A Night in the Cemetery

THE MAN WHO WANTED REVENGE

Fyodor Fyodorovich Sigaev—shortly after he’d caught his wife “in flagrante delicto”—was standing at the counter of the Shmuck and Co. gun store, choosing a handgun suitable for his needs. His face expressed anger, woe, sadness, and absolute resolution.

“I know what I must do,” he thought. “The foundations of my family life are shattered, virtue has been ground into the dirt, and vice rejoices. As an honest citizen and a decent man, I must have revenge. First, I will kill her and her lover, and then I will kill myself.”

He has not picked up any of the guns, and he has not yet killed anyone—not yet; but his imagination already pictures three bloodied corpses, the skulls blown to pieces, the splashing brains, the excitement of the crowd, the group of passersby watching the scene, and the autopsies to follow.

With all the joy of the offended innocent who achieves justice, he imagines the horror of the public, the terror of the insulting and annoying woman who’d cheated on him, and in his imagination he reads already the editorial article about the shattered foundations of his family.

The French shop assistant, who makes a comically odd figure with a small potbelly and a white vest, is placing various handguns before him on the counter, smiling respectfully and rubbing his hands.

“I must recommend to you, my dear sir, this wonderful handgun made by the company Smith and Wesson. This is the finest achievement of the handgun industry. It has three different switches, an extractor for the next cartridge; it can hit any target from six hundred paces, and it is very easy to aim. I would like to draw your attention, my dear sir, to the beautiful and very clean finish of this particular piece. This is the most fashionable handgun nowadays. Every day, we sell at least ten of them to robbers, wolves, and lovers. It has a very powerful and precise performance, and uncompromising quality. With one shot you can kill both your wife and her lover, and for suicides, I do not know of a better system.”

The shop assistant touched the triggers and breathed on the barrels, evincing an attitude of complete immersion in delight and joy. Looking at his face, so filled with admiration, one might imagine that he would gladly have put a bullet in the middle of his own forehead, if only he could be the owner of the handgun made by the wonderful Smith and Wesson company.

“And what is the price?” Mr. Sigaev asked.

“Forty-five rubles, sir.”

“Well, this is kind of expensive for me.”

“Then, my dear sir, I will show you a handgun made by another company, a bit cheaper. Let me see—we have a wonderful selection here, all different price ranges. For example, this handgun made by the Laforchet Company costs only eighteen rubles, but (the shop assistant wrinkled his face in disgust) this system is so old-fashioned for today. Only complete losers or psychopathic ladies buy this one. To kill your wife with a Laforchet is such bad taste. Good taste and good manners are only for the guns made by Smith and Wesson.”

“I am not going to shoot anyone or commit suicide,” Mr. Sigaev lied gloomily. “This is for my summer cottage, to scare off thieves.”

“We do not ask why our customers wish to purchase a handgun,” the shop assistant said humbly, lowering his glance. “If we were to ask why people bought guns, we would soon go out of business. But with the Laforchet gun you cannot even scare a crow, because when it shoots, it makes only a very quiet, subdued little pop. Instead, I will recommend to you another line of nice guns made by the Mortimer Company. Here it is, these are called duel guns.”

“Should I challenge him to a duel?” a quick thought appeared in Mr. Sigaev’s head. “But this is too much honor for him. People like him should be killed like animals, like the rats they are.”

The shop assistant turned to another counter with a few mincing steps, and talking and smiling nonstop, placed another pile of handguns before him. The Smith and Wesson guns looked the most appealing and respectable. Mr. Sigaev picked up one of the revolvers made by this company, looked at it dully, and was lost in his thoughts again.

In his imagination, he pictured how he would smash their skulls, how the blood would flow in a river on the area rugs and the parquetry tiles, and how the legs of his cheating wife would twitch as she died.

But this was not enough for his indignant soul. He was trying to find something more terrible.

“I’ve got it—I will kill only him and myself,” he decided. “And I will leave her to live. Let her be destroyed by her conscience and by the contempt of her neighbors. For a woman as nervous and sensitive as she is, this would be far more torture than a quick death.”

And then he imagined his funeral. Hurt feelings and all, he would lie in a coffin, with a humble smile on his lips, and like Niobe in the ancient Greek stories, she would be tortured by her conscience, and she would not know where to hide herself from the scornful glances of the indignant crowd.

“I can see sir, that you do like the guns by Smith and Wesson,” the shop assistant interrupted his dreams. “If you think that they are too expensive, I can come down by five rubles. But we also have guns made by other companies, a bit cheaper.”

The graceful French figure of the shop assistant turned, and he pulled out another dozen handguns in their boxes.

“Here, my dear sir, this goes for just thirty rubles. The foreign currency exchange rate has fallen again, and the customs taxes are going up, dear sir, up every hour. I swear to God, my dear man, I am not a conservative man, but even I become angry with all this. You see, these exchange rates and these customs taxes put us in such a crazy situation that a good gun can only be bought by a rich man. Poor guys can only buy these locally made guns from Tula, and sulfur matches, but these local guns are a complete disaster. When you attempt to shoot your wife with one of these, you hit your own shoulder blade.”

Suddenly it occurred to Mr. Sigaev that if he were dead, he would not be able to witness the torment of the woman who had cheated on him. Revenge is only sweet when you can taste its fruits. And what would the point of all this be, if he were lying in a coffin, unable to see or hear anything?

“Or should I do it this way?” he thought. “I will kill him and then stay for his funeral and see everything, and then afterward I will kill myself, too. But no, they would arrest me and take away my gun.

“Then, I should kill him, and leave her alive. I would not kill myself for some time, so I could watch how things develop. First, I would be arrested. Later on, I would have enough time to commit suicide. The arrest is good, because during the preliminary investigation, I would have plenty of opportunity to reveal to the police and society all those cheap, rotten things that she did. And if I did kill myself, she would accuse me of everything, with her ability to tell a low and dirty lie, and people’s opinion would excuse her actions and they would probably laugh at me, unless I were to stay alive …”

In a minute he considered her again.

“Yes, if I kill myself, they will believe her and her dirty lies. Why should I kill myself at all? This is one good reason not to. But secondly, to kill oneself is the act of a coward. Therefore, I must kill him, and would leave her to try to lie her way out, and as for me—I shall go to court. There will be a trial, and she will be called to the witness stand. She will be so embarrassed when my lawyer interrogates her in front of the crowd. The judge, the public, and everyone present will sympathize with me!”

As he was thinking along these lines, the shop assistant put more guns in front of him and decided that his duty was to keep the customer busy with conversation.

“Here is a British handgun, made by another company. But I would assure you, dear sir, that this one is not as good as the Smith and Wesson. Recently, you may have read in the papers that an officer bought a gun made by Smith and Wesson at our store. He was going to shoot his wife’s lover—and what do you think? The bullet went through the lover’s body, then it hit the bronze lamp, and then it hit the grand piano, and ricocheted off the grand piano, killed the lady’s little dog, and even slightly wounded his wife. This is a brilliant handgun! It has brought honor to our company. The officer was just arrested recently; it is certain that he will be sentenced to hard labor.” He paused.

“First of all, my dear sir, our law is too old-fashioned. Secondly, our law is always on the side of the lover. Why, you may ask? It is all very simple, dear sir: all of them—the judge, the jury, the prosecutor, and the defense lawyers—they each live with the wife of some other man, and they would all feel better if we had one husband less in the country. It would be nice for them if all the husbands could be sent to eastern Siberia, to the Sakhalin Island Prison.

“My dear sir, you should know how indignant I become when I see virtue destroyed in our society. To love another man’s wife is seen as no worse than to smoke his cigarettes, to read his books. And our trade grows worse and worse—this does not mean that there are fewer lovers, no! This means that more husbands are deciding to ignore their situation. They do not seek revenge, they are afraid of the sentences, afraid of their long prison terms.”

The shop assistant looked around and whispered,

“And who is to blame for all this, sir? The Russian government.”

“I am not going to go to Sakhalin Island for the sake of some dirty swine. That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Mr. Sigaev was lost in his thoughts. “If I go to prison, it would just give my wife another opportunity to get married again and to cheat on her second husband. She would win. Therefore, I will leave her to live, I will not commit suicide myself, and as for him—I am not going to kill him. I have to think up something more logical and sensible. I shall torture them with my contempt, and start a scandalous court case against her.”

“And over here, my dear sir, there is another line of wonderful shotguns. I would like to draw your attention to the very original design of the trigger.”

After making his decision, Mr. Sigaev did not need a gun anymore, but the shop assistant was getting more and more inspired, and the pile of guns on the counter had grown into a great heap. The husband felt ashamed that the poor little man had spent so much time in vain, that he had wasted so much time smiling, talking, and admiring his guns.

“All right,” he mumbled, “in this case, I will come back later, or I will send someone over.”

He did not see the facial expression of the shop assistant, but to ease the situation, he decided to buy something. But what should he buy? He looked at the walls of the store trying to pick something cheap and his glance stopped at a green net hanging from the wall next to the entrance door.

“And this? What is this?” he asked.

“This is a net for catching small birds, quail and the like.”

“And how much does it cost?”

“Eight rubles, sir.”

“Wrap it up for me then please, I will purchase this.”

The hurt husband paid eight rubles, took the net and, feeling even more hurt, left the store.