Sir pilgrim

The rain pounded the windowsill of Alfedov's apartment. He sat in the kitchen and tried not to think about the fact that today was that day. The deadline. The last postponement, the last deferment on the loan he had taken out for his mother's treatment and had never been able to repay on time after her death. The standard images of collectors were spinning in his head: healthy guys in tracksuits, with questionable tattoos and stupid threats. He almost calmed himself with the thought that he would be able to negotiate with them, promise something else. And then there was a knock on the door. Not rudely, not insistently, but somehow… methodically. Three clear, quiet knocks. Alfedov shuddered, put down his glass of unfinished tea and went to open it, preparing an obsequious smile on his face in advance. Behind the door stood a man he would never have taken for a debt collector. Tall, thin, about fifty years old, in a long, unfashionable khaki raincoat, wet on the shoulders. His face was thin, weather-beaten, with a network of wrinkles around his eyes and thin, tightly compressed lips. In one hand he held an old, battered leather bag, in the other a long black umbrella, from which water was dripping onto the floor. He did not look threatening. He looked tired and inescapable, like the autumn rain outside the window.

"Are you Alfedov?" the stranger asked. His voice was low, muffled, without a single emotion.

• I... And who are you? - Alfedov tried to take the initiative.
• My name is Pilgrim. I represent the interests of your creditors. May I come in? - He didn't wait for an answer, he simply took a step forward, and Alfedov automatically stepped back, letting him into the hallway.

He entered, looked around the apartment with a quick, habitual glance, as if he were taking an inventory. He put the umbrella in the corner, took off his coat and carefully hung it on the hanger, although he had not been asked. Under the coat was a formal but worn suit.

• You have exactly forty-seven minutes of my time, Alfedov, - he said, walking into the kitchen and sitting down on a chair at the table without an invitation. - After that, I'm going to the next debtor. Let's not get emotional. You haven't repaid the debt. Why?