The Candle Burned
Andrey Petrovich had given up all hope when the videophone rang.
“Hello, I saw your ad. You give private literature lessons?”
Andrey Petrovich peered at the man on the screen. He was about thirty, with an open smile and serious eyes, dressed in a suit and tie. Andrey Petrovich’s heart skipped a beat. Posting the ad on the Net had become but a hapless habit. In the past ten years he had received six responses. Three callers had dialed the wrong number, two others were old-fashioned insurance salesmen who still made phone calls, and the last one had confused literature with legislature.
“Y-yes, I d-do,” Andrey Petrovich stuttered anxiously. “In my apartment. You are interested in literature?”
“I am,” the man nodded from the screen, and introduced himself. “My name is Maksim. How much do you charge?”
Andrey Petrovich almost blurted, “it’s free,” but caught himself. “Rates are per hour. And negotiable.” He took a deep breath. “When would you like to start?”
“Well, I… you see,” Maksim started.
“First lesson is free,” Andrey Petrovich said quickly. “If you don’t like it, there’s no obligation.”
“Let’s start tomorrow then,” Maksim said definitively. “Are you free at ten in the morning? I drop the kids off at school by nine, and then I’m good until two.”
“I’m free,” Andrey Petrovich said happily. “Here’s my address. Got a pen?”
“I’ll remember it,” Maksim assured him. “Go ahead.”
Andrey Petrovich couldn’t sleep that night. Pacing from wall to wall in his tiny room, nearly a closet, he tried to
