The Stylist

She heard quiet footsteps behind her and realized that Andrei had come downstairs. Without turning around, she leaned over Solovyov and gently kissed his lips.

“Excuse me,” Andrei said. “Should I set the table?”

Nastya slowly straightened and stretched deliciously.

“That’s a good idea, Solovyov. You have to feed guests. Even uninvited ones. Please forgive me, Andrei, but I won’t help you in the kitchen. I’m no cook. I’d better stay here with Volodya and enjoy his company, which I missed for so many years. You don’t mind, Solovyov?”

She sat back down on the couch and brought the cup of cold coffee to her lips.

“How’s your mother?” he asked.

“Flourishing. She was working in Sweden for a few years and now she’s back. Confess, Solovyov, you were secretly in love with her, weren’t you?”

He laughed, and his laughter was easy and joyful. He always enjoyed reminiscing about his graduate school days and his advisor, Nadezhda Kamenskaya, a woman as gifted in scholarship as she was beautiful and elegant.

“Right. All men from boy to geezer fell in love with her. But I adored her. And feared her terribly. By the way, Nastya, I’ve come across books where a certain Kamenskaya was listed as translator. Is that you?”

“Yes. Mother put so much effort into teaching me languages as a young child. I couldn’t let it go to waste. Fun for me, money for my wallet.”

Gradually they relaxed, the tension vanished, and during the meal they chatted as if there had been no long separation. Andrei’s face was inscrutable, as if their conversation had nothing to do with him. Nastya made a few clumsy attempts to draw him into the conversation, but the assistant politely responded briefly or not at all, going off to the stove or the refrigerator or the sink. When the door bell rang around 6.30 he seemed to sigh in relief.

Nastya regarded the new guests – the bosses of Sherkhan Books, with whom Solovyov worked so closely. They were typical “New Russians”, who had driven up in sparkling expensive foreign cars, who never put down their cellular phones, and who casually discussed loans in the millions, credit rates, and “corporate kickbacks”. She kept catching them watching her warily, even though all three tried very hard to pay no attention to her, speaking only with the birthday boy or his assistant and talking only about production and other topics that left her out. She quickly wearied of this demonstration of superiority. Under other circumstances she would have left long ago, but she was on duty. Therefore, emotions were set aside, no hurts or slights allowed, and ego hidden away. She needed this cottage estate, she needed this house. That meant she needed Solovyov, and she had to put up with however she was treated.

Trying not to make noise, she left the room and went out into the spacious and well-appointed hallway, got her jacket out of the closet, slipped it over her shoulders and went out on the porch which had steps on one side and a ramp for the wheelchair on the other. All the windows on the first floor were brightly lit, she could hear animated voices and laughter, and she suddenly felt terribly alone, unneeded, and superfluous.

Leaning on the railing, she took out her cigarettes and lit up. Who did they think they were, those publishers? What was she – a gold digger hoping to land a rich husband, taking advantage of the fact that he was handicapped and could hardly hope to find a young beauty? That must be how they saw her. That’s why they gave her dirty looks, that’s why they were demonstratively scornful. As to say, don’t count on it, girlie, this isn’t your speed. Rich Solovyov is as out of reach for you as the moon. She wondered how they would look at her if she bothered with makeup and put on the fancy clothes that her mother kept bringing her from Sweden. If she wanted to, she could look like a movie star. But the point was that she never wanted to do that. If the job called for it, well, then, of course. But on her own initiative, Nastya Kamenskaya never bothered. She simply wasn’t interested.

“Taking a break from the festivities?” a voice spoke near her.

Nastya turned and saw an amusing man pushing forty, balding, with a thick long mustache like Cossacks wore in old paintings. The man was wearing a good suit and a tie and had a small package under his arm. He had come on foot and Nastya figured him for a neighbor.

“It’s more like I’m giving the other guests a break from me,” she replied amiably. “I’m very serious and that seems to put a damper on things.”

“Are there a lot of people?” the “Cossack” asked in fear.

“No, no, only three. Come on in, please, the door is open.”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “I thought no one would be here yet, I just wanted to give Mr. Solovyov a present. But if there are people there, I don’t think I’ll go in.”

“Why not?”

“Well.” He grew even more embarrassed and suddenly Nastya found him very nice. “It’s just uncomfortable. I don’t know anyone there. No, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Nonsense,” Nastya said. “A gift and congratulations are good on the birthday. They lose their special charm by the next day. I don’t know anyone there, either. Let’s get to know each other and we’ll go together as a solid front against the strangers.”

She winked merrily and extended her hand to the owner of the luxurious mustache.

“My name is Anastasia. I am an old friend of Solovyov’s. He spent many years in graduate school studying with my mother.”

“I’m a neighbor.” He gave her a hearty handshake. “My name is Zhenya.”

Nastya tucked her hand under his arm, tossed out her cigarette, and literally dragged the poor man into the house.

“I’ve brought a new guest,” she announced in a loud voice from the doorway, enjoying the fleeting displeasure in the faces of the publishers. “This is Zhenya, he is a neighbor of Volodya’s. Welcome him, please. Zhenya, it’s your toast.”

Andrei inscrutably poured champagne into a handsome glass and brought it over to the neighbor on a small tray. The Sherkhan troika reluctantly stopped its discussion of something vital, everyone raised a glass and looked expectantly at the “Cossack.” That made him cringe and search for words.

“Volodya… Best wishes on your birthday… I don’t even know what to wish you… I wanted to say… well, I’m very happy that you have friends and family who come to visit. It’s very important to have people who need you and are interested in you and come not because they’re supposed to but because they want to. After all, the most important thing in life is to be needed. My wish for you is that your house is never lonely and forgotten.”

“Thanks, Zhenya,” Solovyov said warmly. “I am very grateful that you came. And I drink to your words with pleasure.”

“Let’s get closer to the table,” Nastya whispered to the neighbor. “They are having a production meeting, which is of no interest to us, but the table is filled with delicious stuff. Let them have their stupid business meeting.”

Zhenya obediently followed her to the couch, where Nastya practically forced him to sit. It was obvious that he was uncomfortable and wanted to leave.

“Have you lived here long?” she asked, loading his plate with hors-d’oeuvres.

“From the very beginning, as soon as they started construction. I was one of the first to move in. Almost at the same time with Solovyov.”

Strange, Nastya thought. They’ve been living near each other for so long and he’s embarrassed to make a wrong move or say the wrong thing. As if this were the first day he met Solovyov. And it wasn’t clear how such a shy and unassuming man could end up owning an expensive and prestigious cottage in the new Russia. In order to make that kind of money, you had to be a shark, aggressive and with sharp teeth. Not him. “What do you do, Zhenya? Or am I being impolite in asking?” He got even more embarrassed. “Nothing, basically. I bring up the children, run the house. My wife is in business. And I just… I stay at home.”

She remembered. The Yakimovs. Cottage Number 12. The wife was general director of a large company selling furniture, bathroom fixtures, hardware and contracting renovations of office and residential properties. The husband did not work. So this was what it translated to in real life. Reading the documents and putting them into envelopes on the wall on the map of Daydream Estates, Nastya had imagined the family quite differently. She figured a calculating middle-aged businesswoman had bought herself a handsome, sexy husband and let him be a drone. Instead, they had simply switched roles. She made the money, he was the househusband. Well, maybe that was a good idea.

“How many children do you have?”

“Three.”

“Wow! You have your work cut out for you.”

“I manage.” He smiled shyly. “My wife isn’t complaining.” She managed to get him to talk about the residents. Unlike Solovyov, who lived a reclusive life and saw almost no one, Zhenya Yakimov knew practically everyone because he was here all day. People often asked him to baby-sit if they had to go away and they always called him if something broke.

Nastya worked, asking her prepared questions with a sweet smile, making brief, meaningless remarks that prompted Zhenya to tell her what she wanted to know. She could not write anything down and it was better not to ask him to repeat or expand on anything. The conversation had to seem unforced and she could not reveal her interest in Yakimov’s every word. She soaked up everything he said, every word, every interjection, all the time seeming to be eating the varied foods and only half-listening. She felt Solovyov’s unbelieving stare. After all, she had come to see him, personally, and not to join a party or talk to his guests. Why was she accepting his indifference to her, that he was totally monopolized by the three respectable businessmen, while she had to make do with the society of a neighbor she had just met and whom Solovyov barely knew? He could expect that from the old Nastya Kamenskaya, whom he had known many years ago, a girl madly in love with him, who had given up her pride and self-respect. But this Anastasia, who discussed her former feelings without a tremble and was ready to examine her present feelings under a microscope without any embarrassment, would hardly accept what she did not like. So, did this suit her then?

Solovyov kept looking over at her, losing the thread of the conversation with his publishers. After him the large tall man with the friendly face started looking at Nastya too. It was Sherkhan’s managing editor, Semyon Voronets. Stage one completed successfully, Nastya thought. They were realizing at last that I have the right to a private talk with the host. Get to work, Anastasia!

She slowly rose from the cushy caf6-au-lait leather couch and ambled over unhurriedly to Solovyov.

“Well, great genius of Oriental literature?” she asked mockingly. “Isn’t it time to give the lady a moment? Especially since she will be leaving soon.”

“Oh, forgive me,” the short, bearded Esipov blathered. “We’ve been exhausting poor Volodya with business. I’m so sorry you have to leave so early.”

“Really?” she asked innocently. “Why arc you sorry? Were you planning to make a pass at me?” She looked down at Esipov meaningfully – he was almost a full head shorter.

“No, no, I wouldn’t dare,” Kirill replied quickly. “But Semyon, I think, is primed to take an interest. Have you noticed that he can’t keep his eyes off you?”

Got it. They were going to transfer her to the smiling editor. He was going to give her the rush now, trying to get her drunk and show her in a bad light to Solovyov, after which he would take her away in total certainty that the host would have lost all interest in her. It was a primitive plan, intended for idiots, but nevertheless it always worked. No man can stand having his woman kiss someone else. No matter what explanations are offered.

Look at how they watch over Solovyov! Three duennas in trousers. Why this hostility toward outsider women? Are they that close to Solovyov that they bear collective responsibility for him? No, that couldn’t be. “New Russians” weren’t capable of such noble feelings. It must have to do with some specific woman who was having an affair with Solovyov and whom the trio were defending. Maybe she was a close friend or relative of one of them. Maybe she and Solovyov were having a tiff, since she didn’t come here on his birthday, but the publishing boys were on the case, keeping strange women away from their translator. Or maybe there was no tiff and she was simply out of town on business or a vacation.