At the church, I gave alms to a blind fortune teller, and she squeezed my palm tightly:
— My child, when your husband asks for the keys to the safe — don’t give them to him. Say you lost them.
I was surprised, but that evening my husband did indeed ask for the keys. I said I had lost them. And at night, I woke up to a strange sound.
Valentina left the church, pulling the heavy wooden door shut behind her. A bag of groceries swayed in her hand: on the way to the church, she had stopped at the store and bought milk, bread, and some cottage cheese for breakfast.
The morning service always brought her peace, especially lately, when she felt a sense of unease. It wasn’t that anything specific was troubling her, just a strange feeling, like before a thunderstorm when the air becomes thick and heavy. She stopped on the top step, took a handkerchief from her pocket, and dabbed her forehead.
May had turned out to be hot, and the sun was already high, although it was only half-past nine. Valentina had turned sixty last month, and the heat was becoming harder to bear with each passing year. She used to be able to work for hours in her country house garden under the scorching sun, but now even a short walk to the church made her stop to catch her breath.
As she descended the stone steps, she mentally ran through her to-do list for the day: prepare lunch, iron Gennady’s shirts, call her daughter Irina (who had promised to visit with her grandson on the weekend). The usual, familiar chores of a sixty-year-old woman who had been married for thirty years and raised a child. Life flowed smoothly and predictably, like a river in a calm channel, without major upheavals or surprises.
By the church fence, right next to the gate, an old woman sat on a worn piece of cardboard. Valentina noticed her from a distance: a hunched figure in a dark, faded headscarf, head bowed, an outstretched hand holding a tin cup. There were always plenty of beggars like her near churches, and Valentina had long grown accustomed to them, usually giving some small change without looking closely at their faces. But today, something made her stop and take a closer look.
The old woman was blind; it was immediately obvious. Her eyes were covered with a cloudy, whitish film, her gaze directed at nothing. Her face was furrowed with deep wrinkles, her hands had gnarled veins, and her headscarf, once black, had faded to a grayish-brown. On her feet were worn-out men’s shoes that didn’t fit, and her long skirt was patched in several places.
Valentina fumbled in her handbag, found a hundred-ruble note, and bent down to put the money in the cup. At that moment, the old woman, with surprising speed, not at all like an elderly person, grabbed her by the wrist. Her fingers were surprisingly strong, tenacious, and cold, even in this heat.
— My child, — the beggar whispered in a hoarse voice, and Valentina felt goosebumps run down her spine. — My child, listen carefully!…
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