The Stylist. Александра Маринина
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the pleasure for at least an hour.”
“Great,” said Solovyov, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.
What an amusing young man! How subtly he sensed his mood and his tastes. Solovyov really enjoyed Italian cuisine, and Andrei must have been told that by the Sherkhan people. A long time ago, when they were just beginning to work together, they took a trip around Italy. Solovyov was with his wife, Svetlana, Kirill Esipov had his girl friend, and Grisha Avtayev, his son. What a wonderful time they had! It was very touching that they had gone to the trouble of telling the new assistant so much about him. What good people they were. They appreciated quality work.
The salad was authentic, and that was another pleasant surprise.
“Did you make the salad yourself?” he asked, helping himself to a second portion.
“Of course. Out of a cookbook. Is something wrong?”
“No, no, it’s perfect. Marvelous. What about the pizza?”
“The pizza is from the restaurant. I’m not good with the dough. Mr. Solovyov, Esipov called this morning to find out what time was convenient for you. I took the liberty of telling him any time after five. But if that doesn’t suit you, I’ll call them back.”
“It’s fine. Let them come after five. Did anyone else call?”
“No one.”
For a moment, Solovyov was sad. There used to be a time when his phone started ringing early in the morning on his birthday. People called to wish him the best and to find out what time the meal was, and asking if they could bring a friend. And now…
He chased away the sad thoughts. Everything’s fine, Solovyov, don’t sulk, people don’t like sorrow and you can’t blame them for that. Why don’t you think back how many times you called an old friend last year with birthday greetings? You’re the one who moved and changed phone numbers, and even though Igor was still at the old apartment, you couldn’t expect him to take the trouble to pass on your new number to callers. He lived in a permanent party state, and whoever was closest picked up the phone. All they say is that you don’t live there anymore.
“Let’s finish breakfast and go for a walk,” he ordered. “The weather is fine. It’s a shame to stay indoors on a day like this.”
But his mood changed abruptly during the walk. And he couldn’t say why. No one insulted him or upset him, but he felt depressed. It had been a mistake to want a celebration. A lonely invalid should lead a quiet hermit’s life instead of trying to be like people who are healthy and independent.
Andrei was pushing his wheelchair along the paved path that circled Daydream Estates. The spring air was warm and delicious, and Solovyov took deep breaths with pleasure, but nevertheless he wanted to go back home, to his translations. It was only in his work that he felt independent and self-reliant and even more importantly, irreplaceable.
Solovyov was about to ask Andrei to turn back, but he changed his mind. Why let the boy know that his mood had soured. He had tried so hard to make this a special day, had bought him a present and cooked a great lunch. He would be saddened to see that his efforts had been in vain. “What’s the matter with me?” thought Solovyov. “What do I care if his feelings are hurt? He’s not a friend or relative, he works for me. And his feelings shouldn’t effect me in the least.”
“It’s probably time to go back,” he said calmly, so as not to reveal his sudden irritation. “I have work to do today.”
“Of course, Mr. Solovyov. As you wish,” Andrei replied, turning the wheelchair around.
At home Solovyov went straight to work and his depression and irritation quickly disappeared. He plunged into ideographs, reading them easily and turning them into polished, refined phrases in Russian, at the same time respecting the mastery with which the author developed the plot. He was distracted from his work by the sound of a car stopping outside, and he looked up at the clock in surprise. Was it already five o’clock and he had not noticed the time fly by? It was only a little after three. The doorbell rang, he heard Andrei’s hurried steps and the click of the lock. Solovyov heard a woman’s voice that did not seem familiar. It must be somebody lost and looking for a neighbor’s house, thought Solovyov. However, a minute later the assistant was in his study.
“Mr. Solovyov, you have a guest.”
Solovyov rolled out to the living room in his wheelchair. In the middle of the room stood a blonde woman in narrow trousers that hugged her slender hips and a loose white sweater. At first he did not recognize her. They had not seen each other in many years, and Solovyov had not thought of her in almost as long. He had simply erased her from his memory as something superfluous and unnecessary.
“Hello, Solovyov,” she said softly. “Happy birthday.”
His mouth went dry. Now he remembered her and recognized her.
“You?”
“Me, as you can see.”
Chapter 2
They drank coffee in the cozy living room, having sent Andrei upstairs to his room. Nastya observed the man she had not seen in more than ten years with curiosity. He had not changed much, except for the wheelchair. The handsome manly face was the same, and so were the gentle eyes that could look at you with such warmth and penetration. The light chestnut hair was still thick and there were very few gray hairs.
“What is the meaning of your visit?”
“A feminine whim,” she replied evasively.
“That’s something new,” Solovyov smiled tightly. “I don’t remember you being whimsical.”
“I’ve changed.”
“A lot?”
“Very much. You can’t even imagine, Volodya, how much I’ve changed.”
“But I was still happy to see you.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to hear it.”
“But why did you really come? You’ve never wished me a happy birthday since we broke up.”
“Why did I come? I don’t know. I wanted to see you, I guess, to see what you’re like after all these years. I loved you, although you may not want to remember that.”
“What I’m like now?” Solovyov asked angrily. “I’m a widower and a helpless invalid. Satisfied?”
“I’m very sorry,” she said softly, looking into his eyes. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. It’s useless to talk about it, talking changes nothing.” “Well, then, don’t talk about it.”
His eyes grew warmer and for an instant Nastya fell under the spell of his incredible gray eyes.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Same sneak. Catch me up and turn things around to your benefit. What are you doing? Raking in the bucks in some business?”
“Of course. All us lawyers are working in business now.”
“Especially with your knowledge of foreign languages. How many do you speak? Three, I seem to recall.”
“Five,” Nastya corrected him with a smile. “English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese. But actually, you’re right. The romance languages are so close you could consider them as one.”
“With your brains and languages, you’re really too good for the police. Remember how worried you were after graduation that you wouldn’t get a job with the police, that they would send you off to be a lawyer? You wanted to get into a uniform so badly then, I remember. Now you must laugh about it, right? Lawyers with experience are worth their weight in gold today, especially in domestic law and real estate. The richest people in Russia.”
Nastya had gotten used to this sort of conversation over the years. At first she would get very angry, but then she got used to the fact that a lot of people considered her love of police work unnatural somehow.
“And