Dimitûr Ivanov Bakalov entered the house. He announced himself already from afar through his heavy step, coughing and clearing his throat.

He was about forty, completely gray, and his bony, unattractive face expressed fatigue and annoyance.

“Is the meal ready?” he asked his wife sullenly without greeting her, as she hurried toward him. She nodded and opened the door to the dining room. Without saying a word or even acknowledging her presence, he sat down and ate in silence. Vita, his wife, ate almost nothing.

She was neither beautiful nor unsightly, but there was something blooming about her that lent her the magical strength of a young sapling in spring.

The only thing that was striking about her were her eyes—something in them contradicted her overall character—a reflection of melancholy and weariness, as well as a silent question directed toward fate.

After Dimitûr Ivanov had eaten, he stretched out on the divan and began to tell stories.

Such was the daily routine. Had Dimitûr been an attentive listener, he would without a doubt have noticed that he said the same thing every day. Always the same hatred of the government, the same sly way of trying to hide his aversion, the same complaints about his superiors, and the same joy in a quiet siesta.

He also included a few lessons for his wife, a few words about how happy she must be to have such a respectable, honest husband with prospects for a good retirement, until the loud snoring announced that Ivanov had left the land of worries for the moment.

But to reassure everyone with ears, he had no listener besides his poor, small, patient wife. She sat only halfway on her chair, like a bird ready to fly, her eyes staring into the distance.

Today, as always, Dimitûr Ivanov talked about various familiar topics, complained about the general secretary—a corrupt bastard, who dared to give him, the head of the department, orders—and—and—zzz—zzz—zzz—he was already snoring.

A fly landed on his nose. He winced, swatted at it half asleep, then opened his eyes again, and looked around the room until his sleepy gaze caught sight of his wife.

“Before I forget, Vita: prepare zakuski for tonight. I invited Marko Petrunov for tea; you know, the one who was sentenced to death under Stambolov. You know him.”