Driver

Azriel spotted him from far away. The old man stood on the corner, leaning on a cane that seemed to be held together by sheer will and a piece of duct tape. His clothes were clean but old — a coat faded to an indeterminate gray, shoes with cracked leather, a knitted hat that had slipped down over one ear. Azriel stopped, got out of the car, and helped the old man open the door. He nodded gratefully, grunted as he settled into the front seat — the back would have made him carsick, plus it was easier to talk this way. “To the store, sonny,” the old man said in a quiet, slightly tremulous voice, giving the address of a grocery store on the next street. Azriel pulled away. The old man looked out the window with quiet, thoughtful interest, as if he had seen these houses, these trees, this intersection a thousand times, but still found something important in them. “I can’t walk anymore, sonny,” he sighed, as if apologizing. “My legs just won’t hold me.” “Isn’t there anyone who could go for you?” Azriel asked, glancing at him. “My wife can’t walk either,” the old man replied, and there was no complaint in his voice — just a simple statement of fact. “We sit together. She’s a trooper, my wife. She hangs in there.” “Do you have children?” Azriel asked, turning onto a quieter street. The old man brightened — his eyes grew a little warmer, a shadow of a smile appeared on his lips. “Yes, Masha and Vitya,” he said with pride, which was immediately replaced by quiet sadness. “So why can’t they go?” Azriel carefully asked, though he could guess. The old man was silent. He looked out the window at the poplar trees flying past, at the playground with empty swings, at a woman walking a small dog. “They moved away to the big cities,” he finally said. “They forgot about us…” And he added more quietly, as if to himself: “Or maybe they didn’t forget, it’s just… they have their own lives. They’re young, they don’t have time.” Azriel pressed the gas harder. The car sped up, and the old man suddenly turned pale, pressing his hand to his mouth. “Just wait, old-timer, let me get through this light, and I’ll slow down,” Azriel said, easing off the gas. The old man nodded gratefully, took a deep breath, and calmed down. “Thank you, sonny. I don’t like fast driving. My youth is gone, and with it, the taste for speed.” “Wouldn’t you want to go to a nursing home?” Azriel asked, returning to the conversation. The old man sighed — heavily, at length. “Vitya tried to send me there once…” he admitted. “He said it would be better that way. For us and for him. But I don’t want to.” He shook his head, and in that gesture there was as much stubbornness as only those who stand their ground firmly can have, even if their legs no longer hold them. “I love our city. I was born here, my wife and I have lived here for fifty years. Everything I have is here.” “So why does he want to send you away?” Azriel asked, though he already knew the answer. “He doesn’t have time to take care of me,” the old man said without bitterness. “He has his own family, his children, his job. He calls from Moscow once a month, Masha from St. Petersburg once every six months.” He paused, then added: “But I have my wife. The two of us. We manage, little by little.” “You manage?” Azriel repeated. The old man looked at him, and in his faded eyes, something young and lively suddenly flickered, despite the wrinkles and fatigue. “Little by little,” he said. “I love life, sonny. Even this one. Waking up in the morning, brewing tea, bringing it to her in bed. She still laughs at my jokes. And I joke a lot.” He chuckled. “As long as I’m alive, I’m living. Why complain?” Azriel listened and felt something warm spreading in his chest — not pity, but respect. Here was a man who had almost nothing: no strong legs, no children nearby, no easy old age. But he had something that can’t be bought or taken away — a love for life and the ability to see light even in gray everydayness. “I like your attitude,” Azriel said sincerely. “Stay strong!” “Thank you, sonny,” the old man replied, and his voice trembled. “You’ve made my day today. Rarely does anyone talk to us old folks. But you listened. That’s worth a lot.” Azriel stopped the car by a small grocery store with a sign where two letters had burned out. By the entrance stood a basket with dried-up flowers and several bags of potatoes. “We’re here,” he said. “Goodbye, old-timer.” The old man opened the door, leaning on his cane. He got out slowly, carefully, as if afraid his legs would fail him at the worst moment. Then he turned around, looked at Azriel — a long, attentive look, the kind old people give to those they might be seeing for the last time. “Goodbye, sonny,” he said. “May God grant you all the best.” Azriel nodded, unable to answer. He watched as the old man, moving his cane and stepping heavily, slowly walked toward the store entrance. At the threshold, he stopped, caught his breath, adjusted his hat, and disappeared behind the door. Azriel sat in the car for a long time. He thought about how this old man would probably come home, brew some tea, take a cup of hot, aromatic coffee to his wife in bed, tell a joke. And they would laugh together, and for a moment, life would feel a little easier.