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Avakants Maro, fingering the button on her short jacket, swallowed so loudly the whole courtroom could hear.

Behind her, huddled on a rickety bench like a flock of busy sparrows, sat Maro’s neighbors: old women Krnants Melanya, Vasilants Katinka, and Makarants Sophia. Without ever stopping their whispering, Melanya and Sophia would now and then turn toward the defendant and throw him condemning looks.

Katinka did not turn around so as not to interrupt her knitting, but she clicked her tongue gloomily every time her friends cast their judgmental glances. The defendant—a tall old man with a gray beard and unexpectedly black eyebrows—jerked his shoulders and cleared his throat every time she clicked. Hearing his throat-clearing, Maro swallowed loudly again and tugged harder at the button.

The stenographer, a young woman of about twenty (Maro squinted at her, trying to figure out whose daughter she might be, but gave up—young people nowadays comb their hair and paint their faces so heavily that you can hardly tell one from another, let alone recognize your own), fed paper into the typewriter. The judge, eyes closed, waited for her to finish.

“I’m done!” the stenographer announced loudly. The judge grimaced and opened his eyes. Although the windows stood wide open, the room was unbearably stuffy. It was October, and though it still lavishly offered blossoms and morning frosts, it did nothing to lessen the heat at midday; by noon the sun blazed as if it were not the middle but only the very beginning of autumn outside.

“You may continue, plaintiff,” the judge allowed.

By now Maro was worrying the button on her jacket with both hands.

“Forgive me, son, but I’ve forgotten where I was,” she admitted.

The stenographer quickly glanced at her notes.

“‘…with the ladle,’” she whispered as a prompt.

Melanya and Sophia turned their heads, Katinka clicked her tongue, and the defendant cleared his throat.

“Silence in the courtroom!” the judge raised his voice.

Maro dropped the button she had already torn off into her pocket and grabbed another one.

“Ah, yes. With the ladle. Enameled. On the head. I usually boiled eggs in that ladle, or cooked millet for the hens… It was a good ladle; you couldn’t kill a person with it. Loyal and faithful, it served for twenty years. I dropped it many times, and nothing ever happened to it. Not a dent, not even a chip in the enamel…”

“Don’t wander off topic, plaintiff…”

“Ah, yes. Well then. He hit me on the head with the ladle. Twice. Chased me out onto the porch. There, peach slices were drying on trays. He grabbed a tray and whacked me with it. Right in the back, here—” Maro rubbed her lower back. She sighed. “Ruined all the dried fruit…”

The judge shifted his gaze to the defendant. The old man sat there with his hands—gnarled by heavy peasant labor—resting on his lap. Despite his venerable age, his build was still remarkably imposing: broad, commanding shoulders and back, long arms, strong legs. His face was open and somehow very likable: pale yellow eyes with age in them, deep wrinkles, a slightly crooked but handsome nose, reddish tobacco stains in his silver beard.

He looks decent enough—who would think he could do something like that, the judge thought. Taking the judge’s intent stare as a sign of support, the old man immediately came to life, shrugged, raised his forefinger in a baffled gesture, as if to say, Just look what she’s performing here! The judge quickly looked away and frowned.

“After that he pushed me down the steps,” Maro continued.

“What do you mean, pushed?”

“Like this… grabbed me by the collar and kicked. Here—” she wanted to point somewhere, but became embarrassed.

“Below the waist,” the judge supplied.

“Yes, below the waist. Then he chased me all over the yard with a broom until I ran out into the road.”

The old man had clearly run out of patience. He cleared his throat loudly and stood up at once. The sparrow-flock on the bench behind him stirred indignantly, and the stenographer’s fingers froze over the keys.

“So that means I didn’t just chase her with the broom—I beat her with it too!” the old man added.

His voice turned out to be smoky, obviously hoarse; he growled some of the words, breathing between syllables.

The judge straightened up.

“Defendant, we have not given you leave to speak!”

“Why should I need leave? I’ll talk whenever I want,” the old man said, offended, stamping his worn boots in place, waving his hand, and sitting back down.

“Continue,” the judge allowed the plaintiff.

Maro dropped the second button into her pocket and began fingering a third.

“At this rate you won’t have any buttons left,” the judge said with a smile.

“What? Ah! That’s all right, I’ll sew them back on later. Whenever I’m anxious, I do this… That’s why I stitch them on loosely, so I don’t tear the coat.”

“By the way, did I tear her coat? Otherwise she’ll make that up too!” the old man asked hoarsely with concern.

“Defendant!” the judge raised his voice.

The old man waved him off: “Hold on, I’m talking to my wife!”

“Seventy years old, and lies like a silly little girl! Huh!” He spat onto the wooden floor and ground the spit under his boot.

The judge jumped up so abruptly he knocked over his chair.

“If you do not stop this outrageous behavior right now, I’ll fine you. Or I’ll jail you! Fifteen days!”

The old man slowly rose from the bench, slapping both sides of his hips.

“Jail me for what? For talking to my wife?”

“For contempt of court!”

Melanya and Sophia stopped whispering, Katinka set aside her knitting altogether and stared at the judge. Maro cried out, and the old man gave a derisive laugh.

“Son, why are you trying to scare me? You’re a city man, only here a few days, you don’t know our ways. I’ve known the jailer Melikanets Tsokal since he was this high—” The old man bent with effort, trying to smack his palm against his knee. “All his life he’s called me Father Samo. He wouldn’t lock me up if the sky itself split open. So you watch yourself. Don’t say such things again!”

Amazing—how could he kick his wife if he can barely bend over, the judge thought. He loosened his tie, then irritably pulled it away from his neck and opened the collar of his shirt. It was easier to breathe at once.

“Sit down,” he suggested to the defendant.

The old man dropped onto the bench, put his hands on his knees, pressed his lips together, and fell silent.

“You want a divorce from him because he beats you, is that right?” the judge turned to Maro.

The old man started to rise again.

“Son, let me say one more word and then I won’t speak anymore. All right?”

“Go ahead,” the judge sighed.

“Look at her,” the old man motioned toward his wife. “Skin and bones, tiny thing, a cat would cry at the sight of her. Does she look like a donkey? Or a goat? Or a pig?”

“Defendant!” the judge grew angry.

“Look at me, then look at her,” the old man went on undeterred. “If I hit her on the head with a ladle, would she still have the strength to stand here? Son, let me hit her once, just once, and if she doesn’t drop dead then you can jail me. I’ll have a word with Tsokal.”

“That is exactly what I’ll do,” the judge snapped, unable to contain himself.

“Don’t jail him!” Maro pleaded. “Son, don’t listen to him, just divorce us, that’s enough.”

“Don’t jail him!” the sparrow-flock chimed in.

The judge’s patience exploded.

“That’s enough, get out of here!” he roared. “All of you, out! Everyone!!!”

The sparrows stood up, pursed their lips in offense, and bustled toward the door. From the back they all looked identical: long dark wool skirts, short jackets, and headscarves tied behind their necks in some peculiar knot. Aren’t they hot? the judge thought.

Following the flock came the plaintiff and the defendant. The plaintiff tore off the last button on her coat; the defendant stamped his worn old boot.

When the door closed behind them, the stenographer angrily shoved the typewriter aside and headed for the exit as well. Her short dress did its best to reach mid-thigh, thin sandal straps wound around her ankles, her fashionable hairstyle emphasizing her long neck… Before leaving, she turned and threw the judge a reproachful glance.

“Why did you treat them like that?”

“Because of the job!”

“You don’t understand anything about our people.”

The judge drummed his fingers on the desk. He nodded in agreement.

“That’s true, I don’t.”

“If so, then don’t!” the stenographer cut him off, not explaining what exactly he shouldn’t do, and walked out.

I’m going to leave this place, the judge thought gloomily. Indeed, he understood nothing about these people. Why did they need a conciliation hearing if they thought nothing of the old man anyway? Like those two aunts yesterday who couldn’t divide up a hen. They came into court with the hen, wrestled over it in the courtroom, each trying to yank the poor creature toward herself while it squawked in terror—but they could not be calmed at all… He had had to throw them out. And today too he had to throw them out. Strange people.

It was already time for the judge to go home, but he remained seated, elbows resting on the typed pages, looking out the window. Despite the almost summery heat, the sky was a very thin blue, as if cracked. Soon it would turn cold.

---

Avakants Maro lifted the lid of the enameled ladle to make sure the millet had cooked through. Then she set it aside to cool. She would mash boiled eggs into it, chop nettle leaves, and the chickens would have feed. Petanants Samo, scraping his spoon along the bottom of the bowl, finished off the stew.

“So the story that I beat you was just for show, was it?” he grumbled, watching his wife carefully lift the enameled ladle from the stove.

“The main thing is, you hit me on the head. Twice,” Maro pursed her lips. Sitting down opposite him, she began peeling eggs.

“And what tray did I throw at you? That one up on the shelf, maybe?” He jerked his head toward the heavy brass tray. Maro pulled the cutting board toward herself and began furiously chopping the eggs.

“And after that I chased you all over the yard with a broom. Until you ran out into the road!” Samo would not let up.

Maro angrily set down the knife.

“Well, what was I supposed to say? That you, old fool, at eighty years old, got all worked up and started that crazy business?”

“What crazy business?”

Maro did not answer.

Samo tore off a piece of bread and wiped up the last of the stew. He ate with evident satisfaction.

“More?” Maro asked.

“No, I’m full.”

The old man leaned back in his chair and placed his hands on his chest. He grumbled.

“So now what? I’m wanting a woman’s affection.”

Maro brought the knife down harder on the board. Samo looked at her, the corners of his mouth spreading in a barely visible smile.

“For three years there was nothing in me, like dead earth. And now it’s as though someone breathed life back into me. I want it, I really want it!” the old man burst out laughing.

“I’ll give you ‘want it’!” Maro flared up. “Get divorced, then go find some younger woman to wrestle with. I’ve had enough! I’m done wrestling!”

Samo stood up heavily and brushed the crumbs off the plate. As he passed his wife, he pinched her on the hip. She yelped and jabbed him away with her elbow.

“You decrepit old devil!”

“I love you, you fool!” Samo grinned and took his plate to wash it.