“How am I supposed to help him? He’ll manage on his own…,” grumbles grandma.
“By his hands, with your hands! He’s fixing the tap, and you help him. You won’t break, will you?”
“My manicure costs five thousand! My hands are not made for that! And besides, I came to rest—to soak up the strength of nature. Not to knead dirt…”
I’m protesting when I hear the door creak behind me. A man comes into the house—bearded, sturdy, up to the ceiling. My mouth shuts automatically, and words get stuck in my throat.
“What a giant…”
“Claudia Semyonovna. He fixed the tap on the street,” he surveys me from head to toe and looks away as if I don’t interest him.
“If he doesn’t want to help you, maybe you’ll give it to me for re-education?”
“What—-o-o?!” I exclaim. “Who will re-educate whom— you rough lumberjack! I’ll show you!”