A Man from the Future. 1856

Dmitry opened his eyes. An elderly woman in a dark dress and white bonnet was leaning over him. A kind, round face with little wrinkles around the eyes.

“Well, you’ve come to,” she said with satisfaction. “We were worried something might happen. Gospodin Rodion Romanovich says you’re a foreigner, just arrived. And you fainted right away. Well, that’s understandable – it’s a long journey, you must be exhausted.”

Dmitry tried to sit up. His head was spinning, but not as badly as before. He looked around – he was lying on a narrow bed in a small room. The walls were painted yellow, peeling in places. The window was small, dirty, and through it he could see a courtyard-well and the walls of neighboring houses. The furniture – a bed, a chair, a dresser, a washstand with a pitcher.

A rented room, he understood. The very one Rodion mentioned.

“Where am I?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

“Well, at my place, dear. I’m Praskovia Pavlovna Zarnitskaya, I rent out rooms. And Gospodin Rodion Romanovich brought you here, said you needed lodgings. So I agreed, a room had just become available. A student moved out, left owing money, well, what can you do. Maybe you’ll be more honest?”

She thinks I’m going to rent a room from her, Dmitry understood. Rodion told her that. Why?

“And where… where is Gospodin Rodion Romanovich?” he asked.

“He left, dear. Said he had urgent business. But he said to tell you he’d come by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”

Dmitry tried to get up. His legs were trembling, but they held.

“Easy now, easy,” Praskovia Pavlovna worried. “You’re still weak. Would you like some tea? Or soup?”

Tea, Dmitry thought. Yes, tea would be nice. But how will I pay? I don’t have a kopeck in local currency.

“Thank you,” he said carefully. “Only… I can’t pay right now. My money is… in the bank. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

In the bank. How stupid. What banks? But what else can I say?

Praskovia Pavlovna looked at him with distrust:

“In the bank, you say? Well, all right. But you’d better not deceive me. The last tenant promised the same thing – tomorrow, the day after tomorrow – and then just ran off. Never paid me for two months.”

“I won’t run off,” Dmitry said firmly.

Although where would I run to? I don’t even know where I am or what I’m supposed to do.

Praskovia Pavlovna left, promising to come check on him in the evening. Dmitry was alone with his thoughts.

10. Comprehension

He sat on the bed and held his head in his hands. His thoughts tangled, overwhelming each other, not letting him concentrate.

So, he tried to organize the situation. I’m in 1856. In St. Petersburg. I have no money, no clothes except what I’m wearing, and they attract attention, no documents, no acquaintances. All I have is some Rodion Romanovich who for some reason decided to help me, and a landlady who expects me to pay for lodging.

The situation was catastrophic. But strangely – instead of panic, Dmitry felt some kind of cold excitement. As if this were a game, a puzzle to solve.

What do I need first? he reasoned. Clothes. I can’t walk around in jeans and a sweatshirt. Second – money. Without money I’ll starve. Third – a cover story. Who am I? Where from? Why did I come?

He stood and walked to the window. Beyond it was a typical nineteenth-century St. Petersburg courtyard – narrow, dirty, with piles of garbage in the corners, laundry hanging on ropes, children playing in the dirt. It smelled of slop, smoke, something sour and musty.

There’s the romance of the nineteenth century, he thought bitterly. In books everything looked beautiful – balls, duels, noble feelings. In reality – dirt, poverty, stench.

Praskovia Pavlovna returned with a tray on which stood a glass of tea in a glass holder and several pieces of black bread.

“Here, have some, dear,” she said, setting the tray on the dresser. “The tea is hot, with sugar. And fresh bread, baked today.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the glass and sipped.

The tea was strong, hot, very sweet. An unfamiliar taste – not like modern tea. More astringent, with some smoky aftertaste.

This is real Russian tea, he realized. Steeped in a samovar, boiled over coals.

The bread was different too – dense, heavy, smelling of sour dough. But delicious – real, alive, not like twenty-first-century store bread.

“Tell me, Praskovia Pavlovna,” he began carefully, “how much does it cost… well, to rent a room like this for a month?”

“Rent? Well, ten rubles, dear,” she answered. “That’s still cheap because the room is small, unfurnished. Other places charge fifteen.”

Ten rubles, Dmitry repeated to himself. How much is that in modern money? By purchasing power parity… probably thirty or forty thousand rubles. A lot. And I have zero.

“And if I want to buy clothes?” he continued. “Where can that be done and how much does it cost?”

Praskovia Pavlovna looked at him with interest:

“Clothes? What do you mean, dear, didn’t you come with any? Or were you robbed?”

“No, it’s just… my clothes…” Dmitry faltered, not knowing what to say. “They’re not suitable for the climate here.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” she agreed, eyeing his jeans. “Those pants of yours are some kind of strange. Form-fitting. We don’t wear such things here. Quite improper.”

Improper, Dmitry repeated. God, how different everything is. Even clothes – a question of morality.

“So tell me,” he asked, “where can I buy proper clothes?”

“Well, at the Sennaya market, dear, the rag dealers trade there. You can buy cheap. You’ll find a secondhand frock coat for about five rubles, pants for three, a shirt for one. Boots are more expensive though – seven or eight rubles for decent ones.”

So minimum sixteen rubles for clothes, Dmitry calculated. Plus ten for lodging. Plus at least a ruble a day for food. I need at least thirty rubles soon. Where can I get it?

Praskovia Pavlovna left, saying she’d come check on him in the evening. Dmitry was left alone with his thoughts.

11. A Plan for Survival

He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He needed a plan. A clear, realistic plan for survival.

Option one, he began to think. Find a job. But what kind? I’m a systems administrator, but there are no computers here. I’m educated as a historian, but without documents no one will hire me. Can I teach English? No, in the nineteenth century all educated people knew English. Can I do physical labor? As a loader, for instance? But that requires strength, and I’m not used to hard work.

Option two, he continued. Use knowledge of the future. I know what events will happen in the coming years. Can I make money from this? How? Betting on horse races? But that requires initial capital. Making predictions? But I’ll be taken for a charlatan. Inventions? I’m not an engineer, I can’t even create the simplest mechanism, and besides, how would I sell it – this is a completely different time.

Option three, he reasoned further. Sell something I have. But what? Jeans? Who would buy them – they’re an unheard-of thing here. A phone? But it’s useless without a charger. A watch? I only have an ordinary electronic watch, also an incomprehensible thing for the nineteenth century.

He took his phone from his pocket and looked at the screen. Battery—67%. No signal, of course. But there were photographs, music, books in the memory.

Books, he suddenly thought. I have dozens of books on my phone. Including ones that haven’t been written yet! Crime and Punishment won’t come out for another year. The Idiot – three years. Demons – six years. What if I… no, that’s madness. I can’t pass off Dostoevsky’s works as my own.

But the thought stuck in his head like a splinter. Technically it was possible. He could write down the text, say it was his work, try to get it published. Money from publication would help him survive.

But that’s a crime, he argued with himself. I’d steal from Dostoevsky his creations. Change literary history. No, it’s impossible. I can’t.

But there were no alternatives. He could starve to death in the coming days if he didn’t find a way to make money.

All right, he decided. That’s a last resort. First I’ll try something else.

12. The First Night

In the evening Praskovia Pavlovna came again, bringing a bowl of shchi and a piece of rye bread.

“Eat, dear,” she said. “You’ve wasted away, look so pale.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the bowl.

The shchi was hot, fatty, with pieces of cabbage and meat. The spoon was wooden, roughly made. He ate slowly, unaccustomed to it – in the twenty-first century he’d eaten mostly ready-made meals and fast food.

But it’s delicious, he thought. Real food, not chemistry. Except the spoon pokes my tongue.

“Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, chewing the shchi, “tell me, how long have you known Gospodin Rodion Romanovich?”

“For a long time, dear. About two years now he’s been living here. Was a student, then quit his studies. Sits in his little room, thinking about something. Strange one, I must say. Either not of this world or God knows what.”

Says things to himself, Dmitry repeated. A strange student who quit studying. Lives in a little room, thinks about something. Lord, this is straight out of Crime and Punishment! Could Dostoevsky have based Raskolnikov on a real person living in this house?

“What does he think about?” Dmitry asked.

“Who knows,” Praskovia Pavlovna shrugged. “He said once he wanted to do something great. Test himself, prove something. I didn’t understand what he meant. But he spoke so seriously, it even frightened me.”

Test himself, prove something, a chill ran down Dmitry’s spine. Lord, what if he really is planning to… no, that can’t be. Raskolnikov is a fictional character. There was no actual murder.

But was there certainty? Dostoevsky was a master of psychological realism. He didn’t invent but observed. And right now Dmitry was living near a person who possibly became the prototype for the most famous literary criminal.

I should stop him, he suddenly thought. If he really is planning to commit a crime, I should intervene.

But how? And did he have the right to interfere in someone else’s fate?

Praskovia Pavlovna left, wishing him a good night. Dmitry was left in darkness – she’d left a candle, but he blew it out to save it. He lay listening to the sounds of the house.

Behind the wall someone was coughing – long, agonizing, with wheezing. Downstairs came drunk voices – someone cursing, someone crying. Somewhere a door creaked, footsteps went up the stairs. There it is, Dostoevsky’s St. Petersburg, Dmitry thought. A city of poverty, disease, crime. Not the romantic city of white nights from tourist brochures, but real, terrifying, merciless.

He thought about his former life – the rental studio apartment with its cleanliness and solitude, the office work, the metro, the shops, the television. All of it seemed unreal now, like a dream.

What if I really am asleep? he thought. What if all this is a hallucination caused by stress? Maybe I’m lying in a psychiatric hospital right now, and it seems to me I’m in the nineteenth century?

But no. The smells were too real. The taste of the shchi was too authentic. The cold from the damp walls was too tangible. This wasn’t a dream.

So it’s real, he concluded. And I need to learn to live in it. Or die.

13. Morning of the Second Day

He woke to the sound of a rooster crowing. He opened his eyes – gray morning light streamed through the window. The room was cold, his breath turned to vapor.

No heating, he realized. The stove wasn’t lit. Or maybe there’s no stove heating at all in this room?

He got up, went to the washstand, and splashed water from the pitcher on his face. The water was ice-cold – it stung his skin, made him fully awake.

He looked at himself in the small cracked mirror hanging above the washstand. Unshaven face, tousled hair, dark circles under his eyes. Wrinkled, dirty clothes.

I look like a bum, he thought. I need to get cleaned up. But how? No razor. No clean clothes. No hot water.

There was a knock on the door. Praskovia Pavlovna came in with a pitcher of hot water and a piece of soap.

“Good morning, dear,” she said. “Here’s some hot water for washing. And soap. I forgot to give it to you yesterday.”

“Thank you,” Dmitry took the pitcher.

The soap was dark, stinking, but apparently the only kind available.

“Praskovia Pavlovna,” he asked, “could I borrow some money? Five or ten rubles. I’ll pay you back tomorrow, I give you my word.”

The woman looked at him suspiciously:

“Borrow? Well, I’m not rich myself, dear. Where would I get money? You’ll have to manage on your own…”

“I understand,” Dmitry nodded. Of course she won’t give it to me. Why should she trust a stranger?

After Praskovia Pavlovna left, he sat on the bed and thought. He needed to act. Today. Otherwise tomorrow would be too late – the landlady would throw him out for non-payment.

What can I do right now? he reasoned. Go to Sennaya Square and try to sell something? But what? Try to find a job? But where and what kind? Ask Rodion Romanovich for help? But what can he do?

Suddenly a thought came – mad, desperate, but possibly the only one.

Meeting Dostoevsky, he thought. I know Fyodor Mikhailovich is living in St. Petersburg now. He hasn’t written Crime and Punishment yet, but he’s already known as the author of Poor Folk and Notes from the House of the Dead. What if I find him? Offer him a collaboration? Tell him I have ideas for novels?

But it was risky. First, where would he find Dostoevsky? Second, why should he accept an unknown foreigner? Third, what specifically could Dmitry offer him?

I could tell him the plot of Crime and Punishment, he thought. Say that I heard this story from an acquaintance. Dostoevsky will be interested, will start writing. And I’ll ask him for help – money, clothes, work.

It was a plan. Not perfect, but better than nothing.

14. Rodion Romanovich Returns

At noon, when Dmitry was about to leave, there was a knock on the door. Rodion Romanovich came in.

He looked even worse than yesterday – pale, unshaven, with eyes red from sleeplessness. Dressed in the same worn frock coat, in torn boots.

“Hello,” he said quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Dmitry answered. “Thank you for your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Rodion waved his hand:

“Nonsense. I simply couldn’t leave a man in trouble. Especially a foreigner who doesn’t know the city.”

He sat on a chair, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and pressed them to his chin.

“Tell me,” Rodion began, staring intently at Dmitry, “are you really from America?”

Dmitry hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to this man – there was something honest, open in his gaze, despite all the darkness.

“Not exactly,” he finally said. “It’s… complicated to explain.”

“Try,” Rodion adjusted his clothes. “I have time.”

What should I say? Dmitry thought feverishly. The truth? That I’m from the future? He’ll think I’m mad. Lie? But he clearly senses falsehood.

“I…” he began slowly, “I really am not from here. I’m from… another place. Very far away. And I ended up here by chance. Not of my own will.”

Rodion watched him carefully, without interrupting.

“Go on, perhaps,” he said.

“I have no money, no clothes, no documents. I don’t know how to survive in this city. And I don’t know how to get back… home.”

“Home,” Rodion repeated and smiled grimly. “You know, sometimes I don’t know how to get home either. Even though I’ve lived here my whole life.”

He was silent for a moment, studying the ash on his cigarette.

“You’re a strange man,” he said finally. “I understood that at first sight. In your eyes… how can I put it better… there’s something missing that everyone else has. Habit. Submission to fate. You look at everything as if you’re seeing it for the first time.”

He senses it, Dmitry realized. He understands that I’m not like everyone else.

“I want to help you,” Rodion continued. “I don’t know why. Maybe because I once needed help and no one gave it to me. Maybe because you remind me of… myself. Lost, alien in this world.”

He stood, walked to the window.

“I have an acquaintance,” he said, not turning around. “A merchant at Sennaya. We can sell him your strange clothes. For a curiosity he’ll probably give five rubles. That’s enough to buy normal clothes and pants. After that… we’ll see.”

He’s helping me, Dmitry thought in surprise. A stranger, who has nothing himself, is helping me. Why?

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “I won’t forget this.”

Rodion turned and looked at him with a long gaze:

“Don’t promise what you can’t deliver. In this city, promises are worth nothing. Only deeds matter.”

And they went to Sennaya Square.

15. Sennaya Square

They left the house together – Dmitry in his strange jeans and sweatshirt, Rodion in his worn frock coat. It was a gray, cold October day with drizzle. The sky hung low, like a dirty rag.

Dmitry walked and looked around with avid curiosity. He’d seen twenty-first-century St. Petersburg thousands of times – but this was a completely different city. The streets were narrower, the buildings lower and gloomier, the pavement made of cobblestones that hurt to walk on in his thin modern shoes. Instead of automobiles, carriages drawn by horses moved along the roads, and the occasional hired cab.

People were dressed heavily, in dark colors – men in long frock coats and greatcoats, women in full skirts and scarves. Everyone moved slowly, as if under the weight of exhaustion. Gray, tormented, indifferent faces.

There they are, nineteenth-century people, Dmitry thought. Not heroes from novels, not characters from historical films. Ordinary people who work, get tired, suffer. Like me in the twenty-first century. Like all people at all times.

The smells were unbearable. Horse manure – there was plenty of it on the streets, no one cleaned it up. Smoke from stoves – black, pungent, sinking into the lungs. Slop – it was poured directly onto the streets from windows. Unwashed bodies – in the nineteenth century there wasn’t a shower in every apartment, people washed rarely, the crowd reeked of sweat and dirt.

How do they stand this? Dmitry wondered. How can people live in such stench?

But then he understood: they simply didn’t know anything different. For them it was normal. This was how life smelled.

Rodion walked in silence, absorbed in his thoughts. Sometimes he muttered something to himself – Dmitry couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was anxious, tense.

What is he thinking about? Dmitry wondered. Could he really be planning a crime? Or am I making it up after reading Dostoevsky?

They turned onto a narrow street, then another, even narrower. The houses here stood so close to each other that it seemed they would soon touch. The windows were small, dirty, and behind them were visible dark rooms. From courtyards peeked ragged children with hungry eyes.

“The poorest people live here,” Rodion said quietly, noticing Dmitry’s gaze. “Those who have nowhere to go. Craftsmen, day laborers, prostitutes, thieves. The bottom of St. Petersburg.”

The bottom of St. Petersburg, Dmitry repeated to himself. I thought the bottom was the twenty-first century, office work, meaningless existence. Turns out it can be worse. Much worse.

Finally they came out onto a large square. Sennaya. Dmitry recognized it – he’d read descriptions by Dostoevsky, Nekrasov, other writers. But reading was one thing, seeing with your own eyes was another.

The square was enormous, filled with people, carts, horses. Everywhere stood stalls, tables, goods simply laid out on the ground. Merchants shouted, calling to customers. Customers haggled, cursed, examined goods. Beggars asked for alms. Cabdrivers waited for passengers. Police officers slowly strolled about, keeping an eye on order. The smell here was even stronger – a mixture of rot, slop, horse manure, unwashed bodies, cheap vodka, and something sickeningly sweet that Dmitry couldn’t identify.

A market, he realized. A real old-fashioned market. Not a supermarket with air conditioning and sterile counters, but a living, dirty, noisy bazaar.

“That rag dealer over there,” Rodion pointed to the corner of the square, where an old man with a long gray beard was sitting. “He buys all kinds of things. Maybe he’ll buy your clothes.”

They approached. The old man looked Dmitry over with a sharp gaze – from head to toe.

“What are you selling, young sir?” he asked hoarsely.

“Clothes,” Dmitry answered. “American. Very good quality.”

“American?” The old man squinted. “Show me.”

Dmitry took off his sweatshirt – underneath was a t-shirt. The old man took the sweatshirt in his hands, felt it, smelled it, turned it over.

“Strange fabric,” he muttered. “Soft, but strong. Doesn’t look like ours. And the cut is unusual. Is this some kind of coat?”

“Yes, something like that,” Dmitry nodded.

“What about the pants?” The old man pointed at the jeans.

“Selling those too.”

“Take them off, let me see.”

Take off my jeans in the middle of the square? Dmitry was horrified. But there’s no other way. He looked around – no one was paying particular attention. You saw all kinds of things at Sennaya. He quickly took off his jeans, remaining in his underwear – fortunately, modern boxer briefs that looked like short pants.

The old man took the jeans, examined them, felt the pockets, the zipper. The zipper particularly interested him.

“What’s this contraption?” he asked, pulling the slider up and down.

“A fastener,” Dmitry explained. “Instead of buttons.”

“Clever invention,” the old man approved. “The Americans are good with mechanics. Well, a real curiosity. I’ll give three rubles for everything.”

“Three?” Dmitry protested. “These are unique items! There’s nothing like them in Russia!”

“That’s exactly why three, not two,” the old man smirked. “Who needs these curiosities? You can’t wear them – it looks ridiculous. You could only sell them to a museum. Or to some rich man with money to burn. Three rubles – and be grateful.”

Rodion touched Dmitry on the shoulder:

“Agree. It’s a fair price.”

Dmitry clenched his teeth. Three rubles. For clothes that cost five thousand in the twenty-first century. But there was no choice.

“All right,” he agreed. “Three rubles.”

The old man took a wallet from his pocket, counted out three worn paper rubles, and handed them to Dmitry.

Nineteenth-century money, Dmitry thought, examining the bills. Real, not museum pieces. With the portrait of the emperor, a double-headed eagle. These are historical artifacts! And for me – just a way not to starve to death.

16. Buying Clothes

Now he needed to buy proper clothes. Rodion led him to another merchant – a fat man with a red face, selling secondhand clothes.

“Need a frock coat?” the merchant asked. “Look there, a good one, almost new. The previous owner died, the heirs are selling. Only five rubles.”

Died, Dmitry shuddered. I’ll be wearing the clothes of a dead man.

But again – there was no choice. He tried on the frock coat – long, dark blue, with buttons. It fit well enough, though it was a bit large in the shoulders.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“What about pants? A shirt?” The merchant already sensed a customer. Dmitry selected gray pants, a white shirt (also secondhand, with yellow sweat stains under the armpits), a black vest, and a pair of boots.