The Prosecutor's Fear

In the compartment sat a tall, well-groomed man — a former prosecutor, now a professor, Doctor of Law, and lecturer at the faculty where future lawyers were trained. The conversation had turned to death. “It’s inevitable,” remarked a passenger with artificial teeth, and with a chuckle added, “One must make room for others.” Leaning closer, he whispered into the prosecutor’s ear: “And you — are you ready?” The prosecutor paled. He cast a displeased glance at his companion and whispered back: “No.” “Why not?” “I can’t say.” “A secret?” “Yes.” “Ah…” “I’m afraid of my wife.” “What — is she dangerous?” “No… I’m afraid that if I die, she’ll be unfaithful to me.” “What makes you think that?” “She’s twelve years younger than I am. Beautiful, coquettish. When she passes by me in the room, she looks into the mirror. And I, when I pass, don’t.” “That must be hard for you,” sighed the companion. “That’s why I don’t want to die.” “And when will you want to?” “To die? God knows… Probably when my wife begins to age, and looks into the mirror with fear, and when those I once sent to prison are dead. Then I’ll leave this world without anxiety.” The companion looked at him with an unexpected touch of pity.