The Malachite Box

Do you think that if a person steals, they are a thief and deserve severe punishment? If they are caught red-handed, and their guilt is proven—what is there to talk about? That was my opinion until very recently. Until this... silly, I can't even find the right word for it, story happened to me. And I'm writing this to find justification and understanding from people. Because I am not a thief. Well, judge for yourself—would a real criminal, after everything, when nothing threatens her anymore, tell all this? Why? I want to justify myself and cry on many shoulders at once, and then—forget...

*

It was the most ordinary day and the most ordinary return

from work... until I entered the building entrance. The higher I climbed the stairs, approaching my apartment on the fifth floor (we have an elevator, but I usually walk, keeping in shape), the more clearly I heard some noise on the landing—businesslike male and a female voice, some stomping and commotion... Did someone get furniture delivered?... Oh, no! Ambulance doctors (well, yes, a car was parked not far from the entrance). And the neighbor from the apartment across is helping the orderly carry down a stretcher. Well, there you go, Alevtina Markovna is unwell, they are carrying her out on a stretcher! She's lying pale, eyes closed, not moving... Is she even alive? I feel so sorry for her, a pleasant woman! Quite elderly already, but well-groomed, always friendly, her manners a bit old-fashioned, but not prim. She's alone, only her nephew visits sometimes.

The neighbor caught up with me, and only then did he look up and see me. He perked up and shouted up to the female doctor:

— Here comes another neighbor, maybe she can help?

I go up to our floor, and the doctor looks at me hopefully and explains:

— The old lady called the ambulance herself, opened the door, and then she got worse, she's lying there, can't speak. And we don't know where the apartment keys are—we can't lock the door. We'll have to leave the apartment like this. Can you stay here for at least an hour?

— I can for an hour, — I answer.

— That's good, — says the doctor and starts descending after the stretcher.

— Why don't you go into the apartment, maybe the keys will be found? Then lock it and leave a note for the relatives on the door. And we'll call the police, let them either find the relatives or seal the apartment for now! — she shouted this to me from below.

I went into the apartment, not without interest, I must say. I've lived in this building all my life and have known Alevtina Markovna for a long time, but I've never been a guest at her place. Even though she seems kind and calls me 'dear child'. But still, there is a distance between her and the other neighbors, she's a bit mysterious somehow. I went in, looked around—the apartment is also not quite ordinary. Everything is modest, you can see an elderly, not wealthy, lonely person lives here, and yet... The mirror in the hallway is antique, in a massive ornate frame, with various curls, darkened with time. A telephone table made of dark red wood with curved legs. A candlestick on it looks like it's from a museum, but the telephone—the most ordinary, old, plastic one with a round dial. I looked around the hallway—no keys in sight, went into the kitchen—it's also modest, but very clean. An old refrigerator and stove, a worn-out table... and on it a cup with a saucer, extraordinarily beautiful and elegant, even with a chipped edge. No keys. Left to look in the room...

Well... the room generally looks like a museum-apartment of some classic writer. Antique furniture, darkened paintings with portraits... This neighbor is not simple, maybe she's some kind of countess? Funny—a countess in a robe with a trash can in her hands. Though, Alevtina Markovna's robes were also always somehow unusual, velvet ones. I looked for keys here too—useless. Maybe in some drawer? It's awkward to rummage through the furniture... In a box?

By the way, there's a large box on the dresser. I looked closer—wow! What a box! It's... made of malachite? All carved, straight out of a Bazhov fairy tale. Here I couldn't resist, my hands reached out on their own to see what was inside. There must be either untold treasures, or secret papers, or maybe... a little scarlet flower? I even laughed quietly. I opened the heavy lid a bit, and it—is full of antique jewelry. I've never seen such things up close, let alone held them in my hands. It was like diving into a fairy tale. I started trying everything on like Tanyushka from "The Malachite Box". A set made of heavy white metal especially stunned me—a necklace, a ring, and long dangling earrings with large diamonds (I'm no expert, of course, but this isn't costume jewelry). I put the necklace on my neck, pulled the ring on, just held the earrings to my ears... I looked around—no mirror in the room. There's one in the hallway! Only it's dark here, I turned on the light, but the lamp is still behind me. The diamonds sparkle mysteriously, but I can't see myself properly. I went to the bathroom...

A completely different story! I look at myself... well, I need to brush my hair back so my ears and neck are open... Eh, anyway... Such earrings aren't for my short neck. No, generally I'm quite satisfied with my appearance. Not a top model, but an attractive, voluptuous brunette. Not fat, but precisely voluptuous—round cheeks with dimples. I'm 23, but I'm taken for a high school student because of this. Breasts of perfect shape, butt too... everything in place. And, by the way, waist—60 cm, and a flat stomach. There! But now I regretted that I'm not my friend Varya. She's not a beauty, her nose is a bit too long, but her neck—is swan-like. With such earrings, she would look like a princess...

In short, I got carried away, forgot about everything. Suddenly I hear—the front door is opening. I was confused, even got a little scared... It's turning out stupidly—they asked me to watch the apartment, and here I am in the bathroom doing who knows what. Quickly flushed the toilet, turned on the water tap. Then turned off the tap, getting ready to go out... Good Lord—the ring, and the necklace! Someone coughed in the hallway and an older woman's voice asked:

— Who's there?

I took everything off hurriedly, clenched it in my fist... Oh my! The necklace is dangling from my fist! I stuffed the jewelry into my jacket pocket.

I come out of the bathroom, and in the hallway stands... Alevtina Markovna?! I froze... No, it's not her... This woman is younger, somehow sturdier, rosier. But how similar!

— I'm a neighbor, — I mumble embarrassedly, — they asked me to watch the apartment for a bit, and I... here... needed to, I just got off work, — I waved towards the bathroom. Why am I lying, I ask? This woman, it seems, doesn't care at all what I was doing there.

— I'm Alevtina's sister, they called me from the hospital, — says the woman (and her voice is similar, imagine that).

— How is she?

— Nothing is known yet, she had a stroke, — the neighbor's copy says sadly, — and you, dear child, can go, I have spare keys, I'll lock the apartment.

I came to my place, mechanically undressed, looked over my business pantsuit—is it time for dry cleaning, hung it in the closet. Won't need it soon now. Tomorrow is Friday, and then I'm going on vacation... shorts, tank top... goodbye, dear office! With thoughts of the neighbor (I hope she pulls through!) I put on my home clothes—jeans worn out in the most interesting places (it's okay, at home you can!) and a T-shirt, dragged myself to the kitchen to put the kettle on...

**

Monday... Evening... Getting ready for vacation. A knock on the door. I ask:

— Who is it?

— Your neighbor's nephew.

I look through the peephole—yes, it's him. I've seen him a few times in the entrance. I think his name is Mark. A handsome (very handsome) blond around thirty. It seems to me he's in some creative profession, dresses a bit informally, bleaches a strand, but doesn't seem gay. His manners are quite masculine.

I open the door. Interesting... does he want to thank me? Oh, come on, it was nothing, nothing to thank for. Maybe he likes me? Shivers ran down my spine... No, doesn't look like he's here to thank me. He looks gloomy, I've never seen him like this. Usually he smiles, just as friendly as his aunt. Is everything bad? Did she die???

— Can I come in?

— Yes, of course, — I stepped back deeper into the apartment.

Mark entered the hallway and stopped, looking at me just as gloomily. He was holding a mobile phone in his hand. I didn't dare ask about Alevtina Markovna, just couldn't find the right words. We were silent for a few minutes.

— Well done, neighbor, — he suddenly said with a crooked smile, looking me over from head to toe.

Under his heavy gaze, I felt very uncomfortable, as if I had done something terrible. We were silent again. He didn't take his intense gaze off me. I shivered.

— What happened? — I finally squeezed out a stupid, standard phrase.

Mark's face twisted again, as if he had also had a stroke.

— I can, of course, call the police right now. They'll bring witnesses and search the apartment. But maybe you'll give back the jewels yourself? Even if they don't find anything here... you still won't be able to wriggle out. There was a video camera installed in my aunt's room.

Everything seemed to turn upside down around me... Yes, I was standing glued to the floor, and Mark, the shelving unit in the hallway, the giraffe coat rack were looking from somewhere above! My heart started beating fast-fast, blood rushed to my face, I probably turned crimson all over. THE JEWELS! They're still in the jacket pocket! What a disgrace!!!... A silent scene ensued, worse than Griboyedov's...

I came out of my stupor and, looking at him in horror (I simply couldn't look him in the eyes), started mumbling something incoherent.

— I... wanted to put them back, but then her sister came... and I forgot... I was just trying them on...

— For four days? And how, did they suit you? — Mark's voice was full of sarcasm.

— I'll return them now! — on wobbly legs I trudged to the closet, took the jewels out of the jacket pocket and brought them to the hallway. I was still shaking.

The necklace was dangling from my fist again. With a short, awkward movement, I put it all in Mark's hand. He quickly examined the jewels and put them in his bag. Then looked at me intently again, apparently deciding what to do with me.

— Well, in general, like this, — Mark said after a little while, — I don't want to turn you in to the police. Judging by how confused and red you got, you're not a hardened criminal. Prison doesn't make anyone better... But letting theft go unpunished is also not right.

I wanted to explain something again, somehow justify myself, but there was a lump in my throat... And what is there to explain?

— You can choose—dealing with the police, a bad reputation among the neighbors, disgrace at work... or I'll punish you myself. Punish you cruelly, but no one except the two of us will know about it, and your reputation will remain unspoiled.

— What will you do? — I tried with all my might not to burst into tears. I was already imagining the most terrible and incredible pictures, which I had gleaned from Japanese comics and a popular science program about ancient rituals of savages.

— Just give you a spanking, — Mark smirked, — you'll stay alive, I won't maim you either.

What was left for me to do? I'd rather die than have this whole nasty story become known to relatives, neighbors, colleagues... I agreed.

— Here's the address, — Mark scribbled a few words on a page torn from a notepad, — be there tomorrow by 12 o'clock. Keep in mind—a minute late—and consider your case already at the police station.

***

I won't describe in detail how I lived through that night. I couldn't sleep, of course. I was either burning with shame, or I became nauseatingly scared. Then I planned to rush to the train station right now and leave the city forever, then I wanted to run immediately to the written address, just to be done with this endless night, this agonizing wait...

But morning came anyway, and at five to twelve I was at the place. At this address was a large, solid garage. Exactly at twelve, the garage door swung open, and Mark, who looked out, invited me to enter.

I wasn't in the mood to sightsee, but I still noticed that everything here was clean and tidy. The garage was spacious. A car stood in the middle, to the right of it—a motorcycle, and to the left was a sturdy table with metal legs and shelves, on which some boxes and parts were arranged in strict order.

After letting me look around for a few minutes, Mark commanded:

— Undress! Take everything off!

I was ashamed to undress in front of him, I started blushing and stood still.

— I'm not interested in your feminine charms right now, I'm not going to rape you. Undress or I'll have to tear all this off you. And then you'll go home naked, — he spoke not angrily, but strictly and decisively.

I undressed and stood naked with an armful of clothes in my hands, shifting from foot to foot. It was cool in the garage, goosebumps ran all over my body. Strangely, but at the same time, a hot ball seemed to be rolling in my lower abdomen. Mark came up to me, sharply snatched the clothes from my hands and threw them on a shelf. Tears welled up in my eyes, and a hot drop rolled down my cheek. I was cold, ashamed, and very scared.

Mark looked at me with what seemed to me a sympathetic smirk.

— I'm not a sadist and I've never hit anyone. And I was only spanked once myself, when I was a teenager. Right in this very garage, — he paused and looked around.

— My grandfather and I were tinkering with his old Volga here. I was about eleven then, I was very active and always getting into trouble... My hands, as they say, were not for boredom. Granddad told me not to touch anything, but of course I couldn't resist... And I almost got electrocuted.

Mark spoke slowly and thoughtfully. This detailed narrative calmed me down a bit on one hand (it seems he's not a beast or a maniac), but at the same time, from somewhere deep down, an even greater fear began to rise from the understanding that he would punish me just as thoroughly.

— Granddad was first terribly scared for me, his face changed completely. And then he got so

angry, grabbed me, clamped my head between his legs, pulled down my pants and spanked me... with what was at hand—a wire folded several times. To say it hurt—is to say nothing... I remember that pain and horror to this day, even though he only lashed me about fifteen or twenty times.

Mark shook his head, chasing away the unpleasant memories. And continued louder and faster:

— Well, you're not eleven anymore, and your offense is