Did you finally show up?» Nastya said with contempt. «Like vultures swooping in to share the inheritance? There’s nothing to share! Grandpa left everything he had to me before he died. Remembered the old man now? Where were you earlier?»
Zahar Ilyich finished working on the sketch and carefully inspected the canvas. A few extra random strokes didn’t spoil the overall impression, and he nodded approvingly, pleased with the result. He then set aside the easel and headed for the kitchen.
«Yegor,» he called as he poured coffee into cups, «let’s go, have a cup.»
After a while, a tall young man in a stretched T-shirt and worn jeans appeared in the doorway. It was his son, Yegor. He sat down across from his father, took a cup, and carefully took a sip. The coffee was too hot, and he burned his tongue, almost choking.
«I’m going to the city tomorrow,» Yegor said. «I need to meet with someone.»
Zahar Ilyich put down his cup and looked at his son with his pale gray eyes.
«Is it for work?» he asked, suspiciously.
Yegor tried to ignore the question, but his father kept drilling him with his gaze, so he gave in.
«No, just meeting with someone,» he answered briefly.
Zahar Ilyich sighed in disappointment and returned to his coffee.
«Where’s Tanya?» he suddenly asked. «I haven’t seen her in a while. What happened to her?»
Yegor, clearly embarrassed, began rubbing the tablecloth as if trying to erase an invisible stain.
«We broke up,» he mumbled. «It’s been a week.»
Zahar Ilyich immediately stood up and leaned his fists on the table.
«But you said she was pregnant,» he said sternly. «How did this happen?»
Yegor, not wanting to continue the conversation, stood up and headed for the door.
«What difference does it make?» he threw over his shoulder. «I’m old enough to not have to report to you.»
A minute later, the sound of the front door slamming shut echoed. Left alone, Zahar Ilyich poured himself more coffee and gazed out the window.
Yegor was his only son and the only close person in his life. After his wife Olga died, he raised him alone. When Olga passed away, Yegor was just a little boy, and Zahar Ilyich had to take on the role of both parents. His son often asked why he didn’t have a mother, and his father answered that she was always around, just invisible. Later, when Yegor realized that his mother was dead, he stopped asking questions, and Zahar Ilyich never told him what his mother had been like.
Years went by. Yegor finished school, entered university, but suddenly dropped out and returned to the village. Zahar Ilyich didn’t ask him why and accepted his decision. Not wanting to depend on his father, Yegor found a job in a nearby village, where he met Tanya.
It was because of Tanya that the argument between Zahar Ilyich and his son happened. When Yegor first introduced her to his father, Zahar Ilyich liked her immediately. Tanya was twenty-five, but she looked younger than her years. She had long chestnut hair braided into a braid and big blue eyes, slightly slanted, making it seem as if she was looking far away.
«She’s a beautiful girl,» Zahar Ilyich approved. «And how are things with her? Is it serious or just casual?»
Yegor assured his father that they would definitely get married, but they needed to wait a little and get on their feet.
«Why wait?» Zahar Ilyich asked in confusion. «If you need money, I can help. You can wait for old age.»
But Yegor insisted that he wanted to achieve everything on his own.
«I’m ashamed to take money from you, even as a loan,» he objected.
Zahar Ilyich didn’t argue.
«Well, it’s your business,» he agreed. «But if you change your mind, you can always count on me.»
Time passed, but Yegor couldn’t improve his situation. His salary barely covered living expenses, but he convinced himself that there were people who had it even worse.
«Everyone is struggling, not just me,» he would repeat.
When Zahar Ilyich asked when the wedding would be, Yegor always found new excuses. Meanwhile, it turned out that Tanya was pregnant, and the father was likely Yegor. Zahar Ilyich had hinted a few times that children should be born in marriage, but his son just brushed it off.
«Nonsense,» he retorted. «We don’t live in the Middle Ages. Who cares how children are born?»
Zahar Ilyich waved his hand and stopped discussing the matter.
Going over all of this in his head, Zahar Ilyich got up from the table, put the cups in the sink, and decided to return to his work. He walked up to the easel, glanced at the canvas again, and was disappointed. The work that had seemed successful just half an hour ago now looked crude and awkward, like something an amateur artist would create.
He tried to fix the sketch, but the charcoal, which had glided easily before, now caught on the canvas as if sinking into quicksand. Annoyed, Zahar Ilyich snapped the charcoal in half and threw it in the trash. The same fate awaited the sketch, which he ruthlessly ripped off the easel. Weary, he sank into a wicker chair and began to rock back and forth monotonously, sinking into a state that felt like sleep or a trance. After a few minutes, he suddenly jumped up and headed to Yegor’s room.
As usual, Yegor’s room was a mess. Worn books, magazine clippings, empty cigarette packs, and sheets with some calculations were scattered across the bed. Zahar Ilyich rummaged through the chaos but found nothing of interest. Then he noticed the writing desk. Opening the top drawer, he pulled out a few notebooks, flipped through them, and put them back.
In the second drawer, he found a flask with a sharp smell of alcohol, a lighter, and a brass cigarette case. Nothing noteworthy. Without much hope, Zahar Ilyich opened the bottom drawer, where he discovered old toy cars that Yegor had once collected. Seeing them, he sighed heavily. Just as he was about to close the drawer, something white caught his eye under one of the cars.
He moved the toy aside and found a photograph, turned upside down. In the corner, there was a neat inscription in small handwriting: «To Yegor from Regina.»
Zahar Ilyich flipped the photo over and saw a young girl with a short black haircut.
«Regina,» he muttered aloud.
Without thinking, he tucked the photo into his shirt pocket and left the room, forgetting to close the drawer.
«What were you doing in my things?» Yegor yelled at him when he returned home.
He pulled open the half-open drawer, didn’t find the photo, and angrily scattered the toy cars on the floor. Zahar Ilyich remembered the photo, took it from his pocket, and handed it to his son.
«Who is this Regina?» he asked. Yegor grabbed the photo and hid it.
«None of your business,» he muttered. «Stay out of my life.»
Zahar Ilyich took a sharp step toward his son and grabbed him by the chest.
«It is my business,» he hissed. «So you left one pregnant, and now you’re with another? Aren’t you ashamed?»
Yegor broke free and stepped back.
«I do whatever I want!» he yelled. «This is my life!»
Zahar Ilyich crossed his arms over his chest and put on a cold smile.
«Your life? Fine. Pack your things and get out. Since you’re so independent!»
Yegor lifted his chin proudly.
«No problem, Dad. I’ll manage without you.»
He grabbed his backpack from the wall, threw his things into it, and rushed out the door.
«Goodbye,» he threw over his shoulder.
Six months passed since Yegor left home. Zahar Ilyich, still hurt, never tried to contact his son. After his departure, the artist threw himself completely into his work, spending days and nights at the easel. One painting replaced another, until they filled all available space.
He sold some works, gave others to friends, and burned those he considered failures in the stove. When the passion for painting finally subsided, Zahar Ilyich felt so tired that he didn’t leave the house for almost a month. His neighbor, Ekaterina Maksimovna, helped him by bringing food and keeping him company.
One day, she told him:
«They say Tanya, Yegor’s girlfriend, had twins. A boy and a girl. She went to the city.»
Zahar Ilyich froze with a spoon in his mouth.
«Twins?» he asked.
Ekaterina shrugged.
«That’s what they say. It’s hard to manage with two kids in the village.»
After she left, Zahar Ilyich smoked for a long time, thinking about the news. He had become a grandfather, but what did that change? He would probably never see his grandchildren. There was no news from Yegor either. Perhaps he already had children with another woman… Thoughts tangled, the room filled with smoke, and as he imagined Tanya with children far away, unexpectedly for himself, he began to cry.
Two months later, on a cold November day, when Zahar Ilyich was trying to start the stove, the phone rang. He jumped in surprise.
«Zahar Ilyich? This is Regina. About something…»
Remembering the girl from the photo, he became alert.
«Yegor is dead,» Regina said. «The funeral is tomorrow. Will you come?»
Zahar Ilyich slumped into the chair.
«How… dead? When?»
«He went on a shift. There was a fight…»
When the conversation ended, Zahar Ilyich sat for a long time, clutching the receiver, and then screamed in despair.
At the funeral, Zahar Ilyich stood aside, watching as the coffin was lowered into the grave. When people began to disperse, he was still staring at the fresh mound. At some point, a girl with a child appeared next to him.
«Zahar Ilyich, hello,» she said. «I’m Regina. And this is Yegor’s son, Artyom. Your grandson.»
Zahar Ilyich silently shifted his gaze between her and the child.
«I thought you’d want to see your grandson,» she continued uncertainly. «But I guess now’s not the time.»
Zahar Ilyich clenched his fists.
«Time?» he muttered hoarsely. «What time is there after this?»
He looked at her so fiercely that she involuntarily recoiled.
«If it weren’t for you, everything would have been different,» he said. «Yegor would be alive.»
Without adding another word, he turned and walked away, kicking the fallen leaves.
«Whether you want it or not,» Regina yelled after him, «Artyom is your grandson!»
But Zahar Ilyich kept walking, not looking back.
Five years passed since Zahar Ilyich lost his son. The sorrow for him never left the old artist, who had noticeably aged over this time. His hair turned white, his face became covered with deep wrinkles, and his eyes grew even dimmer. He picked up brushes and pencils less and less; inspiration had almost left him. The few paintings he created were soaked with melancholy and anxiety. Zahar Ilyich was afraid to look at them, so he hid them in the pantry behind a secret door.
«I’ve got a dog who just had puppies,» his neighbor Ekaterina Maksimovna said one day. «Come see. Maybe you’ll take one of the pups. They’ve already grown up.»
Zahar Ilyich smiled.
«That one will die from boredom,» he replied. «Dogs need to be trained, played with. And I don’t know much about that.»
«You raised a son,» she laughed, but noticing the shadow on Zahar Ilyich’s face, she fell silent. «Still, take one… maybe you’ll feel better. You won’t get bored with dogs.»
Zahar Ilyich waved his hand.
«Alright, I’ll come, look.»
He spent a long time inspecting the puppies playing around their mother and chose a fluffy white one with a black spot on its nose.
«I’ll take this one,» he said to Ekaterina Maksimovna.
Zahar Ilyich hid the puppy under his coat, and it whimpered softly, feeling the separation from its family.
«I’ll name you Picasso,» Zahar Ilyich said, looking at the squeaking little one. «What do you think of that name?»
Picasso growled and bit into the button on his coat. At home, Zahar Ilyich fed the puppy milk and placed it on its bedding. Picasso immediately fell asleep, snoring and smacking his lips, as if he were a baby.
Years flew by like frightened horses. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. The chariot of time relentlessly carried Zahar Ilyich forward, and he, accepting the fleeting nature of life, greeted its sunset. His memory had become like an old slide projector with faded film. His son’s face, gone so long, was fading from his mind as if it had never been.
Regina and her son never showed up again, and Zahar Ilyich forgot about them. Everything related to Yegor vanished into the past. Now he often thought that after his death, their family would disappear forever. This thought deeply wounded his soul. Restless, he again took up his brush, making weak strokes with a trembling hand.
«Flowers and songs,» he repeated, working on the next canvas. «I leave you flowers and songs. I have nothing else.»
One spring day, when he was finishing a painting at an open window, someone quietly knocked on the corner of the house. Zahar Ilyich put down his brush, wiped his hands, and went to open.
«Who’s there?» he asked, descending the porch.
A young girl’s voice came from behind the gate:
«Zahar Ilyich, please open.»
He opened the gate in surprise and saw a girl about twenty years old. Her delicate shoulders were framed by light hair, and her big eyes showed confusion and shyness.
«May I come in?» she asked.
Zahar Ilyich nodded, led her into the house, and sat her down on a chair.
«I don’t know how to say this…» the girl began, fiddling with her bag. «Well, I’m your granddaughter.»
Zahar Ilyich sank into the chair.
«How is that? Are you sure?»
The girl shifted in her seat.
«My mother… Tanya,» she said softly. «She gave me your address. You’re my father’s father, Yegor. You probably forgot her… It’s been so many years…»
At the sound of the name «Tanya,» the face of the light-haired girl with a wide braid flashed before Zahar Ilyich’s eyes. He looked at the girl and noticed their striking resemblance.
«What’s your name?» he asked.
«Nastya,» she replied.
For a while, they were silent, listening to the sound of the sharpener outside the wall.
«How’s your mom? Why didn’t she come?» Zahar Ilyich asked.
Nastya looked away.
«She passed away a month ago. Kidney failure. She had been sick for a long time.»
She fell silent, swallowing a lump in her throat.
«My brother Nikita and I are alone now. He’s in military school, far away. I decided to come to you.»
Suddenly, a massive paw reached out from under the chair and touched her leg. Nastya jumped.
«Don’t be afraid, this is Picasso,» Zahar Ilyich reassured her. «Hey, Picasso, come out!»
The old dog crawled from its hiding place and walked up to Nastya.
«Where’s my father?» she asked, stroking the dog.
Zahar Ilyich sighed heavily.
«He’s dead. A long time ago, about twenty years ago.»
Nastya lowered her head.
«So now I’m an orphan… all alone.»
Zahar Ilyich walked up to her and patted her on the shoulder.
«Why alone? You have a brother, and with Picasso and me, you’ve got two old men now. Right, Picasso?»
The dog looked at him with yellow eyes and licked its lips.
«It’s time to eat,» Zahar Ilyich understood its sign. «Well then, let’s have a drink to our acquaintance?»
That’s how Nastya found her grandfather, and Zahar Ilyich found his granddaughter. She moved in with him, relieving him of the burden and the black melancholy. Thanks to her, inspiration revived in his soul. He painted several pictures, sold them, and gave the money to Nastya.
«I don’t need them,» he said. «I never chased money before, and I certainly won’t now.»
Nastya reluctantly took the money.
«You’re wrong, Grandpa. Don’t write yourself off just yet. You still have a lot left.»
Zahar Ilyich laughed.
«No way. I’ve had my time. I’ll make room for you young ones.»
He called Nastya over and whispered a secret that no one had known before.
Zahar Ilyich died a month later, at the end of May. He left quietly, as a true artist should, leaving only beautiful things—his works and his granddaughter. Nastya buried her grandfather and prepared to return to the city. After his departure, the house became empty and gloomy, like a palace where all the lights were extinguished in the middle of a ball, and the guests hurriedly ran off.
Nastya carefully packed her things and her grandfather’s remaining paintings, then sank into his favorite chair and called for Picasso. The old dog came over, lay down at her feet, and sighed heavily.
«Don’t worry, Picasso,» Nastya said, looking at him lovingly. «Tomorrow we’ll take a little ride, get some air. Maybe it’ll help. What do you think of that idea?»
The dog answered with a short bark but immediately raised his head: someone was knocking insistently at the gate.
«Who are you?» Nastya asked, opening the gate.
Standing on the porch were a tall guy and a woman with short-cropped hair, nervously adjusting it with her hand. It was Regina and her son Artyom, though Nastya didn’t know it.
«And who are you?» she answered the question with another question.
There was no answer. Artyom pushed her aside and entered the yard, and Regina followed him.
«What do you need?» Nastya demanded, trying to stop them from intruding. «I’ll call the police!»
Regina looked at her disdainfully and curled her brightly painted lips.
«We’re relatives of Zahar Ilyich,» she hissed. «And who are you?»
Nastya immediately explained who she was.
«We know such ‘granddaughters,'» Regina sneered. «Probably heard about the lonely old man and decided to cash in on him.»
Nastya’s face flushed with anger.
«How dare you?» she cried. «I was with him till the end! Where were you?»
Regina just shot her a contemptuous glance.
«It doesn’t matter,» she coldly replied. «What matters is we’re here now.»
Meanwhile, Artyom had already gotten inside the house and was now inspecting the wall of the back room. He traced his fingers along the wallpaper, picking at it with his nails until he found what he was looking for.
«Here!» he yelled to his mother.
Regina rushed over and, without wasting time, ripped off a piece of wallpaper, revealing a hidden door. Artyom pushed it open and stepped into the dark, web-covered closet. Regina followed him, and Nastya decided to follow as well.
«Well, where are the paintings?» Artyom asked, shining the flashlight on the walls. «Are they really here?»
Regina darted around the closet, ignoring Nastya’s presence.
«Yegor said his father kept them here,» she answered her son. «He must have hidden them somewhere. We need to check under the floor.»
Nastya, understanding what was going on, suddenly burst out laughing.
«Looking for old paintings?» she asked mockingly. «Decided to profit off someone else’s goods?»
Mother and son turned sharply, their eyes gleaming in the flashlight’s light.
«And there are none here,» Nastya said calmly, crossing her arms. «And there never were.»
She told them the amazing story her grandfather had shared before he passed away. It turned out that all of his works had been sold to a rich foreigner for a huge sum—one hundred thousand dollars. However, Zahar Ilyich had never told anyone about it, preferring to keep it a secret. Instead, he had spread the rumor that he had sold several paintings by great masters that had been passed down to him as an inheritance. The money for his works was kept in a bank, and before his death, he transferred it to Nastya’s account.
«So this mess is worth one hundred thousand dollars?» Regina asked, picking up one of the grandfather’s paintings from the floor.
«If you’re able to see the soul of the artist in it—yes,» Nastya confidently replied. «In fact, I consider them priceless.»
Regina and Artyom quickly ran out of the closet, almost knocking Nastya over. Without a word, they left the house. When Nastya closed the gate behind them, she was overcome with an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
After that incident, Nastya decided not to return home and moved to Moscow. There, she rented an apartment in the city center, planning to buy it eventually. The first thing she did was decorate the walls with her grandfather’s paintings and set up his old easel by the window. Taking a charcoal pencil in her hand, she thought for a moment and drew the first line on the canvas. Gradually, her hand grew more confident, creating intricate patterns. The old Picasso watched, occasionally barking quietly, as if remembering his previous owner.
«Well then,» Nastya said, finishing the work. «What do you think, Picasso?»
The dog silently evaluated her work and climbed onto the couch. Nastya sat down next to him, petting him on the back.
«What do you think, would Grandpa like it?»
Picasso remained silent. Nastya laughed and leaned back on the pillows.
«I think he would,» she said dreamily. «Not bad for a beginner, right? I’ve still got everything ahead of me.»
And indeed, it was true.
