The Stylist

“You’re right,” he said on the stairs. “I have to get her out of here. I’ll go to the chief surgeon tomorrow morning and demand they release her on my recognizance. It’s better for her to be at home, with the baby. Her mother will take better care of her than any doctor. A mother’s care is always best.”

Nastya didn’t doubt that he’d do exactly that. If they refused to release her, he’d bring out the money. Her brother wouldn’t balk at any sum when it came to his wife and son. He was a young and successful entrepreneur, wealthy and certain that money could solve any problem.

On the way to Nastya’s house, he was quiet and then suddenly asked, “Is everything all right with you and Lyoshka?” “Of course. Why do you ask?”

“He seemed tense to me. You haven’t had a fight?” “Alexander, we never fight, you know that. Maybe he was tired.”

“Nastya, don’t try to kid me. I know what your husband is like when he’s tired. He was upset by something.”

“Nonsense,” she said, knowing full well what was upsetting Alexei. Her work with Solovyov. “Why don’t you tell me instead if a lady by the name Yakimova is known in the business world?”

“Yana?”

“Yes, Yanina Yakimova.”

“She’s a tiger.” Alexander smiled for the first time. “Iron grip. Incredibly lucky. And incredibly rich. What do you want with her?”

“Just curiosity. I ran into her husband recently. But please, my interest in her is totally private. I hope you understand that. As far as her husband is concerned, I’m not a detective, but a lawyer.”

“They say he stays at home with the kids. Is that true?”

“It is. He drives them to play group and school, picks them up, cooks meals. Have you ever seen her?”

“Of course. More than once.”

“What’s she like?”

“Watch out! She’s scary. Beautiful. But overwhelming. She’s too tall, too large, too loud, too much hair. If you could reduce her by a third she’d be perfect.”

“Any gossip?”

“How can I put it. Yes and no.”

“Elucidate.”

“It’s not easy,” her brother said with another smile. “For instance, when she succeeded in a deal that should not have worked, according to all the prognoses, it was rumored that she was using illegal methods to coerce her subagents. But it was only rumored, because no one could prove that she hired strongmen or blackmailers to achieve her aims.”

“Maybe there were personal elements in that deal?” Nastya suggested. “Something intimate.”

“No way,” Alexander replied categorically. “No one even hinted at that. Yana has a reputation as the perfect wife. And you wouldn’t have asked if you ever saw her. The man who would make a pass at her would have to be a kamikaze, at least. He would have to be six foot six, weigh 250 pounds, and have about ten million dollars. And be single. And between forty-five and fifty, no older than that. With a masterful personality and a strong hand. That would give him a chance. And where are there any men like that?”

“All right, all right,” Nastya said doubtfully. “Don’t exaggerate. Do you know what her husband is like? Shorter than me, half-bald, sweet and shy. A very nice man. Busy with the children and house. With no personal income, I don’t think.” “Exactly. What does she need another one for? Lovers are supposed to be different from the husbands.”

“You may be right,” she agreed thoughtfully.

They pulled up at her house.

“Come on up,” Nastya invited. “Why should you be all alone at home? Your little Sasha is with Dasha’s parents anyway. ” “Fine,” Alexander said.

It would be hard to believe that the half-siblings had known each other only eighteen months, before that knowing of the other’s existence but never meeting or even speaking on the telephone. Alexander was eight years younger. They had the same father, but different mothers. Their acquaintance began with a rather unpleasant event, but soon grew into a warm mutual liking and then into sincere affection. Nastya and Lyoshka came to love Dasha, at the time Alexander’s girl friend, and later fiancee and wife. Alexander and Nastya were both only children of their parents, and they both eagerly accepted each other – related by blood and similar in looks and personality, despite being brought up in different families. They resembled their father, Pavel Kamensky – tall, fair, thin, with almost colorless brows and eyelashes. Both were on the cold side, slightly cynical, reserved, and ruthless toward themselves. But they both were capable of overwhelming compassion and sympathy for the suffering of their loved ones.

* * *

Nastya couldn’t stand being late. She always tried to leave early, with a cushion for unexpected complications like stuck metros in a tunnel or traffic that would tie up her bus. She made an appointment to meet with Gennady Svalov at Komsomolskaya Station, but she was twenty-five minutes early and she decided to wander around the square outside to check out the multitude of book sellers.

There were a lot of Sherkhan books, they were easy to spot because of their bright and recognizable format. To her surprise, Nastya saw The Blade, the book Solovyov told her was out of print since last year. “Volodya clearly overestimates the series’ popularity,” she thought with a chuckle. She bought one anyway, even though Solovyov had given her his own copy. She would keep this one and return his, rather than risk harming it in some way. While she was at it, Nastya bought another three novels from the Eastern Best Seller series. Solovyov had said that they were all well-written, and she and her husband enjoyed mystery books.

The seller, noting her interest in the series, got into a conversation with her.

“You’re lucky, you bought the last copy of Secret of Time. It’s selling very well, I’ve sold six copies today.”

“How’s the series doing?” Nastya asked.

“Great! You know, people snap it up! They wait for the new ones, they keep asking, and my regulars ask me to put them aside for them.”

“And is this Secret of Time really the last copy?” she asked curiously. “The very-very last copy?”

“For today, yes. They’ll bring more tomorrow. We take three or four of each title for a day’s work. If it’s a popular book, we take more, maybe ten. If they don’t do well, we take one.

“How long have you been selling Secret?”

“Almost a month.”

Nastya walked around the square, looking over the selection in the other stalls. There were copies with the elegant EBS logo everywhere, and all the sellers assured her that the series went like hot cakes. Well then, no wonder Solovyov was rich. Apparently, his fees were better than good. Especially if he didn’t get an outright fee but a royalty based on sales.

Putting the books in her bag, she walked to the rendezvous spot. Gennady was late, it was already five minutes past the time. Nastya made a face. She liked punctuality.

At last, fifteen minutes late, the young policeman showed up. He didn’t even think to apologize and with a businesslike air began pulling papers out of his case. His expression was not very friendly, in fact, it was almost disgusted.

“Here are notes from the registers of thirty video rental places. I killed two days on that.”

“And how many are there in all?” Nastya asked innocently.

“Seventy-four.”

“That means you’ll kill another three days,” she said calmly. “And don’t give me that look as if I made you spend your working hours on my personal problems.”

“I have a very heavy load as it is,” Svalov grumbled.

“Just imagine – so do I. And this maniac wandering the city freely is our headache. Not someone else’s, but yours and mine. Let’s try to keep that in mind all the time, all right?”

Nastya took the papers and went back to Petrovka Street to take care of urgent cases. By the time she got home, it was almost ten. There was a note on the kitchen table: I’m teaching tonight. Dinner is in the oven, don’t be lazy, please, and heat it up. Love.

Lyoshka knew his wife well, no denying it. Nastya’s famous indolence sometimes found paradoxical manifestations, and being too lazy to heat up food was a usual occurrence. If a dish could be eaten cold, she did, and if it really needed to be hot, and Lyoshka wasn’t there to supervise, she preferred a hunk of bread with cheese or sausage and a cup of strong coffee.

The struggle between hunger and laziness lasted about a minute, whereupon Nastya adopted a compromise: she quickly stuffed the traditional sandwich into her mouth and then patiently waited for husband’s return to have dinner with him. With her bread and salami, she got comfortable, stretched out her legs with her feet on another chair and opened the best seller she bought at the railroad station The Blade. The book was beautifully written, the plot developed quickly, and she was captivated from the first few pages.

A while later Nastya noticed that her fingertip, with which she turned pages, had turned black. Was the ink rubbing off? She rubbed with another finger. The white page now had smudges. Nastya brought the book close to her face and sniffed – it had that smell of freshly printed books.