Driver

Azriel was pulling up to another intersection when he noticed an elderly man standing on the sidewalk with a small, worn briefcase in his hand. The man wore an old but neatly ironed coat, a warm scarf despite the not-very-cold weather, and glasses with thin metal frames that slid slightly down his nose. He held himself straight, but in every movement there was an age-related caution. The man raised his hand, and Azriel stopped. The passenger opened the door, grunted as he settled into the back seat, carefully placed his briefcase beside him, and gave the address — the local university, the old building on Akademicheskaya Street. Azriel pulled away. The car smelled of old books, slightly faded paper, and perhaps tobacco — but not cigarette tobacco, pipe tobacco, somehow homey and cozy. “Are you a professor?” Azriel asked, glancing at the passenger in the rearview mirror. The man smiled slightly, adjusting his glasses. There was something self-respecting in that smile, but without pride — rather the quiet satisfaction of someone who had earned his title through years of work. “Yes,” he replied simply. “I am a professor.” “And in what field?” Azriel continued, turning onto a wider street. “I have a doctorate in history,” the man said, and there was calm pride in his voice. “I’m impressed,” Azriel admitted sincerely. He had always respected people who devoted their lives to science — especially those who weren’t chasing money but truly loved their work. “Many people underestimate this science,” the professor remarked, gazing thoughtfully out the window. Storefronts, street cafes, people with bags and parcels drifted past the glass — the usual city bustle, so far from the quiet university lecture halls. “But I consider it necessary and very interesting. History isn’t just dates and names. It’s memory. It’s understanding who we are and where we’re going.” Azriel nodded, remembering his own “school” days. “When I was in school, I always loved history,” he said. “Even though I knew that textbooks don’t always write things the way they actually happened.” The professor sighed — heavily, with a kind of regret. He took off his glasses, wiped them with the edge of his scarf, and put them back on, as if the motion helped him gather his thoughts. “Children shouldn’t know everything,” he said finally. “Some things would be better if even adults didn’t know about them. History isn’t just about the truth — it’s also about knowing how to live with that truth. And not everyone is ready for that.” Azriel said nothing, understanding. He knew what the professor was talking about — those pages of the past best left unopened, those lessons that humanity had never learned. “Still, history is a good subject,” he said, steering the conversation back to calmer waters. “And how long have you been teaching here?” The professor brightened, as if the question touched on something personal and dear to him. “Since I was fifty,” he answered. “Before that, I worked at a research center in Moscow. We went out on expeditions, did excavations, archives, restoration work.” He waved his hand, as if brushing away the memories. “All sorts of things happened. I made many discoveries. Then I got old, and became unnecessary.” “That’s sad,” Azriel said quietly. “But I like it in the department,” the professor added quickly, as if afraid the other might think he was complaining. “The young people are good. Not all of them, of course, but those who really want to learn — they reach for knowledge. They’re interesting to work with.” “I’m glad you’re appreciated,” Azriel said, and it was true. The professor was silent for a moment, then spoke again — more slowly, more warmly: “You know, my students have a midterm exam today. I don’t want to fail anyone.” He shook his head, and in that gesture there was gentleness, almost fatherly. “I love them. Maybe they’re not all geniuses, but they try.” “They’re lucky,” Azriel replied. “To have a teacher like you.” “Perhaps,” the professor said modestly, though gratitude flickered at the corners of his eyes. “Do they pay you well?” Azriel asked, changing lanes to the left. “Enough to live on,” the professor replied without complaint, simply stating a fact. “I even send a little to my son. He’s paralyzed, so right now only his wife is working. They have a hard time.” Azriel gripped the steering wheel a little tighter. That same story again — an old man who probably needed help himself, yet still supported others. “That’s very noble of you,” he said quietly. “Thank you,” the professor replied, and then added suddenly, tilting his head slightly: “You know, you have a rather special voice.” “Why?” Azriel asked, surprised, glancing in the mirror. “I don’t know,” the professor shrugged. “I just feel a calmness around you. That’s rare. It’s as if you’re… not from this world. In a good way.” Azriel didn’t answer. He just smiled at the corner of his mouth and kept driving. Some passengers noticed, sometimes subconsciously, this strange stillness that appeared in the cab when he spoke. He was used to it, but every time, words like that made him a little sad. “We’re pulling up,” he said when the old university buildings appeared ahead — with columns, tall windows, and a sign bearing the university’s name in gold letters. The professor gathered himself, picked up his briefcase, checked that his glasses were in place. A look of concentration appeared on his face. “You’re a good man,” he said, opening the door. “Thank you. I hope we’ll see each other again!” “Maybe,” Azriel replied. But he already knew they wouldn’t. He watched as the professor walked slowly but confidently toward the entrance, held the door for a young woman carrying a folder, nodded to the security guard — an old acquaintance.