's my brother!"

"You haven't got a brother!"

"Cousin!"

Grisha photographed both palms — in turn, one after the other — while they went on establishing who Lyoshik was, and carried the pictures behind the curtain. Half an hour later he brought out two parchments. Denis and Alina each unrolled their own — and fell silent. For the first time all morning. Then they looked at each other. Then Alina said quietly, "Well, fine then," and Denis said, "Fine yourself," and they left holding hands, and Grisha never did find out what was written there.

Fourth was the man in overalls who smelled of fish. He worked at the market, in the fish rows; his name was Stepan, and he wanted "Purse." He read his parchment moving his lips, said, "Well, I knew that myself," and left behind him such a smell that Grisha kept the door open for half an hour.

And fifth was a grandmother, small and dried-up, in a headscarf, who had stood quietly on the stairs all morning, pushing no one, and when her turn came said that she didn't need anything, she just wanted to see whether it was true that Grandpa Grisha's grandson sat here.

"It's true," said Grisha.

"Well, that's good," said the grandmother, crossed herself towards the green curtain as if to an icon, and left.

Grisha stood there at a loss. The fifth didn't count — she hadn't taken anything. So there could be one more. He looked out on the stairs. There was nobody there.

"Four," he said through the curtain. "Four today."

"Four, then," answered Kesha.

---

But at that moment Kesha was not thinking about how many there had been.

He was sitting over the picture Grisha had taken second — the plump pink palm with the gold signet ring on the ring finger — and looking at the month of Panteleimon Sysoyevich Kubyshkin.

The month was a month like any other. The assessment on Monday. The head of department's chair — no, he wouldn't get it; Sviridov would get it, but don't be upset, Panteleimon Sysoyevich, in six months Sviridov will leave of his own accord, and then… Kesha did not write about the six months — that was "further," and further wasn't theirs. He wrote about Monday. He wrote carefully: "You will pass the assessment. Another will take the chair. Don't argue with him on the twelfth."

And then, as he always did now, he went back to the twenty-second.

Kubyshkin's twenty-second of March was covered by a blot.

The same as Tamara Petrovna's. Black, round, with spreading edges, as though someone had slapped the month with a wet brush. And after it — the same — everything faded and washed out, as if the colour had gone from the remaining days.

Kesha sat looking at the blot, and beyond the curtain Grisha was seeing Stepan the fishmonger out and holding the door open, and cold and March damp came in from the street.

Tamara Petrovna — a quiet widow, a librarian, in a grey coat and a green scarf. Panteleimon Sysoyevich Kubyshkin — a deputy head of department, in a beaver hat, with a walrus moustache. They did not know each other. They could not know each other. They had nothing in common — except that both had come to Kesha. And that for both of them the twenty-second of March was flooded with the same black.

Kesha looked at the other pictures — Denis, Alina, Stepan the fishmonger. He even looked at Zhuzhu's paw. Nothing. Everyone's twenty-second was an ordinary twenty-second: for Denis a quarrel, for Alina a reconciliation, for Stepan good takings, for Zhuzhu a walk in the park.

Only Kubyshkin.

Kesha pushed back from the desk. Two. Two out of… how many had he read this week? Twenty-five people, probably. Two out of twenty-five.

He suddenly understood what he had to do. He had to bring up all the pictures — all of them, for the week, for two weeks, for the whole of March — and look at each one. Every single one. At the twenty-second.

He did not yet know what he would find. But in his chest, under his ribs, where knowledge always came from, there lay a heavy cold stone. And the stone was telling him: you'll find more than two.