Summer internship

As a graduate of a pedagogical institute, from the foreign languages faculty, my future was not painted in the brightest colors. After knocking about for about half a year in a secondary school and changing several dead-end jobs, I realized I was gradually sinking into some kind of pit from which I would never escape. And I wanted to live like other decent people live, to have a respectable environment and suit, tasty and nutritious food—in a word, to have everything as it should be. The dirt and poverty, the constant thoughts of how to make it through the month—all of this simply tormented me. And at that time, we lived with my mother and sister in a small town, completely poor. No future whatsoever.

So-so, live from hand to mouth, wear old clothes, and think about how not to wear out your shoes prematurely. We had no connections at all, all our relatives were pitiful, uneducated people, acquaintances were minimal... Such a future frightened me... Why grovel, watching how other people live, how one should live... Why was I even given an institute education? It would have been better not to teach me at all. And yet I studied conscientiously, for knowledge, not for a diploma. I didn't want to perish...

My father (may he rest in peace) died, having not cared for us in the slightest. He died, as he lived, in poverty (to bury him somewhat decently, we had to borrow money from people), although by the position he held, he could have, like others, provided for his family.

God forbid I judge my parents, but I reason this way: if a person starts a family, then his sacred duty is to care for it, so as not to put his own flesh and blood in a hopeless situation. There are enough poor people as it is. If you don't have the strength to provide for a family, then you shouldn't have children.

Father was a very strange man, excessively proud and irritable, and mother, due to her weak character, had no influence on him whatsoever. Sometimes she would make a scene (when our clothes and shoes were completely worn out), start a conversation about means, but would immediately fall silent, meeting father's contemptuous look. Usually, he would somehow twist his lip and, when mother complained about poverty, would irritably reply:

— Should I go steal?

Mother tried to talk about our clothes and shoes, but father would interrupt with a kind of smirk:

— What are they, Mecklenburg princes or something? They can walk around in holes.

Mother would fall silent, and father, would become thoughtful and after some time would say somewhat pensively:

— At least the children will remember their father kindly!

After such scenes, he would especially tenderly caress me and my sister, press us to his sunken chest, and gaze into our faces for a long time. Later, as we grew up, he caressed me less often and sometimes looked at me so mysteriously, as if I were a puzzle to him and he was afraid for me. My sister, on the contrary, he spoiled very much, in his own way, of course. I was both envious and annoyed that dad was such an impractical man. What princes! We had constant shortages at home, and he talked about princes! I often discussed this with mother, but she, as a woman, had no endurance.

It was necessary to approach these questions gradually, cautiously, but as often as possible (a drop wears away a stone), pressing primarily on parental feelings (father loved me and my sister very much), but she would suddenly burst out with reproaches and tears and immediately after, instead of holding her ground and showing displeasure, she herself would apologize to father. Of course, father became even more stubborn in his pride, thinking that mother agreed with him in everything (regarding means). And she agreed with him more out of weakness. She herself would cry quietly over us, that we were unhappy and poor, but after talking with father—she would calm down. Mother had no endurance at all!

Everyone spoke (and still speaks) of father as an honest man, but an eccentric. But these conversations didn't make things easier for mom or me. Even if they spoke differently of dad, but we had means, then we would still be respected more and wouldn't have to humble ourselves before people...

I had just received my high school diploma after father's death, but dreaming of a good position was out of the question. Of course, if we had some money, then a more visible position could be obtained and we would live decently. But even with dad we were destitute, and when he passed away—the doctor said, from cancer—our affairs completely fell apart. Three of us had to live. I remained the family's sole support.

And soon our little town became hateful to me. And its inhabitants too. The thought—to become a decent person myself and make mother and sister decent people—became fixed in my head like a nail. I decided that this must be so, and with this goal, I planned to go to Moscow and try my luck and test my strength there... I was twenty-three years old... I was a healthy, strong young man and, as the local female students said, far from ugly... "Surely I can break through?" I thought, and hopes, one rosier than the next, tickled my nerves... After all, I don't demand much from life. I only desire a decent existence. I want to live as people live—that's all. And I will live like that! — I repeated to myself more than once, cherishing these dreams as the goal of my life.

My initial plan was this. To find myself a position as a high-demand tutor, and then see where the curve of the American dream leads. I knew conversational English excellently and also understood how to present it for quickest assimilation. In our age of high technology, finding a convenient option wasn't that difficult. I began browsing the internet for the most suitable vacancy, contemptuously discarding ads with low salaries.

Two days later, I made up my mind. I called the phone number and we agreed to meet on Skype for a more thorough conversation. I assured the man of my good knowledge and was ready to pass any test. He invited me to Moscow for 2:00 PM to finalize the contract. We lived four hours by train from the capital.

The next day, at eight in the morning, I attended to my toilet with particular care and left my town. In Moscow, I reached the necessary address by metro and approached a private building surrounded by a high metal fence. Some security guard opened the gate for me and, after I introduced myself, let me into the courtyard. A minute later, I was led into a large study, furnished with bookcases and elegant furniture upholstered in green morocco. At the writing desk, standing in the middle of the room, sat Mr. Ryazanov, a short, unattractive, closely cropped brunette of about forty, in a morning gray suit. At my appearance, he moved his laptop aside and raised his small black eyes, keenly and intelligently looking out from under his glasses. The penetrating gaze of these eyes offset the unattractiveness of his face, giving it an intelligent expression.

— Very glad to see you, Roman Antonovich! — he said, rising slightly and extending his hand. — Please, sit down!

I sat in the armchair by the desk and prepared to listen.

— Would you be averse to going to the countryside for the summer as a tutor?

— Yes, I am looking for work. But I would prefer to work in Moscow, so as not to be far from home.

Ryazanov paused, looking me over with his keen gaze, and finally continued:

— I have a house in the Krasnodar region for staying during the summer holidays. Locals live there who look after the household, cook, help in the garden. It's rather far from here, but you can visit your loved ones if you wish.

— Well, in the end, it doesn't matter much where I work if we go for the whole summer.

— My son, a boy of eighteen, — continued Ryazanov, — unfortunately, is somewhat lazy and didn't do very well in school, so he needs to study hard this summer. I plan to take him abroad and knowledge of the language is essential, along with some general subjects.

— I understand everything. If the boy wishes to gain knowledge, he will learn to speak.

— In case of successful outcomes, I am ready to additionally reward you for the lessons.

I, of course, agreed and bowed.

— I look upon you with great hope and consider it unnecessary to explain that only an excellent diploma and confirmed skills in your field compel me to entrust you with my son's studies. — I hope you are not offended and understand me, Roman Antonovich?

I replied that "there is nothing to be offended about" and that I understand how difficult it is to find a suitable person.

— Quite right. I would never have invited a young man to my son, especially one as young as you, whom I did not trust. Often young people, perhaps quite sincerely, plant seeds in children's heads that later yield sad sprouts. Unfortunately, much in our life contributes to this and seems to confirm the nonsense that unqualified teachers stuff into children's heads.

Mr. Ryazanov stopped for a second, adjusted his glasses, and continued:

— I, Roman Antonovich, love my son very much, and you will understand why I allowed myself to draw your attention to the difficulties parents face. I will ask you, Roman Antonovich, to inform me about all the delicate questions the boy may pose. My boy is very nervous, and one must be careful with him. We will answer his delicate questions together. I would like, and as far as it is in my power, I will try to ensure that the boy becomes a sober, reasonable servant to the fatherland, — continued Mr. Ryazanov excitedly, — understanding that one must be content with the possible, not strive for the impossible. One must know how to make concessions. One must live, not feed on fantasies.

I listened to Mr. Ryazanov with pleasure. His speech found a full response in me. He seemed to repeat everything I had often and much thought about, and what made me go, without turning aside, along the path I had chosen. I did not yet know at that time how Mr. Ryazanov had achieved his position—whether he had made his way, as he put it, "by the sweat of his brow" or not, but, in any case, he was a thousand times right when he said that "one must live, not feed on fantasies."

Mr. Ryazanov must have noticed the favorable impression his words made on me, because, finishing his speech, he softly remarked:

— Well, now let's talk about the terms, Roman Antonovich!

On this point, we soon reached an agreement. He offered me seventy-five thousand rubles a month.

— Now you will meet my son, — said Ryazanov and rang.

A few minutes later, a boy entered the study, resembling his father in face. The same unattractive face and the same intelligent, black eyes, but he was of delicate build, and his gaze was somewhat pensive.

Ryazanov kissed his son lovingly and, introducing me to him, said:

— Here, Volodya, is your teacher for the summer, Roman Antonovich. He was so kind as to agree to help you study.

Volodya extended a thin hand, looked at me with his pensive gaze, and said nothing.

— Is mother up? — asked the father.

— No, she's still sleeping, — replied Volodya.

The boy soon left the study, and Ryazanov said:

— Volodya, as you probably noticed, is of weak health. Besides, he is a very nervous boy. However, you will see for yourself. So please, Roman Antonovich, take care of him and don't let him study too much. And write to me about how he is doing. I won't go to the countryside now; you will live without me for a month or two. I can only come in August. My wife is planning to leave in a week. Can you be ready to depart by that time?

— I can.

— Well, excellent, and today you are cordially invited to dine with us at five o'clock. By the way, you will get to know my wife better, and then we will finally decide on the day of departure.

When I came again at five o'clock to the Ryazanovs, Mrs. Ryazanova greeted me quite amiably and, looking me over, seemed satisfied that they would have a teacher in the house who was decent in appearance.

She said a few polite words, expressed hope that I would not be bored in the countryside, and, it seemed, had nothing against her husband's choice. This was a woman of about twenty-six or seven, beautiful, stately, striking brunette, with lively brown eyes and elegant manners, in which the spoiledness of a capricious woman accustomed to adoration showed through.

At dinner, Mr. Ryazanov seemed completely different from how he was in the study. Before his wife, he somehow quieted down, casting restless glances at her, full of love and tenderness. And she seemed not to notice them and made capricious faces when Mr. Ryazanov disagreed with her about something. One could not help but notice immediately that this lady was a spoiled creature and played the first role in the house. With her husband, she was condescendingly amiable and, it seemed to me, cold. During dinner, she changed the departure date twice and finally decided that she would leave in eight days.

— I hope this decision is final? — Ryazanov joked affectionately.

Ryazanova made a displeased grimace and replied:

— Final!

Volodya cast a quick glance at her, in which no affection could be noticed...

Eight days later, taking my old laptop, phone, toothbrush, and razor, I went to Kursky Station (no one wanted to fly by plane), and already found the entire Ryazanov family there: husband, wife, the wife's sister—an elderly lady, Mr. Ryazanov's niece—a girl of about sixteen, and Volodya.

Ryazanov was somehow gloomy and displeased. He sat near his wife and was saying something to her, but she, it seemed, was not listening very attentively and continued to look at the crowd.

When I approached the group, Ryazanova looked me over from head to toe, nodded her head, and said dryly:

— Finally! We thought you would be late.

Ryazanov amiably extended his hand and said:

— You're embarrassing the young man for no reason: there's still half an hour until the train departs.

Then he introduced me to his sister-in-law and niece and, taking me aside, said:

— Look, Roman Antonovich, write to me about how Volodya is studying. Write often, — he added.

I promised to write about his son, and we approached the group.

Ryazanova looked at me intently, averted her gaze, and somehow strangely shrugged her shoulders, looking at her dazed husband.

It was time to board the carriages. Ryazanova rose from her seat, followed by the rest of the company with bags, trunks, and suitcases. I was also given a small suitcase to carry. Husband and wife walked together and began talking animatedly. I walked not far from them, and the ringing laughter of Ryazanova and the cheerful voice of her husband reached me. On the platform, Ryazanov no longer had a gloomy appearance. On the contrary, he was pleased and cheerful and did not leave his wife's side. Apparently, she knew how to change his mood at will.

A separate compartment was reserved for the Ryazanov family, where the ladies' company settled. Ryazanova, however, found it cramped and made a grimace, so her husband looked at her anxiously. However, when all the suitcases and trunks were put in place, it turned out to be "not bad."

My place was in the neighboring carriage. I took a seat by the window and got out of the carriage to observe the Ryazanovs, to whom fate had thrown me. I liked Ryazanov very much, and she herself seemed a capricious and spoiled woman whom it would be difficult to please.

— Please, Roman Antonovich, be so kind as to visit the ladies occasionally and generally not leave them alone on the journey! — Ryazanov amiably asked me, turning to me.__