Grandpa, why are you heading to the junk dealers again? You should stay home, they only sell old antiques there.”
“Ah, Sasha, you don’t understand the meaning,” Ivan Petrovich, adjusting his old beret, looked fondly at his grandson. “For me, it’s not just a place of trade, but a gallery of memories. Each item here is a piece of someone’s fate, a story of life.”
“Hmm,” grumbled twenty-year-old Alexander, glued to his phone screen. “Just don’t squander your money on unnecessary trinkets.”
Ivan Petrovich simply waved his hand. At seventy-five, he had learned to ignore such remarks. Despite his modest pension, he had enough to live on, and his Sunday walks through the antique market were his only solace after losing his wife. The old market greeted him with its usual symphony of conversations and the smell of time. Everything was familiar here: creaky wooden tables, old photos hung all around, faded samovars, worn books.
Ivan Petrovich wandered slowly among the rows, greeting the regulars, when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.
On one of the counters, leaning against a stack of yellowed magazines, was a painting. Small, slightly larger than a sheet of album paper, in a simple wooden frame. A landscape: a village street bathed in sunset light. Leaning fences, blooming apple trees, a well crane.
“My God,” the old man whispered, “that’s our Lipovka!”
His heart tightened with a flood of memories. That’s exactly how he remembered his native village—that distant spring half a century ago when he met his future wife.
“Are you choosing something?” The indifferent voice of the seller snapped him out of his reverie.
“How much is this painting?”
“Five hundred rubles,” the merchant replied indifferently, a round man in a worn T-shirt. “Got it from an aunt, just taking up space.”
“I’ll take it,” Ivan Petrovich decided at once.
At home, he carefully wiped the painting with a damp cloth and hung it in the living room. The colors seemed to come alive, acquiring new shades. Or so it seemed to him—from the excitement and the awakened feelings.
“Grandpa, did you really buy this thing?” Sasha looked up from the computer and skeptically examined the purchase. “Such junk?”
“It’s not junk,” the old man calmly retorted. “It’s a memory.”
The grandson shook his head and returned to his business. Ivan Petrovich sat in his chair late into the evening, gazing at the painting. He fancied he could hear the squeak of the gate, the rustle of apple blossom petals, the clink of a bucket at the well.
Several months passed. The painting unobtrusively graced the wall among other things. Life flowed on—until one day Kostya, the younger grandson, a student at the art academy, dropped by.
“Grandpa, where did you get this?” Kostya stopped in front of the painting, squinting and leaning towards the frame.
“Got it at the market,” Ivan Petrovich shrugged. “Recognized the place.”
“May I take it down for a closer look?” a strange tone appeared in the grandson’s voice.
The old man shrugged:
“Of course, have a look.”
Kostya carefully took the painting off the wall, brought it to the window, and examined it in the bright light. Then he took out his phone, began taking photos, zooming in on details.
“Grandpa,” he finally said in a faltering voice. “Do you see what’s written here?”
“Where?”
“Here, in the corner. The artist’s signature.”
Ivan Petrovich put on his glasses and leaned in. In the lower right corner of the painting, barely visible under the layer of time, was a signature.
“A. Savitsky,” he read. “And what?”
Kostya swallowed.
“Grandpa, this is Anton Savitsky! The real one! He created landscapes of Russian villages at the beginning of the 20th century and then emigrated. His works now go for millions at auctions!”
“No way,” the old man chuckled. “Millions? I only paid five hundred rubles.”
“We need to show this to experts,” Kostya feverishly scrolled information on his phone. “We have an expert in Russian painting at our academy. I’ll call him right now.”
A week later, their small apartment turned into a real antechamber for endless visitors. Stern experts, dressed in impeccable suits, leaned over the painting with magnifying glasses, discussing something among themselves, nodding. They took paint samples, scanned it with a special device, and photographed every millimeter of the canvas.
“Congratulations,” said the lead expert, a gray-haired professor with a neat wedge-shaped beard. “This is a genuine Savitsky creation, and one of his last landscapes before leaving the country. The estimated value is around two million dollars.”
Ivan Petrovich’s head spun. He sat down in his chair, trying to absorb what he had heard. Two million! It was unimaginable wealth!
Then the real madness began. Newspapers, TV shows, interviews. “Pensioner finds a painting at a flea market for 500 rubles and becomes a millionaire!” the headlines roared. The phone rang incessantly.
Out of nowhere, distant relatives appeared, whom he hadn’t seen in thirty years.
“Uncle Vanya, we’ve always been so close!” chirped one of the nieces, whose existence he had almost forgotten. “You’ll help your favorite niece, won’t you? I just need a little—for a new apartment.”
In addition, various shady characters appeared, offering to “quickly profitably” sell the canvas right now, bypassing formalities.
“You don’t need such money at your age,” a burly man in a bright raspberry jacket tried to persuade him. “We’ll give you cash right here and now.”
Ivan Petrovich only waved them away. But his previous quiet life was gone. Every knock at the door made him flinch—who else might appear? What new relatives or swindlers?
At night, he sat opposite the painting, staring at the familiar landscape. And he pondered—what would Masha say? His Masha, with whom they had lived half a century in love and harmony, content with little?
One evening, Kostya came over. Not as usual—straight to the painting, but thoughtful, quiet.
“Grandpa,” he broke the silence after a pause. “I was thinking… Maybe it’s worth donating the painting to a museum?”
“A museum?”
“Yes. You see, such masterpieces should belong to everyone. So that people can admire, feel their power. And the money…” he hesitated. “It can be used wisely. For something significant.”
“You know,” the old man slowly replied, “you’re absolutely right.”
The next morning, he called the Tretyakov Gallery. Once all the formalities were completed, he gathered the family—children and grandchildren.
“Listen carefully,” he said, looking around at everyone. “The painting is going to the museum. And the money… Kostya, you’ve long dreamed of studying painting in Italy?”
“Grandpa, I can’t…”
“You can. And you will. Plus, I’m establishing an art school in our district. Free—for kids from low-income families. Let them learn to find beauty.”
“But there will still be huge funds left!” exclaimed the niece. “Are you going to spend it all on other people’s kids?”
“Not on other people’s,” the old man shook his head. “On our future. So that someone someday can see a whole world in a simple village landscape. Like I saw. Like Kostya sees.”
He approached the painting and ran his fingers over the frame one last time.
“You know what I’ve realized? This painting—it’s not just about the village. It’s about memory, about love, about the importance of seeing the beauty in the everyday. And now it will teach others that.”
Six months later, the Anton Savitsky Art School opened in their district.
A year later, Kostya sent his grandpa a photo from Florence—his first work. It featured the same landscape: a village street, blooming apple trees, a well with a crane. Only now, a young teacher and a girl with buckets sat on a bench by the fence.
“I painted this based on your stories, grandpa,” was written on the back. “About you and grandma. About how important it is to believe in miracles. And about how true wealth is not money, but the ability to see beauty and share it with those around.”
Ivan Petrovich hung this painting where the Savitsky once hung. And every evening, looking at it, he smiled—as if seeing his Masha nod in approval.