The Stylist. Александра Маринина
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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.”
“What did you say?” She laughed. “I never heard that expression. Is that a proverb?”
He smiled, as he went on mixing the meatloaf ingredients.
“At college we used to transform traditional sayings and proverbs. We even had competitions. For instance, ‘Don’t spit in the well, it won’t learn new tricks.’”
“Cute. Any others?”
“Wednesday’s child fell on its face.”
It took Nastya a second to remember the verse: “Wednesday’s child is full of grace.”
“I like it!”
She could see Andrei pushing the wheelchair with Vladimir on the other side of the road. Yakimov had his back to the window, and didn’t see them, so if she needed to, she could pretend not to have noticed and go on asking the father of the three sweet children about the residents of the cottages. But Nastya decided not to push it. All in good time.
“There they are,” she said, getting up. “Thanks for taking me in, Zhenya.”
She could not tell whether or not Solovyov was pleased by her arrival. But it was quite clear that his assistant Andrei definitely did not like it. Naturally, the young man did not say or do anything hostile, but Nastya could feel his displeasure the way young brides feel the dislike of even very polite and friendly mothers-in-law.
After the first visit to her former lover, Nastya tried to learn what disaster had befallen him, but she could not find out in two days. It was not the result of criminal violence: all information on murders and serious bodily harm in the Moscow region ended up on her desk and from there into various reports, tables, files, and eventually her home computer. She would not have missed the name Solovyov, even if she had wanted to. Her memory was always good, and she would certainly remember Volodya Solovyov as long as she lived. He had left too painful a mark to forget. Well then, his legs must have lost their mobility as the result of some illness. Could the illness be related to the death of his wife, Svetlana? What did she die of? As far as Nastya knew, Vladimir and his wife were the same age, and therefore, she had died quite young, still in her thirties.
“You promised to come on Saturday,” Solovyov noted. “Have you become irresponsible?”
“I warned you that I had changed. I guess in some ways, for the worse. Did you wait for me?”
“I did.”
He smiled so warmly and tenderly that for a second she forgot all about everything else.
“Your boy doesn’t seem to share your feelings,” she said evasively. “Do you think he’s jealous?”
“What does he have to be jealous about?” Solovyov said in amazement. “He’s not