Blessed is he who shows mercy to animals
Gennadiy Kiryushin

Editor Инга Борисовна Фирсова

© Gennadiy Kiryushin, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0065-5074-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Leo woke up feeling the bright spots of sunlight on his face, breaking through the half-circle windowpane covered with a thin layer of ice.

It was the first of January. Ahead lay two days free from work.

He could consider himself lucky.

After graduating from the institute, he had been assigned to one of the quiet, ancient Volga cities untouched by the war, where pre-revolutionary merchant houses of two, three, and even four stories, made of white and red brick, still stood. It was in such places, behind the facades of such buildings, that design organizations were often located, avoiding the prying eyes of outsiders. Tourist groups never ventured here.

But there was plenty to see.

The mansions, each unique, stood proudly facing one another, lining both sides of the city’s main street. Arched windows with intricate stucco and false balustrades. Ornate cornices marked the boundary between the end of the facade wall and the beginning of the roof.

Each balcony was invariably supported by two symmetrically placed female figures – caryatids, bare to the waist. They emerged from the walls, their hands folded above their heads, leaning unnaturally forward, looking like a parody of ancient Greek style, a reduced and simplified copy of a non-existent original. Their faces bore the same meaningless expression. Unlike the buildings, each with its own unique history.

The house where Leo had been lucky enough to rent an apartment cheaply was no different from the others. Except that, of all the residents, only he and one woman of indeterminate age, Aunt Varya, lived there – one floor below. She had a mocking gaze from her pale blue eyes, a quick and friendly response in fleeting conversations, and an enviable ease in navigating the staircases. The rest had been temporarily relocated, awaiting the next major renovation.

He liked this house, silent and deserted. His previous apartment in a prefabricated five-story building had poor sound insulation, and here Leo found peace and tranquility.

As the landlady had told him, the first and only owner of the house had been the daughter and heiress of the merchant Nikita Sysoev, who had made his fortune on goods from China. Before the revolution, she had run a cat shelter. Many might not know this, but in those days, there were no stray cats. At least not in the numbers seen today. Back then, even signs were placed on houses with a quote, it seems, from the Bible: “Be compassionate to animals! Blessed is he who shows mercy to beasts.”

When the Bolsheviks came to power, something terrible happened at the shelter on New Year’s Eve. He couldn’t remember the details, but according to legend, since then, Nikitishna had invisibly protected the house, and thanks to this, it had survived to this day in relatively good condition. Of course, only the walls, floor slabs, and roof remained from the original structure, but as they say, as long as the walls stand, the house stands.

It was unclear why he remembered this legend, though when you wake up late on a day off in a warm bed, and laziness whispers, “lie down a little longer, you don’t have to rush anywhere today,” the most unusual thoughts come to mind.

Be that as it may, he would have to get up – Leo thought with slight regret.

On the kitchen table stood a wine bottle, a glass, and two plates. On one of them lay a piece of cheese left uneaten from the previous year. Leo turned the bottle over the glass. A few drops fell out. He filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove.

After finishing his morning routine, he made tea, spread jam on a bun, and waited for the boiling water to cool.

The doorbell rang. Peering through the peephole, Leo saw the neighbor from downstairs, Aunt Varya. She was in a housecoat, holding a large gray cat that barely fit in her arms. Its tail hung like the end of a heavy rope. Aunt Varya was a friend of the landlady and often dropped by for a chat over a cup of tea and to treat Leo to cabbage pies.

Fried cabbage pies, as it turned out, went well with tea, even without jam. And yet, without a spoonful of cherry or plum jam, the taste of tea always seemed empty to him.

During their last tea party, Aunt Varya confessed: for her, there was nothing better than homemade pastries cooked on a griddle under a lid. And less hassle, she added, looking at the cast-iron frying pan that had come to Leo from the landlady, along with a teapot bearing a pre-revolutionary stamp on its side: “Partnership of Kolchugino.”

Aunt Varya loved to repeat:

“They knew how to make things back then. Both the teapot and the frying pan. They’ll last another hundred years, not like these Chinese ones.”

To which Leo, after an unsuccessful attempt to sip from the scalding cup and trying to maintain a dignified appearance, solemnly replied:

“The Chinese have learned to make things too, just not for our wallets.”

She smiled, apparently remembering something of her own, and continued:

“My daughter gave me insoles for slippers. So comfortable, you can walk all day, and your feet don’t get tired. She says they were sent from China. She ordered them online. From some Ali Baba.” Aunt Varya laughed as she said the last phrase. “And there are these things, I don’t know how I managed in the kitchen without them before.” She fell silent again and, sighing, drawled, half-jokingly, half-seriously:

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