The Stylist

Trying not to make noise, she left the room and went out into the spacious and well-appointed hallway, got her jacket out of the closet, slipped it over her shoulders and went out on the porch which had steps on one side and a ramp for the wheelchair on the other. All the windows on the first floor were brightly lit, she could hear animated voices and laughter, and she suddenly felt terribly alone, unneeded, and superfluous.

Leaning on the railing, she took out her cigarettes and lit up. Who did they think they were, those publishers? What was she – a gold digger hoping to land a rich husband, taking advantage of the fact that he was handicapped and could hardly hope to find a young beauty? That must be how they saw her. That’s why they gave her dirty looks, that’s why they were demonstratively scornful. As to say, don’t count on it, girlie, this isn’t your speed. Rich Solovyov is as out of reach for you as the moon. She wondered how they would look at her if she bothered with makeup and put on the fancy clothes that her mother kept bringing her from Sweden. If she wanted to, she could look like a movie star. But the point was that she never wanted to do that. If the job called for it, well, then, of course. But on her own initiative, Nastya Kamenskaya never bothered. She simply wasn’t interested.

“Taking a break from the festivities?” a voice spoke near her.

Nastya turned and saw an amusing man pushing forty, balding, with a thick long mustache like Cossacks wore in old paintings. The man was wearing a good suit and a tie and had a small package under his arm. He had come on foot and Nastya figured him for a neighbor.

“It’s more like I’m giving the other guests a break from me,” she replied amiably. “I’m very serious and that seems to put a damper on things.”

“Are there a lot of people?” the “Cossack” asked in fear.

“No, no, only three. Come on in, please, the door is open.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I thought no one would be here yet, I just wanted to give Mr. Solovyov a present. But if there are people there, I don’t think I’ll go in.”

“Why not?”

“Well.” He grew even more embarrassed and suddenly Nastya found him very nice. “It’s just uncomfortable. I don’t know anyone there. No, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Nonsense,” Nastya said. “A gift and congratulations are good on the birthday. They lose their special charm by the next day. I don’t know anyone there, either. Let’s get to know each other and we’ll go together as a solid front against the strangers.”

She winked merrily and extended her hand to the owner of the luxurious mustache.

“My name is Anastasia. I am an old friend of Solovyov’s. He spent many years in graduate school studying with my mother.”

“I’m a neighbor.” He gave her a hearty handshake. “My name is Zhenya.”

Nastya tucked her hand under his arm, tossed out her cigarette, and literally dragged the poor man into the house.

“I’ve brought a new guest,” she announced in a loud voice from the doorway, enjoying the fleeting displeasure in the faces of the publishers. “This is Zhenya, he is a neighbor of Volodya’s. Welcome him, please. Zhenya, it’s your toast.”

Andrei inscrutably poured champagne into a handsome glass and brought it over to the neighbor on a small tray. The Sherkhan troika reluctantly stopped its discussion of something vital, everyone raised a glass and looked expectantly at the “Cossack.” That made him cringe and search for words.

“Volodya… Best wishes on your birthday… I don’t even know what to wish you… I wanted to say… well, I’m very happy that you have friends and family who come to visit. It’s very important to have people who need you and are interested in you and come not because they’re supposed to but because they want to. After all, the most important thing in life is to be needed. My wish for you is that your house is never lonely and forgotten.”

“Thanks, Zhenya,” Solovyov said warmly. “I am very grateful that you came. And I drink to your words with pleasure.”

“Let’s get closer to the table,” Nastya whispered to the neighbor. “They are having a production meeting, which is of no interest to us, but the table is filled with delicious stuff. Let them have their stupid business meeting.”

Zhenya obediently followed her to the couch, where Nastya practically forced him to sit. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable and wanted to leave.

“Have you lived here long?” she asked, loading his plate with hors-d’oeuvres.

“From the very beginning, as soon as they started construction. I was one of the first to move in. Almost at the same time with Solovyov.”

Strange, Nastya thought. They’ve been living near each other for so long and he’s embarrassed to make a wrong move or say the wrong thing. As if this were the first day he met Solovyov. And it wasn’t clear how such a shy and unassuming man could end up owning an expensive and prestigious cottage in the new Russia. In order to make that kind of money, you had to be a shark, aggressive and with sharp teeth. Not him. “What do you do, Zhenya? Or am I being impolite in asking?” He got even more embarrassed. “Nothing, basically. I bring up the children, run the house. My wife is in business. And I just… I stay at home.”

She remembered. The Yakimovs. Cottage Number 12. The wife was general director of a large company selling furniture, bathroom fixtures, hardware and contracting renovations of office and residential properties. The husband did not work. So this was what it translated to in real life. Reading the documents and putting them into envelopes on the wall on the map of Daydream Estates, Nastya had imagined the family quite differently. She figured a calculating middle-aged businesswoman had bought herself a handsome, sexy husband and let him be a drone. Instead, they had simply switched roles. She made the money, he was the househusband. Well, maybe that was a good idea.

“How many children do you have?”

“Three.”

“Wow! You have your work cut out for you.”

“I manage.” He smiled shyly. “My wife isn’t complaining.” She managed to get him to talk about the residents. Unlike Solovyov, who lived a reclusive life and saw almost no one, Zhenya Yakimov knew practically everyone because he was here all day. People often asked him to baby-sit if they had to go away and they always called him if something broke.

Nastya worked, asking her prepared questions with a sweet smile, making brief, meaningless remarks that prompted Zhenya to tell her what she wanted to know. She could not write anything down and it was better not to ask him to repeat or expand on anything. The conversation had to seem unforced and she could not reveal her interest in Yakimov’s every word. She soaked up everything he said, every word, every interjection, all the time seeming to be eating the varied foods and only half-listening. She felt Solovyov’s unbelieving stare. After all, she had come to see him, personally, and not to join a party or talk to his guests. Why was she accepting his indifference to her, that he was totally monopolized by the three respectable businessmen, while she had to make do with the society of a neighbor she had just met and whom Solovyov barely knew? He could expect that from the old Nastya Kamenskaya, whom he had known many years ago, a girl madly in love with him, who had given up her pride and self-respect. But this Anastasia, who discussed her former feelings without a tremble and was ready to examine her present feelings under a microscope without any embarrassment, would hardly accept what she did not like. So, did this suit her then?

Solovyov kept looking over at her, losing the thread of the conversation with his publishers. After him the large tall man with the friendly face started looking at Nastya too. It was Sherkhan’s managing editor, Semyon Voronets. Stage one completed successfully, Nastya thought. They were realizing at last that I have the right to a private talk with the host. Get to work, Anastasia!

She slowly rose from the cushy caf6-au-lait leather couch and ambled over unhurriedly to Solovyov.

“Well, great genius of Oriental literature?” she asked mockingly. “Isn’t it time to give the lady a moment? Especially since she will be leaving soon.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the short, bearded Esipov blathered. “We’ve been exhausting poor Volodya with business. I’m so sorry you have to leave so early.”

“Really?” she asked innocently. “Why arc you sorry? Were you planning to make a pass at me?” She looked down at Esipov meaningfully – he was almost a full head shorter.

“No, no, I wouldn’t dare,” Kirill replied quickly. “But Semyon, I think, is primed to take an interest. Have you noticed that he can’t keep his eyes off you?”

Got it. They were going to transfer her to the smiling editor. He was going to give her the rush now, trying to get her drunk and show her in a bad light to Solovyov, after which he would take her away in total certainty that the host would have lost all interest in her. It was a primitive plan, intended for idiots, but nevertheless it always worked. No man can stand having his woman kiss someone else. No matter what explanations are offered.

Look at how they watch over Solovyov! Three duennas in trousers. Why this hostility toward outsider women? Are they that close to Solovyov that they bear collective responsibility for him? No, that couldn’t be. “New Russians” weren’t capable of such noble feelings. It must have to do with some specific woman who was having an affair with Solovyov and whom the trio were defending. Maybe she was a close friend or relative of one of them. Maybe she and Solovyov were having a tiff, since she didn’t come here on his birthday, but the publishing boys were on the case, keeping strange women away from their translator. Or maybe there was no tiff and she was simply out of town on business or a vacation.

Nastya took the handles on the back of the wheelchair and violating the rules of etiquette, simply took Solovyov into the study. Shutting the door firmly, she wheeled the chair to the window and sat down on the low, wide sill facing Vladimir. “Let’s talk for ten minutes and then I’m off.”

“So soon?”

“It’s time for me. Listen, Solovyov, what do you say? Did I come here in vain today or not?”

“That’s up to you.”

He shrugged and tried to look indifferent, as if the answer did not interest him in the least.

“I’ll decide about me for myself. But what do you say?”

“I don’t understand what you want,” Solovyov said in irritation. “What do you want me to say? Ask your questions clearly, do me the favor.”

“All right.” She sighed. “Twelve years ago you did not love me, you did not need me, I was a burden. You were not interested in me in the least. But nevertheless you saw me and even made love to me. It took a long time for me to realize that you were doing it not because you liked me but because you were afraid of my mother. You were afraid to get me angry because you thought I might complain to her, make up stories about you, slander you, and then you would never get your degree. As soon as I figured out that unpleasant truth, I left you alone. I can’t say that it didn’t hurt. I suffered a lot, Solovyov. I loved you. Today I was trying to understand if my feelings had changed toward you and to my great pleasure I saw that I respond to you quite calmly. I no longer tremble from your gaze and I don’t go crazy when we touch. You’ve become someone else and so have I. To my surprise, I found that could fall in love with you again. I, a different woman, could love you, a different man. A new meeting of two other people.

“Nowadays, Solovyov, I can control my feelings. I repeat, I could love you again, but the question is whether or not I should. If I decide that I shouldn’t, I won’t do it. No problem. On the other hand, I may decide that I should but I won’t be able to. And now I want to hear your answer. You can reply without preamble and without long explanations of what happened many years ago. Just tell me, do you want me to come visit you. Or if you want me to leave now and never see me again.”

There, she had done everything she could to make him invite her to visit. She needed this house and its owner, and if she had to lie to be able to come here, she would lie. Pretend. Act as if she were in love. Once upon a time she had been hurt, so hurt that she thought she would not survive it. But that was over ten years ago, and in her heart there was no need for revenge, in her heart there was nothing for this man. Empty. As if nothing had ever happened. But if for her work she had to cause him pain, she would do it without a second’s thought. It could not possibly hurt any more than the pain she had experienced. And even that, as she learned from bitter experience, can be survived. And so Solovyov would survive if he had to suffer a few unpleasant minutes when his eyes opened to the real feelings and motives of the woman to whom he was attracted.

Solovyov took her by the hand and pulled her toward him. Nastya jumped down from the low window sill and sat on his lap. He gave her a long, tender and very expert kiss, every now and then pulling away from her lips and moving his lips along her long neck. One hand was behind her back, the other caressed her breast under the loose sweater. Nastya paid attention to her reactions. She didn’t feel a thing. God, twelve years ago she would have died from caresses and kisses like this. But now – nothing. It was not unpleasant, she did not want to tear away in a grimace of disgust, as she would have if it had been a stranger. But there was no delight as in days of old, either.

She pulled away carefully from his arms and went back to the window sill.

“I didn’t hear an answer, Solovyov. I still don’t know whether you want me to come back.”

“You don’t want to.”

He looked at her closely and tenderly with his incredibly warm eyes.

“Don’t kid yourself, Nastya. You don’t need me. I’m a cripple and you’re a young healthy woman with normal needs that I can’t satisfy. You don’t feel a thing when I embrace you. So what is this all about?”

“I told you that you haven’t grown up. Sex is still the most important thing for you. You were a stud and you still are.” She smiled and patted his hand. “And you haven’t understood. I’m going back to my honored husband, and you take some time to think about what I said. I’ll come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk. I hope your business associates won’t be in the way tomorrow. That’s all, Solovyov, I’m off. Don’t sec me out, I’ll leave quietly, so that I don’t have to say good-bye to your sharks of capitalism. Is there only one door out of here – to the living room?”

“No, that door leads to the hallway.”

“Until tomorrow, dear,” she said mockingly, at the door.

He nodded without taking his wary eyes from her.

Nastya slipped quietly into the hallway. The door to the living room was open, and the voices carried clearly. Nastya took a few steps in the other direction and peeked into the kitchen. Andrei was having a peaceful talk there with the long-mustached Zhenya Yakimov. That meant that only the publishers were in the living room.

She got her jacket carefully from the closet, trying not to make any noise, and listened to their conversation.

“The Gazelle is what you need for that business,” Avtayev the commercial director was saying. “We won’t be able to manage otherwise.”

“That’s too complicated,” Voronets replied uncertainly. “So much effort, and what if it’s in vain?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Esipov cut him off. “There it is, and it has to be done. At whatever cost.”

Easy to tell who’s the boss, thought Nastya, deftly unlocking the front door.

* * *

Alexei Chistyakov lay on the couch watching a mystery on TV. On the floor next to the couch was a tray with empty dishes and a cup with dregs of tea. Nastya could tell that her husband had been in front of the TV for a long time, since lunch.

“What’s the matter, Lyoshka?” she asked in concern “Are you sick?”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head of red hair. “I’m on strike.”

“Why?”

“Those bastards at the college aren’t paying for my course. They said they would pay after exams. In other words, they want to see how I taught the course and what the students learned.”

“When are the exams?”

“May.”

“Great!” Nastya whistled. “We’ll be short again? That puts a damper on our anniversary trip.”

“Nice euphemism for coffin lid,” her husband commented.

They had gotten married last year on May 13. On the same day Nastya’s half-brother, her father’s son by a second marriage, got married too. Her brother was very happy, getting ready for a double wedding, and he made joking plans for joint celebrations of their first and all subsequent anniversaries. Alexander Kamensky insisted that all four of them go to Paris for the first anniversary, to Vienna for the second, and Rome for the third. Nastya paid no attention, knowing that she wouldn’t go anywhere on her brother’s money, and that they couldn’t afford such a trip on their own. Lyoshka could make a good salary if he accepted offers from universities abroad and signed contracts to work there. But he refused to move without Nastya, and Nastya refused to leave her job. And so they had to deal with holes in their budget almost every day.

“Are you going to have dinner?” Alexei asked, getting out from under the plaid blanket and feeling around with his feet for the slippers that always manage to escape.

“No thanks.”

“Where did you get fed? Didn’t you come straight from work?”

She no longer worried about whether she should lie or not when it came to her husband. The answer was always: don’t lie. First of all, Lyoshka had known her since she was fifteen, he knew her through and through, and he grew suspicious the moment she did anything out of character. Second, he was a truly gifted mathematician, a major scientist, and had a mind that was precise and unemotional, which made it very easy for him to see falsehood. And third, he knew what had happened between Nastya and Solovyov many years ago. He courageously hung on through it, but the suffering and fear he went through for a year and a half when it looked that he would lose the only woman he loved had left an ineradicable mark on his heart. With the slightest cause for suspicion, he became insanely jealous, everything inside him boiling and aching with the fear of losing the unpredictable, uncontrollable, and willful Anastasia, the only woman he needed in his life. Therefore Nastya knew that she could not give Lyoshka any cause for jealousy, because he would go crazy.

“I was at someone’s house.”

“During working hours?” He looked at her in surprise. Nastya didn’t do that. She never took care of personal things during work.

“It was for work. Lyoshka, I was at Solovyov’s.”

She didn’t need to ask if her husband remembered Vladimir Solovyov. She knew perfectly well that he did.

“Really?”

He tried to appear calm, and Nastya appreciated the effort.

“He lives where we are searching for criminals. I needed an excuse to be there. Moreover, I need an excuse to be there frequently until we clean up our case, and Solovyov is perfect for that. We had an affair which ended badly, but now he is a widower and it is quite natural for me to try to pick up where we left off. You do understand?”

“Yes, of course. It is completely natural. Shall I prepare for a divorce?”

“Lyoshka, shame on you!”

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.