An Eye for an Eye
written by: Olga Cunha
Fyodor huffed over his computer, trying to type, with one hand, an article about a local writer. That writer had died recently, without ever publishing a single one of his great books.
Fyodor had spent several weeks reading greasy manuscripts many considered the fantasies of a drunken hack. The scrawl was hard to decipher, and Fyodor kept wondering just how much the writer had drunk.
Raised by a righteous grandmother, Fyodor had long ago stopped feeling anger or anxiety, for such was God’s will in all things. With endurance and patience, he sat up nights in his tiny apartment, making sense of what had been written.
But today, when he absolutely had to get the article to the editor-in-chief — a whole two spreads — he had only one hand left. And that made Fyodor’s right eye twitch.
“What? Again?” Natalia Borisovna snorted as she stepped into the office, the sweet smell of cinnamon coming in with her.
Calling the former storage closet an office, of course, was a stretch. Natalia Borisovna, with her love of sweet rolls for breakfast and dinner, could barely turn around in the passageway and, each time, knocked into Fyodor’s computer with one side of herself or the other.
She carefully moved Fyodor’s desk another centimeter.
“Fedya, for heaven’s sake,” Natalia said, throwing up her hands and dropping a half-empty glass of water. “They’re using you.”
Fedya sighed and gave her a crooked smile.
“It’s just that there’s this thing,” Fedya chirped, without taking his eyes off the screen. “Anton didn’t manage to return my hand yesterday. But he called me about ten minutes ago and said he’d give it back as soon as he gets to the office.”
“Right,” Natalia Borisovna squeezed herself into the chair. “That’s exactly how he returned your ear last time.”
“Well-l-l,” Fyodor shrugged. “He had a situation then.”
“What kind of situation was that?” Natalia Borisovna slammed her fist on the table.
Startled, Fyodor jumped in his chair and stared at Natalia Borisovna.
Natalia Borisovna herself had long ago stopped lending anything to anyone. The last time, her legs had been returned with a dislocated knee. Ever since then, the ache in her knee during rain and blizzards reminded Natalia Borisovna how naive and foolish she had been, lending others now a leg, now an arm, now her heart.
“Fedya,” Natalia Borisovna’s hands planted themselves on her hips, “that crook Anton went off to a barbecue last time. And with his friends, he held a contest to see who could hang by their ears the longest. And they weren’t his own dear ears he used.”
Fedya swallowed, but did not take his eye off Natalia Borisovna.
“That… that was made up about him by his rivals,” Fedya tried to speak softly. “Daniil doesn’t like him.”
The anger on Natalia Borisovna’s face was more expressive than any painting Fyodor had ever seen.
“Fedya, you’re not twenty anymore.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Well-l-l,” Natalia Borisovna drawled. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. At twenty-five, it’s time to use your head. A month ago, you lent Mikhail your nose for the day, and he gave it back a week later, snotty besides. And Natashka from the third floor — you lent her three teeth for her wedding, didn’t you? She gave you back two, and those unbrushed.”
Fyodor pressed his lips together.
“Lenka, that secretary, borrowed your tongue, and you’re still making excuses that it wasn’t you who blabbed everything. Name me one person in this office who hasn’t taken advantage of your kindness.”
Having delivered this tirade, Natalia Borisovna turned red and began breathing heavily.
“Except me, of course,” she added once she had caught her breath.
“Natalia Borisovna,” Fyodor spoke almost under his breath, “no one is using me. They simply need help. And in our world, who helps anyone for nothing? You have to be kinder to people.”
“One ought to be kinder when they’re kinder to you too, not when they use you as a doormat.”
“Oh, you’re making things up, Natalia Borisovna.” Fyodor made his smile wider and turned back to the computer screen. “They value me at this job. They gave me two whole spreads for my own article.”
“After seven years of work, Fedya.”
“Well, that’s my own fault, isn’t it, for bringing in ideas before that weren’t good enough.” Fyodor continued typing with his left hand, quoting the deceased writer. “But now I’ve matured, and I’ve brought in the kind of article that will make every journalist green with envy.”
Natalia Borisovna drew in a wheezing breath and decided she was not going to waste her breath trying to reason with a donkey.
“And what did the boss say about the article?” Natalia asked, waiting for the twenty-year-old computer to load.
“Nothing.” Every muscle in Fyodor’s face was tense, giving away the wrinkles he had accumulated over the years. “He’s waiting for it by lunch.”
“Good Lord.” Natalia Borisovna threw up her hands, and the hoarseness returned to her voice. “That’s in an hour already. How will you manage without your hand?”
“I’ll make it somehow.” Fyodor’s neck stretched forward. “I’ll hurry.”
“Oh, Fyodor.”
In a motherly way, Natalia Borisovna very much wanted to protect this poor fool.
“Listen, Fyodor,” she said sternly. “The next time someone comes asking to borrow something from you, if you don’t refuse them yourself, I’ll put them in their place. Understood?”
“Understood.” Fyodor nodded.
“Look me in the eye and say you understand!” Natalia Borisovna barked.
“Understood.” Fyodor straightened up and looked at Natalia Borisovna.
“You need to value yourself, Fedya.” Natalia Borisovna shook her head. “Not tear yourself apart for these jackals.”
“Right.” Fyodor nodded and returned to the article. “Natalyushka Borisovna, don’t distract me, for God’s sake.”
Natalia Borisovna shook her head with understanding and set about studying the city archives in search of something even more interesting than Fyodor’s article about the drunken hack.
Fyodor, meanwhile, clenched his teeth harder and went on writing.
“Finished, Fedya?”
The boss flew into the little closet of a room and crashed into the corner of the desk.
“Well, damn it all,” the squat little man with a smooth head and thin mustache began rubbing his side, “how many times has it been said already — move the desks?”
“If only there were somewhere to move them, Natan Ivanovich.” Natalia Borisovna began speaking in a tiny, little voice and batting her eyelashes flirtatiously. “I told you, we’ll only fit like this if Fedya gets a smaller desk. There’s no other way.”
“And where would the documents go?” Fyodor’s head poked out from behind the computer.
“The documents can go on the floor, Fedya,” Natalia Borisovna objected.
Fedya cast a drooping glance at the pile of papers brought to him from every department.
“I’ll think about it,” Natan Ivanovich replied hastily. “Fedya, where’s the article?”
“Five more minutes, Natan Ivanovich.”
Fyodor turned red.
Never before had he let Natan Ivanovich down like this.
“Anton didn’t return my hand,” Fyodor had found it hard to make excuses ever since childhood, “and I’m right-handed. Typing with my left doesn’t come very handy.”
Natan Ivanovich drew his brows together and began to look like a piglet.
“All right,” the boss said through his teeth. “You’ll finish it tomorrow.”
“I can?” Fyodor sprang up from his chair in delight, nearly knocking over the desk.
“It won’t work today anyway,” Natan Ivanovich said. “First of all, we’re running the piece about the mayor in this issue.”
“What about the mayor?” Natalia Borisovna cut in.
“He bought horses for the city,” Natan Ivanovich said proudly. “Pedigree ones. He even offered his own stable to house them.”
“What does the city need horses for?” Fyodor wondered.
Natan Ivanovich and Natalia Borisovna looked at Fyodor disapprovingly, but in perfect unison.
“To show at festivals,” Natan Ivanovich answered lazily. “You don’t understand anything, Fedya. All these years working at a newspaper, and you still can’t put two and two together.”
Fyodor nodded, but still did not understand what the city needed pedigree horses for.
“All right.” Natan Ivanovich leaned toward Fyodor and looked him straight in the face. “Give me your eyes, Fyodor. I have to go to the mayor’s press conference, and my vision is minus three.”
“But—” Fyodor shrank back into his chair and looked pleadingly at Natalia Borisovna. “What about the work?”
“Fedya, what work?” Natan Ivanovich threw up his hands. “I told you, you’ll finish it tomorrow. I can’t sit at a press conference in glasses.”
“Glasses would be bad.” Natalia Borisovna clicked her tongue. “You are a handsome man even in glasses, but without them you look more respectable. Without them, the mayor will see right away that you’re a serious man.”
Natan Ivanovich could not hold back a proud smile and met Natalia Borisovna’s eyes.
For several awkward seconds, Fedya looked from Natalia Borisovna to Natan Ivanovich and back again. Fedya’s heart was pounding in his throat, the air gathered in his lungs, but Fedya still could not bring himself to say anything.
“All right.” The boss frowned again. “I’m in a hurry, Fedya. Come on, the eyes.”
Fyodor pushed his lips forward and gave the faintest shake of his head.
“I’m not doing this for myself, Fedya. I’m doing it for the newspaper. And you’re holding me up.”
Natan Ivanovich held out a demanding hand.
Embarrassed and red-faced, Fyodor nodded, swallowed, and took out his eyes.
“And when will you give them back?” Fyodor asked, turning his head this way and that, no longer understanding where Natan Ivanovich was.
“I’ll give them back at the editorial meeting,” Natan Ivanovich answered lazily, leaving the office.
Fyodor nodded.
“And what am I supposed to do until the editorial meeting?”
Natan Ivanovich did not answer that question.
The darkness around Fyodor was becoming clearer and clearer.
“Fedya,” Natalia Borisovna exclaimed joyfully, “your ear has healed already. Listen to my archives. Maybe we’ll find something interesting for the article.”
Natalia Borisovna’s words reached Fyodor slowly.
“I don’t know, Natalia Borisovna,” Fedya breathed out and, as it seemed to him, became a little smaller. “I still haven’t finished listening to my own archives.”
“You’re turning in the article tomorrow.” Natalia was already taking out an old tape recorder and some cassettes. “There’s no need for you to listen to your own archives.”
The ancient tape recorder landed with a crash right under Fyodor’s nose.
“Here, hold this.” Natalia Borisovna grunted, trying to reach across the desk to Fedya’s ears. “Lean forward, I’ll put the headphones on you.”
Fyodor meekly leaned forward, and in the darkness there sounded the trembling voice of a former priest, either murdered or simply dead, three months earlier under strange circumstances.
The priest was reading a sermon on humility. But the longer the sermon went on, the less humble Fyodor felt. He could not concentrate at all, for before his eyes appeared a picture of himself hitting Natan Ivanovich on his outstretched hand, and then between the eyes.
“Forgive your offender,” after an hour or two, the priest’s voice sounded quieter and farther away, “but first of all, forgive yourself. For he who has not forgiven… cannot… the offender…”
“Fedya, did you fall asleep or what?” Natalia Borisovna was indignant, returning from lunch.
“Me? What? No?” Still half-asleep, Fyodor turned this way and that, trying to find the source of light, until he remembered that the boss had borrowed his eyes.
“Well, look at that.” Natalia loudly tossed her coffee cup into the trash. “I gave you a task, and you slept through the whole thing?”
Fyodor’s lips began to tremble.
“How could I not fall asleep in the dark, Natalyushka Borisovna?” Fyodor almost pleaded. “Rewind it for me, I’ll listen again.”
“No time to listen.” Natalia Borisovna demonstratively lifted her nose and removed the tape recorder from his desk. “The editorial meeting is in ten minutes.”
“How?” Fyodor sprang up and began turning this way and that. “Didn’t you just come back from lunch?”
“I did.” Natalia Borisovna mimicked Fyodor. “It was a working lunch, understood?”
Fyodor began feeling around the tabletop, but found nothing except the pile of papers.
“Natalia Borisovna, could you pass me my hand, please? And my eyes?”
“They’re not here,” Natalia Borisovna answered roughly, took her folder for the editorial meeting, and headed for the door. “But Anton and the boss are already back.”
Fyodor carefully climbed over his desk. Natalia Borisovna was already gone.
Feeling his way along the walls, Fyodor headed for the boss’s office, which, thankfully, was on the same floor, though in the opposite corner.
Amid the whispers of his colleagues, Fyodor reached his destination, without knocking anything over and without even stumbling.
“Fyodor, what are these tricks?” Lena’s squeaky voice sounded like an alarm.
“Lena,” Fyodor began with all due respect, though mindful of the history of his relations with the secretary, “Natan Ivanovich didn’t happen to leave my eyes anywhere, did he?”
Lena yawned.
“Well, none of you can find anything without me anymore.” Lena began to complain. “If I quit, not even a week will pass before everything here falls apart.”
While Lena rustled around on the desk, looking under every paper, Fyodor thought it would have been better if Natan Ivanovich had borrowed his ears.
“Brown one.” Lena interrupted her own lamentations. “Yours?”
“Uh-huh.” Fyodor happily held out his hand. “Mine.”
Lena placed the eye in Fyodor’s hand with disgust.
Fyodor put the eye back in place almost reverently.
“And where’s the second one?” Fyodor asked, looking around the reception room with one eye.
“Well, you’ve got an eye, haven’t you?” Lena answered irritably and sat down in her chair. “Look for it yourself.”
Fyodor clenched his teeth, looked over the desk, in every corner, and even peered out into the corridor, but the second eye was nowhere to be found.
“Fyodor.” Natan Ivanovich stuck his head out of his office with a piggish expression on his face. “Are we going to wait for you much longer? Or are you special, and editorial meetings aren’t for you?”
“I’m coming, Natan Ivanovich,” Fyodor bleated. “Have you seen my second eye? Lena and I can’t find it.”
Lena gave Fyodor a sidelong look.
“The mayor borrowed your eye,” Natan Ivanovich said impatiently, disappearing back into his office. “Come in already.”
Fyodor managed, just in time, to slip his hand into the doorway and hold the door, which would have been hard to open even with two hands.
Lena sighed with disgust.
“Oh, Fedya,” Anton called to him at once, sporting a huge bruise around one eye. “Your hand is on the windowsill.”
Fyodor hurried happily to the window, paying no attention to the stares fixed on him.
On the windowsill, wrapped in the latest issue of the newspaper, lay Fyodor’s hand.
“Oh.” Fyodor almost jumped back from the hand. “Are you sure this is mine?”
The hand looked like a piece of sausage tied up with a string. Three of the five fingers were in casts. Dried blood showed on the knuckles, and the wrist was wrapped in a bandage.
“I got into a fight yesterday.” Anton examined his own fingers. “But it was on assignment for the paper.”
The fist on Fyodor’s healthy hand clenched so tightly that his nails dug painfully into his own flesh.
“The main thing is, I took it to the hospital and had everything fixed. Nothing’s broken except the fingers.”
Fyodor was no longer listening to what Anton was saying.
“Forgive your offender,” sounded in Fyodor’s head, and he breathed out.
“And what about the wrist?” Fedya asked, still examining the hand and not daring to put it back on.
“Dislocated,” Anton answered irritably. “I told you, nothing’s broken.”
“Right,” Natalia Borisovna snorted. “Except the fingers.”
“Fingers heal quickly, Natasha,” Natan Ivanovich cut off her indignation. “All right, that’s enough. Fedya, you’ve already held us up. Put the hand back on and sit down.”
Fyodor nodded slowly.
He did not dare put the hand back on right away. For several minutes, he sat in his usual place in the corner under the palm, thinking about how bad the pain would be if he did it now.
But if he left it off, the healing might take ten times longer.
“Just put it back on already,” Natan Ivanovich sighed heavily.
Fyodor looked up, bewildered.
His colleagues kept glancing in his direction, while Natalia Borisovna was clumsily trying to say something with her eyes.
Fyodor drew a deep breath and—
“A-A-AH!” Fyodor’s scream seemed to carry all the way down to the first floor of the building.
Pain pierced the poor man like a thousand bayonets. At one point, his only eye clouded over, and his heart was ready to leap out the window.
“What happened?” Lena flew into the office, a sharpened pencil in her hand.
“Fedya put his hand back on,” Anton smirked.
“Was it worth screaming like that?” Lena was indignant, and slammed the door behind her.
Fyodor was glad Lena had looked in when she did. He did not want anyone to see the tears that had sprung to his eyes. After all, real men do not cry.
“All right, colleagues, enough of this circus. Pull yourselves together.” Natan Ivanovich struck the table with his fist.
Everyone began to stir.
“What’s going on with the mayor story?” Daniil asked.
Daniil was the only one who was not smiling at Fyodor’s suffering. Though Fyodor had never seen Daniil smile.
“Oh, that.” Natan Ivanovich waved it off. “The mayor fell off a horse and injured his eye.”
“Mine?” Fyodor sprang up from his chair.
“Fedya, how could it be yours if yours was with me?”
“And what happened to the mayor’s eye?” Natalia Borisovna asked.
“Not clear yet,” Natan said sympathetically. “The horse got him right in the eye with its hoof.”
Natalia gasped and clutched at her heart.
“And where is my eye?” Fyodor’s voice trembled.
“Fedya, your eye is with the mayor,” Natan Ivanovich howled. “Sit down already.”
Fyodor sat down, struggling to cradle his injured hand and hold his tongue.
“Then what goes into tomorrow’s issue?” Daniil frowned. “We’ve got two blank pages.”
“I have good news.” Natan Ivanovich rose proudly from his chair. “I have raised a new shark in the pen. Fedya has written the kind of article no one can walk past.”
“It’s about that genius writer who croaked without ever publishing anything,” Natalia Borisovna explained. “I helped Fedya. I know everything.”
Fedya widened his one eye at Natalia Borisovna and opened his mouth slightly.
“Fedya, did you finish the article?” Natan Ivanovich stared at Fedya.
Everyone stared at Fedya.
“Well, I—”
“You mean you couldn’t finish it after lunch?” Natan Ivanovich spread his hands.
Fedya’s eye began to twitch uncontrollably.
“You took my eyes,” Fedya said through his teeth.
“You don’t write with your eyes, do you? You could have typed blind somehow. You could have asked Natalia.”
“I would have helped, of course.” Natalia nodded. “I’ve already helped so much with it. I’m always giving him some advice and such.”
Fyodor’s broken fingers began to twitch.
“Is there much left?” Daniil asked.
“About ten minutes’ work,” Fedya added. “Even five. I only need to check and edit the last paragraph.”
“With that hand of yours, five minutes?” Natalia Borisovna clicked her tongue and shook her head.
“All right, Anton.” Natan Ivanovich smiled. “You knew this writer, didn’t you?”
“Uh-huh.” Anton looked at Fyodor. “He was my neighbor.”
“Excellent.” Natan sprawled in his chair. “Help Fyodor finish the article.”
Anton crossed his arms over his chest.
Fyodor stood up from his chair again.
“I’m not working for free, Natan.” Anton was indignant. “As if I don’t have things of my own to do.”
“But you wouldn’t be doing it for free,” Natan began coaxing him.
“I’ll finish it myself,” Fedya said, with all the anger he had in his voice, and took a step closer to Natan.
“We’ll put you down as a co-author on the article,” Natan frowned.
“Put me down too,” Natalia Borisovna began chattering. “I’ve helped Fedya so much.”
“Natan Ivanovich, I’ll finish it myself.” Fedya pushed his head forward and stared at Natan like a hawk.
“Anton, I’m not asking you.” Natan Ivanovich raised his index finger. “That’s an order.”
Fyodor almost grabbed Natan Ivanovich by the finger to bend it the other way.
“He’ll finish it himself. He said so.” Daniil’s low voice rang out across the room, and everyone froze.
Daniil knew how to say things in such a way that both the windows and the staff trembled.
“But how is he supposed to finish it with that hand?” Natalia Borisovna began to babble cautiously. “Natan Ivanovich, don’t try to talk Anton into it. I know everything about this article. I’ll help Fedya.”
“How clever you are, Natasha.” Anton widened his eyes. “Decided to steal the article from me just like that?”
“There’s nothing to finish.” Fedya tried to speak in Daniil’s voice. “Two edits and it’s done.”
But Fyodor’s voice sounded like that of a cat with a cold, and only made some of his colleagues smile.
“It’s decided.” Natan Ivanovich struck the table. “Anton will finish the article. It has to go to print in an hour, and here we are arguing.”
Fyodor was already standing behind Natan Ivanovich, staring straight at Anton with one eye. His trembling hands were reaching of their own accord toward Natan Ivanovich’s neck.
Anton, without taking his eyes off Fyodor, merely spread his hands.
“Fedya, send me the photo for the article, then,” Daniil said, writing something in his notebook.
Fyodor lowered his hands.
“I don’t have one,” Fyodor answered and looked away.
Natalia Borisovna threw up her hands in disappointment.
“How do you not have one? What kind of journalist are you?” she was indignant.
“No photo, then no photo.” Daniil cut her off. “We’ll make one. Stand by the white wall.”
Daniil took a camera out of his bag.
Fyodor reluctantly stepped away from Natan Ivanovich and stood with his back to the white wall.
“Natan Ivanovich,” Fyodor said dryly, but with respect, “could you lend me an eye for one minute?”
“Mine?” Natan Ivanovich goggled at him in surprise.
Fyodor nodded with certainty.
“Well, no, Fedya,” Natan Ivanovich drew his head back, “the doctor said I have a high risk of glaucoma. I can’t.”
Natalia Borisovna gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.
“That’s very dangerous, Natan,” she mumbled through her fingers.
“Anton, then could you please give me…” Fyodor began.
“I won’t,” Anton crossed one leg over the other. “I don’t give anything to anyone for nothing.”
Daniil smirked.
“But you’re happy enough to borrow for nothing.”
“That’s different,” Anton answered acidly. “I don’t force anyone. And if people don’t ask for anything in return themselves, that’s already their problem.”
Daniil set the camera on the tripod.
“So Fyodor is asking for something in return for his favor.” Daniil stared at Anton. “And he’ll even give your eye back right away and in one piece.”
“Well-l-l.” Anton twisted his mouth into a smile. “You have to warn a person about that sort of thing right away. Once it’s done, there’s no point in setting conditions.”
One of Fyodor’s teeth cracked from the strain.
“Maybe with glasses? Or cover one eye?” Natalia Borisovna suggested.
“Natalyechka Borisovna, perhaps you could lend me an eye?”
Fedya gave his colleague a strained smile.
“Fedya.” Natalia Borisovna goggled at him. “I’ll ruin my whole makeup. I have a date tonight.”
“Then we photograph him as he is,” Daniil said and placed Fedya in the center.
Fyodor’s chest began to rise heavily and visibly.
“No.” Natan Ivanovich began rubbing his chin.
Tension hung in the room.
“We don’t have another article,” Daniil looked down at Natan Ivanovich.
“We’ll run this one,” Natan Ivanovich concluded. “And we’ll remove Fyodor from the byline, since there’s no photo.”
“What do you mean, remove me?” Fyodor howled. “It’s my article.”
“You should have thought of that earlier, Fedya.” Natan Ivanovich stood up from his chair.
The pain in Fyodor’s hand was growing stronger.
“This is my article!” Fyodor growled.
Glances began moving around the office.
“So give me the eye.” Fyodor’s face twisted. “Or print it like this.”
Natan Ivanovich’s face reddened and swelled.
“Fedya, don’t you give me orders here.” Natan Ivanovich raised his shoulders and headed toward Fedya. “Know your place.”
“Give me the eye.” Fyodor went to meet Natan Ivanovich. “And the article gets published under my name only.”
Fyodor’s voice carried confidently through the office.
Lena gasped through the crack in the door.
“How interesting.” Anton was indignant. “So it’s that easy to throw out a co-author?”
“You haven’t written a single word.” Fyodor turned to Anton, almost swinging at him.
“I will write it.” Anton struck a pose. “And you have no right to throw me out of the article.”
“He absolutely does.” Daniil smiled for the first time and raised his eyebrows.
“That’s for Natan to decide, not him,” Anton protested.
“Fedya.” Natan Ivanovich was already standing face to face with Fyodor. “Observe the chain of command.”
“Give me the eye!” Fedya hissed back.
Fedya’s mouth twisted, letting a thread of saliva slip through.
“I’m going to fire you right now.”
“Give me the eye!”
Fyodor and Natan Ivanovich were breathing into each other’s faces.
“All right, Lena,” Natan Ivanovich shouted, not taking his eyes off Fyodor, “put Fyodor on unpaid leave.”
“And the article?” Natalia Borisovna asked, frightened.
“Anton will finish it.” Natan Ivanovich rose onto his toes.
“Got that?” Anton whispered, so only Fedya could hear.
Everything clouded over in Fyodor’s eye.
“A-a-ah!” Fyodor grabbed Natan Ivanovich by the ears.
Natalia Borisovna, forgetting her bad knee and extra weight, jumped over the desk. Anton scrambled onto the windowsill, and the rest of the colleagues pressed themselves into the walls.
Only Daniil decided not to miss such shots and deftly dodged Fyodor and Natan Ivanovich as they clung to each other and rolled around on the floor.
The next morning, the newspaper came out on time.
Across two spreads, there was an article about a genius writer who drank a lot and never published anything. And beneath the article was Fyodor’s photo, with two eyes — his own and Natan Ivanovich’s — and a small set of teeth marks on his neck. But that was not very noticeable in the only photograph where Fyodor was smiling.
- An Eye for an Eye - July 12, 2026
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