Vanilla Island

I tell myself I desperately need a cappuccino today. Like, truly can’t live without it—a fix, like some hopeless addict. That’s the only reason I’m going. Definitely not because I hope to see that big black car parked nearby. And maybe… just maybe…

The café car park is empty. Vika greets me cheerfully—she loves a chat, and we’ve sort of become friends. She brings me my cappuccino.

“Oh, Svetka! You should’ve seen it yesterday! That sugar daddy of yours barged in, stomping, slammed the counter like he was going to break it in half. Face all twisted with rage. Yelling, ‘My Sveta nearly broke her legs out there! I’ll shut this damned café down and have it bulldozed!’ Absolute nightmare!”

“Vika, stop making things up. Just tell me what actually happened.”

“Well, maybe I slightly exaggerated,” she grins. “Right after you left, your sugar daddy walks in. All important-like, cold as an icebreaker. Gave us a dressing-down for not keeping the steps salted. Says: ‘Give me the same coffee Sveta had.’ Sniffs it, barely touches it. Asked how often you come in. I told him not much lately—your mum’s in hospital and it’s a tough time.

He told us to top up your bonus points next time you pop in—moral compensation, he said. So today, your cappuccino’s on the house. And here”—she sets down a slice of my favourite cake —“this one’s from us too.” I’d stopped treating myself to it lately—too expensive.

“Vika, don’t talk nonsense. He’s not my sugar daddy! I don’t even know him—we literally just bumped into each other.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure! I saw the way you were standing there all snuggly, and how lovingly he was brushing off your jeans. Come on—spill! Who is he?”

“Drop it! I told you—we ran into each other, that’s all.”

“All right, you’ll tell me later,” she says with a knowing wink.

“Vika! Why can’t you mind your own business? Why’d you have to bring up my mum and the hospital?”

“Oh, come on! It’s not like it’s a national secret. And he is hot. Top class! I hyped you up, by the way—told him how amazing you are.”

Suddenly, she turns serious and sits beside me.

“You know, he’s got his eye on you. I won’t give you advice—but I know that kind of men. Our usual tricks don’t work on them. Nothing works on them. They know exactly what they want—and they always get it. Just… use your head, yeah? So you don’t end up regretting it.”

There’s a flicker of deep pain in her eyes—so raw and real it unsettles me. A customer appears, and Vika instantly transforms back into her usual cheerful, slightly cheeky waitress self.

Funny how life works—we only ever see people’s outer shell, like a protective casing. But beneath it, every single person carries their own universe—joys, hopes, grief, disappointments, quiet heartbreaks.

I check the time—I’m running late!

Still, I can’t help feeling a little warmed. He thought of me. Stuck up for me. Got me free coffee. Will I see him again? I wonder as I jog towards the car park. But Vika’s words keep echoing: “They know what they want—and they always get it…”

On the way to the hospital, I try to rehearse what I’ll say to the hospital director. But what’s the point? What can I say? Plead and cry into his white coat?

Just before the hospital turn-off, something starts clattering under the bonnet. The engine cuts out and I roll onto the verge. A jolt. The sound of impact…

“That’s it. Game over,” I murmur in resigned despair.

I already hear shouting. No—swearing. Premium-grade cursing. I get out. A balding, furious man is storming towards me, his face contorted in rage. Of all the names he hurls at me, “stupid cow” is probably the most polite. He jabs a finger at his bumper—barely a scuff, really. It was a soft, glancing bump.

No point explaining about safe distances. No point calling him “stupid jerk”. Misery and hopelessness wash over me. I know what comes next. I know I’m about to lose money. Worse—my car’s finished. How will I get to Mum now?

“Daddy, please—help me. Do something!” I beg the heavens.

And suddenly—miracle of miracles—a familiar black slab of steel looms through the mist, all snarling chrome. Him! He steps out, calm and deliberate. Yesterday, I only saw him standing. Now he’s walking. Fluid, controlled, powerful—like a great cat. I notice a slight limp in his left leg.

He approaches and growls, deep and loud, “Sveta! What’s going on? Who’s this bloke?!” Like we’ve known each other for years. The “bloke” shuts up instantly.

I watch, stunned, as he casually pulls out cash. The “bloke” stammers an apology and vanishes.

Mobster, I think. Not just a mobster—a don or a kingpin, whatever they call it. I’m doomed!

I try to explain, but I’m shaking too hard. It comes out as a jumble. He listens, stone-faced, and makes a call. My mind’s whirling—I think he’s calling a tow truck.

Then the words hit me like a slap: “That brownish heap.” That’s what he called my poor old Opel! I know what he meant. It stings. If the car’s shit—what does that make the one who drives it?

Still, I obey his commands without resistance. What else can I do? I turn on the hazard lights—thank God, they work. Stop—valuables!

What do I even have that’s valuable? My bag with documents—driving licence, insurance, car title. Though what’s the point now? The boot’s full of junk. No use even opening it. In the glove box—old utility bills from Dad, some sweet wrappers.

Oh—and a pack of tissues. Just what I need for the tears and snot. I find half a blister of paracetamol—might be useful. I unhook my lucky monkey charm.

That’s it. I shuffle back.

He’s already set up the warning triangle—so thoughtful. I think mine’s somewhere… but I’ve no idea when I last saw it.

I approach, and he gives me a strange look. Oh right—valuables. God, I should’ve at least hidden them in my bag. Now I’m standing here clutching all this pathetic junk like a lost idiot. Tears sting my eyes.

That’s right. This is me: Sveta the screw-up. Do whatever you want—just please, shoot me out of my misery after and bury me right here, by the roadside…

Suddenly something shifts in his dark, piercing eyes. The cold edge melts slightly. Softly, without a trace of command, he says I should get in his car. Then adds the words that nearly make my brain explode: “Meeting with the hospital director.”

For a split second, relief blooms: Mobsters don’t go to business meetings with hospital directors. But that’s not even the point.

The point is the magical word: hospital director. Hope flares inside me—and I grin like the world’s daftest Pinocchio.

God, how ridiculous I must look right now!

He

We drive in silence—I need to think. Shere Khan’s plan, brilliant in its vulgar simplicity—bribery, pressure—has gone straight to the bin. A new one is needed. The Mousey will be mine, but only if she chooses it herself, willingly. I don’t want her any other way. I realised that back there on the roadside. I’ll pay for the operation regardless.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see she’s deep in thought, wanting to speak, but hesitant. At last, she ventures timidly:

“Sorry… what’s your name?”

“For now, you can call me Sergei.”

I put weight on ‘for now’, but she doesn’t pick up on it.

“Sergei!” She stumbles slightly—she wants to use a patronymic, clearly. “Please… I need your help to speak with the hospital director. It’s very important.” She looks at me, pleading.

“What happened?”

She starts explaining the situation with her mother—everything I already know.

“Alright. I’ll try, but I can’t promise anything,” I reply flatly.

They’re already waiting for us at the entrance.

“Mr Nikolaev! Hello, let me show you in,” says a pleasant-looking young woman in a white coat. She glances at my companion, a little puzzled—clearly, this girl in faded jeans doesn’t look like a personal assistant. We make our way down a long corridor toward the director’s office.

“What’s your mum’s name?” I ask.

She tells me a name I already know well.

“Sit here and wait,” I instruct. She obediently perches on the edge of a chair.

The director—a bit heavyset, with thinning grey hair—comes into the waiting room.

“Sergei Alekseyevich! So glad you haven’t forgotten about us.”

We shake hands and head into his office. I like this man—we’ve met a few times before, and I know he genuinely cares about his work and fights tooth and nail for funding for the hospital.

After the usual pleasantries, I tell him I’m aware of their current financial difficulties with the equipment order, and propose the following: our company offers a sponsorship donation, and in return, the hospital performs urgent surgery on one Vera V. Serova, currently a patient here. He looks surprised. Hesitates. But we won the tender fairly long ago—everything by the book.

“You realise, of course, that in this case it won’t count as charitable sponsorship and won’t lower your taxes.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “It suits us.”

He’s not quite aware of Serova’s condition, so he calls in the attending physician. While we wait, he asks how I’m related to her.

“I’m the cousin of her aunt’s nephew,” I say with a straight face.

He nods slowly, retreating into thought, trying to untangle that impossible family tree.

Tea arrives, and we chat a while. He tells me about plans for refurbishment and a new ward.

The doctor appears with her file. Apologetically explains that no operation date has been set yet: there’s a queue, and no quota for high-tech care just yet—funds are expected next quarter. The director dismisses her and starts flipping through the notes.

He names the cost of the operation—not excessive. We’re not in Miami, after all, just an ordinary regional hospital. Still, what’s a modest sum for me is astronomical for Mousey. I offer a donation about 50% higher. He accepts, calls in his secretary, gives instructions.

Our company’s details are already in the procurement contract so ten minutes later she returns with a standard sponsorship agreement. We sign. I make the payment straight from my phone—I’ll sort it out with accounting later.

“Of course, we’ll still need the patient’s consent and a few formalities,” the director reminds me.

“Tomorrow, at this time, the patient’s daughter will come by and help with that.”

We return to the waiting room. Mousey leaps up—hope and questions written all over her face.

The director instructs the secretary to arrange her mother’s transfer to the special unit, start pre-op prep, and coordinate a surgery date with the surgeon—next week, at the latest.

She glows with happiness, looks at me like I’m some kind of real-life Robin Hood. No need for her to know the operation’s being paid for.

The director insists on escorting us to the ward. We’re given white coats. It’s a long walk through corridors and stairwells.

A nurse approaches. Visiting hours are over, but they let Mousey in for a few minutes. The director carries on talking about equipment and budgeting. I nod along politely.

Mousey returns, but I want to see her mother myself.

She’s lying there with an oxygen tube under her nose. Pale lips, weary face—but her eyes are huge, just like her daughter’s. I like her. I take her hand, gently stroke it, and say the usual phrases: everything will be fine, your daughter is wonderful. Her eyes light up with joy—a light I now recognise well.

I step out of the ward. The director is explaining the surgery process to Sveta. We head towards the exit. Suddenly he says, at just the wrong moment:

“Post-op recovery will be covered by her insurance, so no further costs. And we’ll place her in a single room in the special unit—it’ll be more comfortable.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you,” I reply, and catch the look of horror on the Mousey’s face. Oh, how I want to strangle this well-meaning old man.

We say our goodbyes and walk silently to the car. Suddenly she stops.

“Sergei Alekseyevich… Thank you. But you didn’t have to… I’ll pay you back. Not right away, but I promise I will.”

She’s on the verge of tears—her eyes full of anguish and guilt.

“Sveta, we need to talk. There’s a restaurant nearby. We’ll have dinner, and we’ll talk.” I say it not as a question, but as a calm, firm statement. No ifs, no maybes.

Another of those hopeless, cornered-little-mouse glances. Shere Khan would be purring with delight.

“Yes, of course, Sergei Alekseyevich,” she agrees in a strangled voice.

She can’t say no—that would seem ungrateful. But she’s not expecting anything good from this dinner. She’s not a child—she knows how these things go.

She

I’ve been sitting in the waiting room for almost an hour. I see the doctor who’s treating Mum go into the office, holding what looks like a medical file. I hope it’s her chart, but no one calls me in. The doctor leaves, the secretary pops in and out a couple of times. I’m dying of thirst, but I don’t dare ask for water.

At last, the director and Sergei Alekseyevich appear—I now know his full name, even his surname. I leap to my feet. Could it be? Did he actually help?

The chief gives some instructions to the secretary, and to my delight I realise it’s all sorted: they’ve moved Mum up the list, and the surgery will be next week!

I could kiss this stern Sergei Alekseyevich, the hospital director, the secretary—everyone! Even the street sweepers who don’t salt the pavement. Even that “jerk” who rammed into me this morning. What a joy! What a relief!

I practically skip—like my monkey talisman—after the chief and Sergei Alekseyevich to Mum’s ward. I share the wonderful news and promise to come again tomorrow.

I’m pleasantly surprised when Sergei Alekseyevich goes in to see Mum as well—I’ll ask her tomorrow what they talked about. Everything’s turning out like a fairy tale!

On the way out, I’m thinking about how I’ll get home without a car, when—right in the middle of all this happiness—I hear: “no further costs.” It takes a moment to register, but then the realisation hits: he paid for the surgery! Just like that. He didn’t even ask me. Now I’m in his debt. Now I owe him. And that’s terrifying!

I trail after him like a zombie and finally work up the nerve to speak. I promise I’ll repay it all. Sure. How on earth would I repay a sum like that? How many years would I have to work for peanuts to even get close?

I may be a fool, but I’m not a total idiot—I know exactly where this is heading. I’m not surprised when he suggests a restaurant—classic move. Why is it always me? Why am I so hopelessly unlucky?

He politely opens the car door for me. The white lettering on the ribbed doorsill catches my eye: KOMENDANT[3]. I get in. He presses a few buttons near the seat, and it adjusts to fit me perfectly. Warm, soft, comfortable—but none of it helps. The door closes with a quiet click.

That’s it. I’m caught.

I sit in silence the whole drive to the restaurant, feverishly composing some firm, dignified line in my head. Something like: “Dear Sergei Alekseyevich, you’ve done so much for me. Thank you, truly, but…” God, this is all so awful, so humiliating, so vile!

He drives in silence, eyes fixed on the road, as if I’m not even sitting beside him. That’s good—gives me a moment to pull myself together and figure out what to say. Thoughts are darting everywhere, tangled. He hasn’t actually done anything bad to me yet… but he’s put me in a horribly dependent position.

I admit it to myself—I like him. I’ve been thinking about him constantly since that first ridiculous encounter. If he’d simply started courting me, I wouldn’t have minded. But now, these damned money matters have planted themselves between us! Why did he have to do that? If I end up in his bed now, it’ll feel degrading. Revolting.

Although… courting? He doesn’t even seem capable of it. From the start he’s been barking at me, treating me like some stray that accidentally wandered into the path of this rough-cut Superman.

A selfish manipulator! Blackmailing me while I’m trapped with no way out. Courting—why bother, when you’ve got money? Why spend time and energy when you can just buy yourself a new toy, have a little fun, and toss it in the bin afterwards? “They always get what they want,” as Vika once warned.

God, I’m so thirsty. Why on earth didn’t I ask for water while we were at the clinic? Fool.

I have to think of something. The main thing is to get there first—say what needs saying before he can start his mind games. He’s got that commanding voice, the sort that hypnotises. No doubt about it, he’s a skilful manipulator. But I won’t let him work on me—I’ll speak first, get it out before he starts. And if he tries anything—I’ll tell him exactly where to go, stand up and walk out!

Though, truth be told, he hasn’t exactly done anything deserving of insults. He did help with the operation—even if it wasn’t entirely out of the goodness of his heart. And I do like him—no use pretending. He reminds me so strikingly of Joffrey de Peyrac—the limp, the scar, the brooding charm. Just the sort of man I always dreamed about, straight out of the Angélique novels.

I need to come up with a polite but firm refusal. But what if he takes the money back and the operation gets cancelled? What would I tell Mum? Maybe he hasn’t even paid yet? He’ll set conditions—we both know what kind.

How would I live with myself if Mum didn’t make it to surgery? But how will I live with myself if I become a prostitute? Oh God, why is the restaurant so close? We’re already pulling up, and I still don’t know what to say!

And the name of the place—Bonjour. What a daft name for a restaurant! It might suit a café, but not a proper restaurant. Imagine walking through Paris and seeing a Russian restaurant called Good Day—or worse, Good Morning. Ridiculous! The thought makes me smile—and I relax, just a little.

I slip off to the loo—I need a moment alone to gather myself. It’s decently clean in here. I freshen up, try to breathe. I’m dying for a sip of water from the tap but can’t quite bring myself to do it. I haven’t sunk that low yet, have I? Or maybe I already have? Soon I’ll be a whore, drinking from the toilet in full right.

My tired face stares back at me from the mirror. My hair’s a mess. A proper fright. Well, good—the worse I look, the better. Maybe it’ll put him off.

I rehearse a polite but firm speech in the mirror. Once more, I remind myself: beat him to it, say it first. Deep down, I know it’s pointless. He’ll just take me by the elbow, like last time, pin me with that hypnotic stare, lead me away—and make me his whore. Maybe I should run now? But Mum…

I steel myself and head back to the dining room. He’s waiting calmly, tucked into a corner behind some decorative greenery. So casual. So patient. A blackmailer. And still, so painfully attractive.

2. Game of cards

“we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”

“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.

“You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

(Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland)

He

The restaurant is small and cosy. The owner—also the head chef—is known around here as “Uncle Vova”. He’s heard of French cuisine and christened the place Bonjour, although it only opens in the evening and is shut during the day.

I’ve never tried anything from his so-called French menu, but the steak—made from locally farmed meat—is always excellent. I’ve also heard good things about his salmon in white sauce and his côtelettes à la française. But tonight, food isn’t the main thing. What matters is that, at this early evening hour, the restaurant is empty, and no one will disturb us.

Monsey’s gone to the ladies’ room. I have time to wash my hands, greet the owner—but she’s taking a while. Buying time, or rehearsing her speech. I saw her lips moving in the car. The gist isn’t hard to guess.

I walk into the dining room and take in the surroundings. Quiet—no music. Our table is tucked behind a green partition. Good. The tablecloth is green too—fitting for the game I intend to play.

At last, she returns. I beckon over Stasik, our waiter—a handsome lad with an earring. I suspect he’s got a bit of a thing for me, judging by the jealous glance he throws at my little Mousey. He hands her a menu, but I’ve already decided.

I place the order without fuss. No starters. Steak for me, salmon for the lady. No wine—I need her mind clear—just water. No dessert. A cappuccino with vanilla syrup and cinnamon for her, and a double espresso for me. Mousey, confused, hands back the menu without having looked at it. The game is on.

She says nothing—eyes fixed on the tablecloth. I don’t rush either. Stasik brings the water. Pours mine first, then hers—a small act of spite.

She gulps down half the glass immediately, then, embarrassed, puts it down. Won’t look me in the eye—nervous, or shy. The food arrives quickly.

“Bon appétit,” I say, slicing into my steak.

I like it rare. I notice the way her face twitches at the sight of the red juice bleeding across my plate.

She timidly separates a piece of baked salmon, nestled in a pool of white sauce beside boiled potatoes and green asparagus. She tries it—and then tucks in, quickly. She’s genuinely hungry.

I give her time to finish and study her. It’s the first time I see her like this—not on the move, but still. I’ve seen her surprised, desperate, pleading, hopeful, happy, frightened. Now, for the first time, she’s simply serious.

I admire her delicate face, her slender neck. Her hair’s slightly undone, which only adds to her unguarded charm. She’s beautiful. So wonderfully, achingly feminine. I find myself wondering—how long have I even known her? A couple of minutes yesterday, a few more on the road. The hospital, two short car rides. An hour at most.

Of course, I already know quite a lot about her from the dossier Edik sent, while she knows nothing about me. She only learnt my surname by accident. And here I am, wanting her to give herself to me completely—to a man with whom she’s exchanged barely a dozen sentences.

Do I even have the right to decide her fate? All I know is this: I’ll never break her. I’ll play with open cards. And the decision must be hers alone. I’m sure—well, almost sure—that she is the one I’ve been looking for all these years. After some hesitation, I set myself a time frame: seven days to be sure, and to win her heart. I suspect it won’t be easy, but I have no doubt I’ll manage.

She’s finished her meal and finally lifts her eyes.

“Was it good?” I ask.

“Yes, thank you. Really good—the… asparagus… or is it asparagi?”

“At the table, just asparagus,” I say with a smile. “Asparagi is more botanical.”

She blushes at what she thinks is ignorance. After a pause, she cautiously plays her first card.

“Sergei Alekseyevich… do you come here often with your wife?” The phrase with your wife is ever so slightly stressed. Bravo, Mousey! A clever gambit. Hoping I’ll suddenly remember I have a conscience and back off.

“I’m not married.”

A flicker of surprised interest, tinged with disappointment. My move now.

“Sveta, I have a proposal…”

She doesn’t let me finish. Lifting her chin and straightening up, she blurts out the speech she’s clearly practised many times:

“Sergei Alekseyevich! You’ve done so much for me. You’ve really helped me. I’m so grateful, thank you! You’re a very kind man, but… I’m sorry, this is hard to say… I can’t become your…” she falters, “your… your mistress.”

Brave girl! I wasn’t wrong about her. I was counting on her playing that card now. Proud little Mousey. I feign genuine surprise.

“I wasn’t asking you to be my mistress.”

“What? But I thought —” she trails off.

I can see her brain scrambling. Surely this sort of man doesn’t drop to one knee, produce a basket of roses and a velvet ring box? So what else might I be offering? A job? A role in a film, perhaps? Something like: We’ve decided, with the late Tarkovsky, to co-direct a prequel to Poor Liza, and you’re perfect for the role. Of course, you’ll need to audition…