{"id":10217,"date":"2020-12-14T16:04:13","date_gmt":"2020-12-14T16:04:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/cassandravoices.com\/?p=10217"},"modified":"2020-12-14T16:04:13","modified_gmt":"2020-12-14T16:04:13","slug":"vendevs-contest","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/2020\/12\/14\/vendevs-contest\/","title":{"rendered":"Vendev’s Contest"},"content":{"rendered":"

Taking advantage of their last night in the city, Boris and Semyon went to a theatre, something neither of them had done since childhood. But as luck would have it, at some point during the show, Boris\u2019s wallet was stolen. He was upset, and more so when the police officers exchanged glances before giving him little hope of its recovery.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou see, Sir, we understand that Vendev was working the crowd last night, and Vendev can\u2019t be caught. He is the cleverest thief who has ever operated in Belarus. Sometimes he works the same place for a week, but no one sees the slightest movement in the crowd when someone shouts \u2018Stop thief!\u2019 We\u2019ve had dozens of reports and the leisure to compare them. He works alone and only in one place at a time, stealing a maximum of three wallets an hour. As for physical descriptions, he might be anything from a choirboy to Rurik the Varangian. All we know is his name\u2026if that. His name is rumored about with a strange story of the reason that he steals\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

The two men from Cosen were not comforted. Next morning, Boris couldn\u2019t bring himself to take his train. Instead, he returned to the Pearl Theatre and sat on the terrace of an adjacent caf\u00e9. It was obvious he would not get his wallet back like that, so he must have been merely mourning it, like the simple-hearted fellow he was. A pure and harmless, even touching ritual. One which Semyon did not savor.<\/p>\n

Semyon was the cleverer of the two. Anyone could see that in a glance at those quicker eyes flickering from his expressive face. Impatient with Boris\u2019s ruminative slowness, you could see him there licking and sniffing, as if smelling the humid soil back in Cosen. He was eager to get that train out of this larcenous, immoral town and begin the fall plowing. But Boris could not sense all the strange city things now tickling Semyon\u2019s nose.<\/p>\n

The well-proportioned man in nondescript brown who sauntered out of the caf\u00e9 had pleasant brown eyes, and seemed in his late twenties. Upon seeing Boris, he stared as if seeing an old friend, then strode to their table, taking a chair very near indeed to Semyon.<\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning, my fine fellows! So seldom you get up from the farm! From the north, are we?\u201d<\/p>\n

Semyon did not care to be so acutely read by a stranger, and stiffly replied, \u201cFrom Cosen, P\u00e1n <\/em>Stranger.\u201d Though nearly on Semyon\u2019s lap, the man addressed his conversation to Boris alone.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are from Cosen! A sweet place, Cosen. But shabby. The manufacture? Why, nothing, Sir. Nothing at all!\u201d<\/p>\n

Boris\u2019s pride in Cosen was equal only to his ignorance of everywhere else. \u201cIt is not necessary for Cosen to manufacture,\u201d he maintained loudly with a sweet, ingenuous smile. \u201cCosen is, as everyone knows, engaged in trade. And while K\u00f6nigsberg is boasted for its trade,\u201d he compared his village to a great Baltic port with utter naivete, \u201cA greater variety of food is eaten at all times of the year by people in Cosen than by those in K\u00f6nigsberg.\u201d<\/p>\n

Semyon fidgeted uneasily, increasingly sure that the stranger was not smiling so broadly with <\/em>Boris, but at<\/em> him.<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd you caught the show last night,\u201d continued the young man in a fashion which was nothing short of uncanny. \u201cHow did you like it? What sort of performance?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, Madame Yelisaveta Can<\/em>-Shay,\u201d returned Boris, smiling to Slavicly mangle her name in what he considered a rendering both cultivated and French. \u201cShe does all sorts of things. First she acted a skeet<\/em>,\u201d he tried to say \u2018skit,\u2019 \u201cWhich I did not understand at all, but Semyon, there, found it funny. Then she danced with a little dog, looking exactly like a priest\u2019s beard on legs\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMadame, or the dog?\u201d offered the young man, causing Boris an attack of laughter that rattled the table.c<\/p>\n

\u201cAnd then, behind a screen, she moved puppets which looked like tiny people. And talked for them! She didn\u2019t sound a bit like herself. It was miraculous! Afterwards, the theatre director himself walked out on stage, in a splendid suit, looking like a bridegroom! He thanked her, and we clapped like mad. Semyon and I, I mean, for the others were so shy. These city people! And the director seemed to want an encore very much, so I shouted \u2018Encore!\u2019 I was the only one, so it was very fortunate I was there, or the director and Panny <\/em>Can-shay might have felt so badly. She sang Encore for us, which is a song. And that was all.\u201d<\/p>\n

The young man seemed simply overcome by this gallantry towards Madame Canch\u00e9, and rose to embrace Boris. For the first time since his arrival, Semyon could move his left arm.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut it was all dreadful and we should never have come,\u201d said Semyon bitterly, while the young man showed no more partiality for the previous seat set against his ribs, and sat equidistant between the men, \u201cBecause Boris\u2019s wallet was stolen and the police don\u2019t think it will be recovered.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cStolen by Vendev!\u201d exclaimed the young man with enthusiasm, leaning forward with brightened eyes. \u201cHe was in the Pearl last night. I read it in the paper. By reports, he took six wallets and a lady\u2019s Lyon silk handbag.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe scoundrel!\u201d cried Semyon, his thin knees involuntarily jerking.<\/p>\n

To which the young man sighed deeply. \u201cDo you know nothing of Vendev?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, the police told us everything.\u201d Perhaps it was that note of childish arrogance in Semyon\u2019s voice, but the young man\u2019s full attention, once all Boris\u2019s, was now his. \u201cThey say no one ever sees him, that he takes three wallets an hour, that he looks like a choirboy or Rurik the Vavavian, and something odd about him paying a debt to God.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s it!\u201d The young man slapped the table. \u201cThat\u2019s Vendev. Listen. You mustn\u2019t call him a scoundrel. It\u2019s the strangest story. Many years ago, Vendev, who was an honest man then, made a bet with God. He expected to win, but lost. Don\u2019t ask me what the bet was, because I don\u2019t know. He had to pay the debt with stolen money. Perhaps because he was too poor. Perhaps those were the terms of his penance. He became the finest of pickpockets, and labors year after year, straining to pay his debt and be free. To be an honest man once again. That is Vendev.\u201d<\/p>\n

The young man looked keenly round on his audience, especially Semyon, waiting to see if either pure-hearted Christian peasant would contest the vile theology and viler blasphemy of the tale. But Boris stared, full of wonder and\u2026good land! There were tears in his eyes! While Semyon\u2019s inexpertly controlled face clearly betrayed that though he found the story revolting, Semyon was afraid to criticize a city gentleman\u2019s morals for fear of being called ignorant and out-of-step with the times. The young man\u2019s smile widened in triumph, and as timid Semyon smiled back despite ignorance of the joke, the young man seemed about to be reduced to helpless laughter!<\/p>\n

Then it happened: Semyon\u2019s hand had been automatically seeking his wallet every quarter of an hour for the past eleven, and did so now. It crawled over the rusty woolen vest like an eager crab to caress his pocket, and froze in disbelieving horror before it felt again, fumbling and pinching. A look like death by poison spread over Semyon\u2019s lined face. The young man appeared to see nothing and twitched Boris\u2019s lapel playfully, asking whether he were married. Semyon\u2019s face had grown hard, his stare on the young man\u2019s back like that of a hunter at a fearsome but cornered bear.<\/p>\n

But the young man knew that Semyon\u2019s ideas of how to deal with a thief were as hard, as rigid and formulaic, as his stare. The young man crossed his legs comfortably and laughed when Boris said that yes he was, praise the Lord, married. A thief must know, better than anyone, the little signs that betray a man, for he has more to lose, and Vendev knew that Semyon, even if he could manage to conceive of a thief who did not immediately dart away, was incapable of calling \u2018Stop Thief!\u2019 on a sitting man. He would be equally incapable of announcing a thief with any other cry than the time-honored \u2018Stop Thief!\u2019 Just as he was incapable of buttoning down his waistcoat in the new fashion, but felt compelled to button it up to his chin. Vendev knew that for as long as he, Vendev, sat on the chair, he was as safe as if in France, and that he could sit in a chair indefinitely. Whereas if the two hardworking farmers tried to sit on chairs in broad daylight, on a weekday, for more than an hour, they would either die or explode.<\/p>\n

Vendev took out a cigarette, which he then lit and enjoyed at leisure, savoring that first bouquet of smoke, a conscience that had been trained not to bother him, and the pleasant weight of Semyon\u2019s wallet. Won the gentleman\u2019s way. In a contest of wits.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Taking advantage of their last night in the city, Boris and Semyon went to a theatre, something neither of them had done since childhood. But as luck would have it, at some point during the show, Boris\u2019s wallet was stolen. He was upset, and more so when the police officers exchanged glances before giving him […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":200,"featured_media":10219,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[26],"tags":[1255,8133,8134,8136,8138,9809],"class_list":["post-10217","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-canadian-female-writer","tag-sarah-johnson-canadian-fiction","tag-sarah-johnson-cassandra-voices","tag-sarah-johnson-fiction-writer","tag-sarah-johnson-short-story","tag-vendevs-contest-sarah-johnson"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10217","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/200"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10217"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10217\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10217"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10217"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/casswp.eutonom.eu\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10217"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}