The Stylist

She sat down next to him on the couch, put her arms around his neck, and pressed her cheek on his shoulder.

“It’s work, Lyoshka. And nothing more. After so many years, Solovyov has no effect on me. I’m a big girl now. And I’m asking you – please, don’t worry about this. I could have hidden it from you, you know. You would have never learned. But I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell you. Solovyov means nothing to me now. Not a thing. The owner of a house where I must be regularly.”

Alexei said nothing, gently caressing his wife’s head.

“What about him? Does he know that your visits are just work?”

He went to the heart of it. Nastya snuggled closer. Try fooling someone like him. Of course, if Chistyakov hadn’t been so smart, she would not have married him.

“No, sweetheart, he doesn’t know.”

“So, he sees you as a former lover?”

“Lyoshka!”

“Nastya, we’ve known each other for twenty years, so let’s not kid each other and pick our words when we’re discussing important things. How did you explain your re-appearance to Solovyov?”

“Just as you think. I said that I wanted to make sure that I was over him. It was his birthday. I used that as an excuse to visit.”

“And, are you sure?”

“I am. Lyoshka, please, stop tormenting yourself. I knew that Solovyov was nothing to me a few years ago. I certainly didn’t need to go to his house for that. But I needed an excuse.”

“Aren’t you worried that now that he isn’t married, he might explode with passion for you?”

“No, I’m not. If he couldn’t love me then, he can’t love me now. The world knows that the existence or absence of spouses has nothing to do with it. And then, I haven’t told you this yet. He’s an invalid. A cripple. He’s in a wheelchair.”

“An accident?”

“I don’t know yet. He didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t push it. But I can find out without him, that’s no problem. Lyoshka, let’s forget it, what do you say? Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. You asked me why I didn’t want dinner, and I told you that I had been at Solovyov’s. Fine, let’s move on. I could have told you I had been visiting somebody else, and you would have slept well. Don’t think about Solovyov. I love you, I married you, and I plan to go on living with you until we’re little old people. Let’s have some tea.”

She got up and pulled her husband by the arm. Looking at his disheveled hair, she involuntarily compared him with Solovyov. Yes, Volodya was handsomer. And Lyoshka’s eyes were never as warm and enchanting. His hazel eyes could be serious, sarcastic, mocking, openly ridiculing, or tenderly concerned. But Chistyakov didn’t have that male sexuality in his gaze that made your knees turn to jelly and your head spin. Maybe that’s why Nastya loved him, her red-haired mathematical genius. She couldn’t stand studs – men who were so sure that their sex appeal conquered all women, bending them to their will. Men who were certain that women were destined to have orgasms and bear children and that she had to obey the man who helped her or allowed her to fulfill her destiny.

* * *

The guests had left, but Solovyov was still in his study. He had sent away Andrei, saying that he would put himself to bed. Anastasia’s visit had disconcerted him. He was ashamed of what had happened between them, and it was always unpleasant remembering it. And since it was so unpleasant, he didn’t think about it.

He had never been a fighter, able to insist on what he thought was right and necessary. He always took the easy way, accepting circumstances rather than trying to change them to suit his desires and needs. Let things happen. Let things be. When he realized that the daughter of his advisor was madly in love with him, it was easier to let it happen, to have an unnecessary and burdensome affair with her, rather than take the trouble to gently move their relationship to friendship without hurting or wounding the young girl. He went with the flow, rather than against it.

Solovyov saw that she was suffering and he knew that he was the cause of her pain, first by letting her believe that he returned her love and then by not hiding the truth. But the consciousness of his guilt was a weight he preferred not to feel. Or remember. He managed to forget quite well.

Why was she here? To mock him? To enjoy the sight of his helplessness? But she no longer loved him, that was perfectly clear. However… who knew. Just because she didn’t get turned on from a single caress, didn’t mean anything. She was older. How old did she say? Almost thirty-six. She had grown cold and rational. Even a bit cynical, he thought. And very lovely. She was better-looking now than she had been twelve years ago. She was still colorless and not very striking, using no make-up, but Solovyov appreciated the purity of lines of her face and figure. Long slender legs, a thin waist, high breasts, luxuriant hair, long and thick, graceful hands, strong cheekbones, straight nose. Women like that are for connoisseurs. You don’t notice them, you could walk past them ten times and never see them, and only a sophisticated and discerning eye could appreciate their charms.

She was coming tomorrow. Did that make him happy or would he prefer that she not come again? Solovyov tried to understand his own feelings, but as usual, he did not have the persistence. It was so nice just going with the flow, let Anastasia come, let her love him again. It wouldn’t be a burden this time, for his status as an invalid freed Solovyov of any obligations toward women. He was lonely, and a woman in love with him would not be amiss. Especially since he lived so far away that she couldn’t come visit every day. Plus she was married. Well then,     he thought, it was all for the best.

Chapter 3

Nastya patiently waited for a moment when Solovyov would be out. It was two days after her last visit, and as soon as she saw Andrei take the wheelchair outside and go off on a walk with Vladimir, she rang the doorbell of cottage number 12. Children’s voices responded instantly, the door was flung open, and a girl of about eight, covered with paints, appeared at the door.

“Here to see us?” the child demanded.

“Yes, if you’ll let me in,” Nastya replied with a smile.

Zhenya Yakimov appeared behind the young artist.

“Is that you?” he said in amazement. “To see me?” “Actually, to see Solovyov, but he’s not in and I thought you might give me shelter until he returns.”

“They’re probably out for a walk,” the long-mustached neighbor volunteered.

Nastya realized that he was about to suggest she go find them, even give her directions, since such walks couldn’t be far-ranging.

“Probably,” she agreed. “But my foot is killing me. I wore new shoes, and they hurt. May I come in?”

“Of course, of course,” Zhenya said. “Come on in.”

This cottage was laid out in a completely different way. The kitchen was much larger and the rest of the first floor was taken up by a huge living room, where all three offspring were located – twelve-year-old Mitya, who didn’t resemble Zhenya in the least; the young art lover Lera; and a tiny creature with long reddish curls who upon closer examination turned out to be a boy named Fedya. Mitya was engrossed in a fascinating game with a computer opponent, while Lera, lying on the floor was trying to depict a Crocosaurus under the sensitive supervision of Fedya, serious beyond his years. This creature was the fruit of the boy’s boundless imagination, and he was explaining to his sister how it looked, using mimicry, gestures, and a wealth of noises from bellowing to squeaking. The computer was making a lot of noise, too, and Mitya played with a running commentary and exclamations. The living room was a bedlam. Zhenya introduced the children to Nastya and led her away to the kitchen, which thanks to its size and European design could easily function as a dining room.

“You don’t mind if I start cooking?” Yakimov asked shyly. “I have to feed the kids in an hour, and I haven’t even started.” They chatted peaceably about nothing, seemingly. What kind of people lived in the cottages? What did they do? Who did you have to be to be able to afford it? It wasn’t very convenient without municipal transport, of course, but everyone here had a car, and sometimes more than one. The Yakimovs, for example, had two, one for the wife, the other for Zhenya – you never knew what could happen during the day, say, if he had to take one of the children to the doctor or make a quick trip to the store.

Nastya smoothly switched the conversation to Neighborhood Watch, which was used widely in many countries to prevent crime.

“Yes,” Zhenya agreed, “in apartment houses that would hardly work, but in districts of individual houses there’s a point to it. You can see the neighbors’ houses well. And then, if you know the residents, a stranger stands out. Especially during the day when you know no one is home.”

Five minutes later he told her that he rarely saw strangers in Daydream Estates, at least in the daytime. He couldn’t say about the nights because it was dark and because even though they lived far from midtown Moscow, there were plenty of visitors, sometimes whole groups. No, he had never seen a stranger lurking with no apparent reason. Nastya explained her interest by saying she worked for an insurance company that planned to offer coverage to individual homes, including theft and robbery.

Suddenly Zhenya started listening warily. The sound coming from the living room had changed. There were no computer game noises anymore.

“Excuse me,” he muttered and quickly left the kitchen.

He was back soon enough, but the reproach had not left his mobile features.

“Is something wrong?” Nastya inquired.

“Nothing special. Mitya was playing computer chess again.”

“And that upset you? Is that bad?” she asked in surprise.

“It’s too early for him to play chess,” Yakimov announced firmly. “He must play games that develop and instruct, building his attention span, reflexes, and small motor movements and coordination.”

Nastya was going to point out that if the boy played computer chess, that was proof that he was developed and instructed, but she held her tongue. After all, it was no business of hers. He was the father and he knew how to bring up his child. She should stay out of it with her views on intellectual development.

“Zhenya, what was your profession?” she asked.

“Engineer. I graduated from the Construction Engineering Institute.”

“And what do you plan for your children?”

“Whatever they want,” he replied, somehow reluctantly. “They haven’t demonstrated any special talents. You know, the apples don’t fall far from the oak.”