The Stylist. Александра Маринина
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know, when a man does woman’s work, he develops a woman’s psychology. Your Andrei feels like the lady of the house, he cooks and cleans and takes care of you, and suddenly some female shows up. She tracks in dirt, keeps you from your work, and he has to serve her coffee, yet.”
“Don’t be silly,” Solovyov shrugged off the idea. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself instead. How have you lived all these years, what have you been doing.”
“That’s not interesting. I had a boring life, did the same old things, and in breaks moonlighted as a translator. How about you?”
“I…” He laughed strangely. “I led a frustrated life.”
“What do you mean?”
“My life could have been completely different, but as a result became what it is.”
“As a result of what?”
“Various events. I planned to move abroad twice, and twice I couldn’t do it. There’s a bad sign hanging over me. As a result I became an invalid and now I most certainly will never leave Moscow, much less Russia.”
“And how did it happen? Did something stop you?” “Something?” he repeated sarcastically. “Fate. Fate stopped me. I wanted to get a divorce, marry another woman, and leave with her. Just then Svetlana died, and I could not leave my son here alone. The woman left as she had planned, and I remained.”
“And the second time?”
“The second… My legs let me down. Where could I go in this condition?”
Nastya saw that he did not want to get into detail. All right, she could find out what she needed without him. But it was strange that he didn’t want to share with her. As far as she knew Solovyov, he had always enjoyed whining and complaining, telling how miserable he was in great detail and how he had been hurt. He had always needed sympathy. Of course, that was twelve years ago. He was different now. As was she.
“What did you tell your husband when you came here?” Solovyov abruptly changed the subject.
“Some lie. It doesn’t matter. He knows that I’m busy for days at a time with work and he docs not try to control my time.”
“You mean he’s not the jealous type?”
“Absolutely not,” Nastya lied without blinking an eye.
Poor Lyoshka! He was going crazy with jealousy, despite all her assurances and explanations. She was being forced to make him suffer so that she could solve the mystery of the missing teenagers. Was the answer worth his pain? Was there anything at all in the world worth hurting the person she loved most? Of course, Lyoshka would never say another word to her about it, and he would be angry and upset in silence. But did that make it any easier?
Nastya spent almost two hours with Solovyov. They talked, dined, reminisced about old friends, studiously avoiding topics that touched on their old relationship and possible relations today. Nastya noticed the assistant’s wary looks, but tried to pay no attention. They parted amicably.
She got home late and rushed to call her mother.
“Mama, do you remember your graduate student Volodya Solovyov?”
Nadezhda’s voice grew cold and tense. She knew all about their affair.
“I remember. But not as well as you do,” she replied coolly.
“All right, all right, mother,” Nastya said with a laugh. “It’s not my fault that I have such a good memory, I don’t forget anything.”
“In what connection has he come up?” her mother persisted.
“I ran into him in connection with work. It turns out his wife recently died and he is an invalid now, unable to walk. Have you heard anything about it?”
“No.”
“Could you find out? He’s in your field, a linguist. Surely one of your colleagues must know the story. ”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I tried, but he’s avoiding an answer. I don’t want to push him. Come on, Mother.”
“All right,” Nadezhda said. “I’ll try to find out. Has he been up to something?”
“No, not at all! What could Solovyov be up to? Before taking a step, he thinks for a century or so, and then doesn’t do anything. It’s just that I need the details so that I act accordingly. Otherwise I might say something that will upset him, and we won’t make contact.”
“Strange that you need additional terms for contact with him,” her mother noted dryly. “It seems to me you used to have excellent contact.”
“Mama!”
“All right, all right, don’t be mad. I’ll do what I can. Does Alexei know?”
“Of course.”
“God, what a child I brought into this world!” Her mother sighed. “You never had any tact. Why are you tormenting him?”
“I’m working, Mother. I’m not enjoying myself with a former lover,” Nastya said wearily.
She loved her mother. But in recent years, Nadezhda had stopped understanding her completely. Especially after the several years abroad. Nastya felt much more comfortable with her stepfather, who had been on the force all his life and understood her problems right off the bat.
Her mother called her at work late the next evening, just as Nastya was getting ready to leave.
“Do you know, it’s a horrible story,” Nadezhda announced in agitation. “It turns out, Volodya’s wife went to a resort and vanished. They searched for almost a month and then found her body in the woods. Some creep wanted her camera. To be killed over some stupid camera! I can’t accept that.”
“Where did it happen?”
“I don’t know, somewhere in Central Russia. On the Volga, that’s for sure.”
“What happened to his legs?”
“That’s not clear. No one knows what’s ailing him. He hasn’t told anyone. One man said that Volodya had been beaten viciously.”
“Who’s the man?”
“You don’t know him.”
“That means I’ll get to know him,” Nastya insisted. “Who is he?”
“Malyshev. Artur Malyshev. He’s a docent at the Institute of Foreign Languages. Arc you going to get in touch with him?” “Absolutely.”
“Why?”
“Because. It has to be done, Mother. If he was beaten, I want to know why the police have no record of it. And if he wasn’t, I need to know why your Malyshev thinks he was.” “What difference does it make why he thinks so if it’s not true?”
“A big difference,” Nastya explained patiently. “Even the wildest rumor starts somewhere. Someone made it up for some reason and told it to someone else. Even if there is no truth in it, somebody’s idea was behind it. And if there is some truth, then it is always necessary to find out just what truth it is.” “Well I hope that there won’t be any problems for Malyshev if it turns out that the mugging was just a lie,” her mother asked in concern.
“Relax, nothing will happen to him, to your precious Malyshev. Unless of course, he made it up himself. Are you going to give me his phone number or do I have to find it?’
Nadezhda sighed and dictated the address and telephone number. After she hung up, Nastya began getting ready to leave and was putting on her jacket when Yura Korotkov rushed into her office.
“Nastya, I think we’ve got a lead!” he burst out. “Oh, man, I’m exhausted, I’ve been running around all day. Make some coffee, be a pal.”
He plopped down on a chair and stretched out his legs blissfully. Nastya hung her jacket back in the closet and turned on the teapot. That meant her trip home was