— Don’t drag this out, Irka! The taxi’s waiting, and every minute costs me money.
Stas kicked my suitcase. The zipper, which had already been holding together by sheer willpower, burst open with an unpleasant sound, like a joint cracking.
From the belly of the bag spilled the sleeve of my old down jacket and the plush bunny of my three-year-old son.
I stood in the hallway, feeling cold sweat run down my back, even though the apartment was stiflingly warm. My husband smelled awful — sour, stale alcohol from yesterday, a stench not even mint gum could mask.
— Stas, where am I supposed to go? It’s November, it’s evening… — my voice trembled traitorously. — Antoshka just fell asleep.
— He’ll wake up in the car, he’s not made of glass. — Stas leaned his shoulder against the doorframe and demonstratively stared at his phone. — The apartment is legally in my mother’s name.
You’re nobody here, you’re registered at your father’s place. So go there. I need a private life, not your sour face and the kid’s constant whining.
From our bedroom — no longer mine — came a familiar wet smack. Then the sound of a wallpaper brush smoothing paper: shh-shh, shh-shh.
The door flew open. Lidiya Sergeyevna stepped into the hallway, wiping her hands on a rag. A headscarf on her head, glue stains on her robe. She looked me over the way one looks at an unwanted guest.
— You’re still here? — her booming voice filled the narrow entryway. — Stasik, how long are we going to drag this out? I need to move the bed. The movers are bringing my “Louis-style” furniture tomorrow, and this junk is lying all over the place.
She kicked the bunny lying on the floor.
— Lidiya Sergeyevna, have some conscience — I said quietly as I picked up the toy. — This is your grandson.
— A grandson is when he’s born to a decent woman — she snapped. — From you there’s only trouble. Stas has become a young boss, he needs status, a presentable wife.
That Kristina from the planning department — now that’s a match! And you? A gray mouse. That’s enough, out. I’m already putting up wallpaper in the bedroom, so don’t get in the way of people settling in.
— Give back the car — I looked at my husband. — The Skoda is mine. I bought it before the marriage, with my grandmother’s inheritance.
Stas snorted without taking his eyes off the screen.
— The keys are with Kristina. She needs it more, she drives me to work. You take the bus, it’ll be good for your figure.
And shut up while I’m still in a good mood. Otherwise I’ll call the right people and say you’re abusing the child. Child services will show up fast.
He stepped closer, grabbed my elbow roughly, and shoved me into the stairwell. The suitcase flew after me, hitting the concrete floor with a dull thud. The door slammed shut, the lock turned twice — final.
I was left standing in the dim stairwell, where it smelled of dampness and old plaster, clutching frightened, sleepy Anton to my chest.
In my father’s apartment, in a panel building on the outskirts, the same smell always greeted me: old books, dust, and strong heart medicine.
Time seemed frozen there somewhere in the early 2000s: a carpet on the wall, a bulky TV that only showed state channels, and a silence so deep it rang in my ears.
Pavel Konstantinovich opened the door immediately, as if he had been standing behind it. He was wearing his usual stretched-out sweater and worn slippers. When he saw us with the suitcase, he didn’t ask anything.
Silently, he took Anton into his arms and nodded toward the kitchen.
An hour later, when my son had fallen asleep on the old couch after tea and ring-shaped biscuits, my father sat down across from me.
— Tell me, Ira.
I held the mug with both hands, trying to warm myself even though it was warm. My teeth clinked against the porcelain rim.
— They threw us out, Dad. Lidiya Sergeyevna said she needs the second room to rent out. Stas is completely under her thumb, and on top of that he’s got a mistress at work… some Kristina. He gave her my car too.
My father listened without interrupting. His face remained motionless, like a mask. Only the fingers of his right hand slowly clenched and unclenched on the tablecloth.
— But that’s not all — I sobbed. — Yesterday Lidiya Sergeyevna said I should voluntarily sign a waiver for child support, otherwise they’d make your life “fun.”
She said your heart is weak, that one visit from a couple of tough guys would be enough… Dad, I was scared! I was scared for you!
Pavel Konstantinovich slowly took off his glasses and wiped them with the edge of his sweater. In the lamp’s light, his eyes looked faded, almost transparent.
— So Kristina is driving your car — he said quietly. — A white Octavia? Plate number 345?
— Yes.
— And Stas became a boss? At “Stroy-Invest”?
I nodded.
My father stood up, shuffled over to the cabinet, and took an old push-button phone from the top shelf.
— Dad, are you going to the police? — I asked. — It’s useless. Stas has friends there.
— Drink your tea, my girl. With lemon balm.
He dialed. His back straightened, the stoop disappeared.
— Hello, Grigory — he said. His voice was cold and firm. — Yes, Volkov. Do you remember the 1998 “North Oil” audit? I still have the file. Time to pay your debts…
When he hung up, he removed the battery, put the phone back, and smiled at me.
— Dad… you’re… an accountant.
— Paper can be heavier than bricks, Ira — he winked. — I ran an internal audit department for thirty years. I just didn’t want to drag you into it.
In the following days, the mills of justice ground slowly but relentlessly.
Three days later, masked men entered Stas’s office. Kristina screamed in the street when the car was towed away. Bailiffs rang Lidiya Sergeyevna’s doorbell.
A week later, my father and I were making dumplings. Anton laughed, his face covered in flour.
The doorbell rang.
My father opened the door. Stas stood there, broken.
— I want to see Ira… we need to talk — he whimpered.
— Irina has no husband — my father said quietly. — Only a son and a father.
Stas ran away.
My father returned to the kitchen.
— Who was that, Grandpa? — Anton asked.
— Nobody, my boy. A draft.
I leaned into my father’s shoulder. His sweater smelled like home. I knew that standing behind that back, I was no longer afraid of anything.
They say Lidiya Sergeyevna later tore down the new wallpaper in a fit of rage. The walls weren’t to blame — but someone had to absorb the anger.
