The Stylist

* * *

Solovyov was having trouble getting used to his new assistant. Ever since he became trapped in his wheelchair, he had an assistant. Secretary, nanny, errand boy, chef, janitor and maid all in one. At first everyone recommended he hire a woman. After all, the functions were primarily female, there was hardly any real man’s work, but Solovyov knew that he would not be able to stand having a woman around to take care of him and pity him. His memories were too strong of the days when women adored him and loved him for his strength, decisiveness, and courage.

The first one was a nice guy, who managed his duties well but whose normal male ambition got in the way of staying in a job with no career prospects. Solovyov paid a more than generous wage and threw in use of his car, but it turned out that the man had taken the job for a place to live. As soon as he had an opportunity to buy his own apartment, he quit. The publishers found him his second assistant – they sent over a young man who worked in their warehouse. He didn’t last very long – he was sticky-fingered and dumb besides, forgetting to do half the things Solovyov told him. This was the third. The publishers had found him, too, apologizing all the while for the unsuccessful previous candidate and promising that the young one would be fine. His name was Andrei.

Solovyov was wary of him. In the last two years he had learned the full measure of his own vulnerability, involved with his inability to control the assistant and the need to rely on him completely. While the first attempt had been more or less successful, the second was a failure. Therefore, he decided to start by finding out why Andrei took the job.

“How old are you?” he asked Andrei when they met. “Twenty-five.”

“Do you have a family?”

“Parents. I’m not married yet.”

“Do you live with them?”

“No, I have my own place.”

“Education?”

“High school.”

“Army?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, Andrei, what do you need this job for? It’s not a career path.”

“I won’t have a career anywhere,” he said with an easy smile. “That’s not my character. You have to be aggressive, pushy, quick. I’m not like that.”

“You’ll have to live here with me,” Solovyov warned.

“Yes, I know. They told me.”

“What else did they say?”

“That I’ll have to drive, be able to cook decently, not drink, and be precise and careful with your work. To do what I’m told and not forget anything.”

“And do you think you can manage that?”

“I hope so. My mother says I should have been born a girl.” Andrei’s eyeglasses lent him a serious and businesslike air. Solovyov thought that he had no choice anyway. So now the new assistant had been with him two weeks. There had been no problems as yet, but Solovyov, taught by experience, did not let up his vigilance. Andrei had gone into town that morning to buy food for the birthday party. He should have been back, Solovyov thought irritably, it was getting dark. He was afraid of being alone in the dark.

The sound of a car came through the window, the car door slammed, and the front door opened. Solovyov was in his study on the first floor and could hear his assistant’s every footstep. Would he start unloading the car first or have the sense to come in and report?

Andrei had the sense to report, and Solovyov’s irritation subsided.

“Good evening. I’m sorry for the delay.”

Ah, so he realizes he’s late. That was good.

“What happened?” Solovyov asked as indifferently as he could. He didn’t want the boy to see that he had been upset.

“They didn’t have some of the hors-d’oeuvres you had ordered, and I had to wait while they made them up.”

“What, they made them specially for you?”

“No, specially for you,” Andrei replied with a smile. “I gave the department director your book and explained that it was your birthday. Her husband is a big fan of Eastern Best Seller, and she gladly took care of the order.”

“Where did you get the book? From my shelves?”

“No, I bought it along the way.”

“What for?”

“Just in case. And it did come in handy.”

The fellow had brains. And he wasn’t pushy, he bought the book himself, even though he could have asked Solovyov for a copy, he wouldn’t have refused.

“In any case, I managed to get everything you wanted. Food and drink. I’ll unload the car and then we’ll have dinner. Or would you rather eat first?”

“No, no. Go ahead. I’m not very hungry.”

Andrei left, and Solovyov returned to his translation. The book was due in two weeks, in mid-April, and he was right on schedule, but Solovyov did not like leaving things for the last minute and preferred to finish earlier than the publisher’s deadline, to have time to go over the manuscript one last time for the final touches.

After dinner, Solovyov settled down in the living room in front of the television set.

“Andrei!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to remind you this morning about the masseur. ”

“I called him,” the assistant replied. “You had told me about it two days ago. He’ll be here tomorrow morning at ten.” “Thanks,” Solovyov mumbled in relief.

The masseur came every other day at the same time, five p.m. But that might not be a good time tomorrow, since guests might have arrived by then. Solovyov had not invited anyone for a specific time, and anyone who wanted to come would be dropping in at any hour during the day. He did not want to miss his massage, because he felt like a new man afterward. Well, well, the boy was not forgetful, another point for him.

That night he had trouble falling asleep. For some reason he was worried about tomorrow. But why? There was nothing special, a day like any other. It wasn’t the first or last birthday he’d ever have. So why so upset? As if he were expecting disaster.

His bedroom was on the first floor, and Andrei’s room was on the second, right above him. Solovyov could see the light coming from Andrei’s window. The assistant was not asleep and that was upsetting, too. It was after one a.m., why wasn’t the lad sleepy? If he was what he tried to appear to be, not ambitious and without any other interests or occupation besides his work for Solovyov, he should sleep soundly at night. Or did he suffer from insomnia too? Why? Guilty conscience? Spiritual suffering? Lord, he was getting ridiculous!

The light went out on the second floor at last, and Solovyov calmed down. He had drifted off when he heard footsteps. Someone was carefully going down the ramp from the second floor. Someone! Why, who else could it be but Andrei? Solovyov opened his eyes, but there was no light coming from the window. Why didn’t he put on the light if he needed to go downstairs? Why was he walking around in the dark? His heart was thudding and his ears rang.

The steps got closer and, even though they were very cautious and quiet, Solovyov could hear them. They thundered in his ears. He couldn’t stand it.

“Andrei!” he called out, turning on the lamp over his head-board.

The door was flung open instantly. Andrei was on the doorstep wearing only his shorts. Solovyov noticed that his assistant was barefoot.

“Excuse me for disturbing you,” he said, embarrassed. “I thought you were asleep and I tried not to make any noise.”

“I’m not asleep,” Solovyov said dryly. “What happened? Why are you wandering around the house?”

“You know, I was falling asleep when I remembered that I hadn’t put the butter in the fridge. Was I really making so much noise?”