—What’s this?!
Zhanna Yegorovna pointed a finger at the plate with squeamish disdain, where a lonely mound of something beet-and-mayonnaise was slowly slumping outward. Gleb’s version of a “proper herring under a fur coat” looked more like the aftermath of a failed experiment in a chemistry lab.
Alla walked into the apartment at exactly 5:30—just as she’d promised. Fresh, well-rested, with a new blowout and nails the color of “Burgundy Wine.” The place was thick with the heavy steam of boiled vegetables, mixed with the smell of… what seemed to be burnt chicken.
Gleb, wearing his wife’s polka-dot apron, his face red and sweaty, dashed to her from the stove.
—There she is! Finally showed up!—Zina hissed from the empty table. —We’ve been sitting here since five!
—Good evening, dear guests,—Alla beamed. —Zhanna Yegorovna, you look wonderful. Zinaida, a new dress? Very… bold. And Glebushka, sweetheart, where’s the “fluffy” Olivier salad?
Gleb only hiccuped. On the table, besides the “fur coat,” there was a pot of undercooked jacket potatoes, a tin of sprats, and Zina’s “Zebra” cake—dry as the steppes of Kazakhstan.
—You!—Zhanna Yegorovna stood up, bracing herself on the table. Her face blotched with red. —Where have you been? We came… we’re tired from the road… and she’s off wandering around salons!
—Zhanna Yegorovna, it’s my birthday. I’m taking the day off,—Alla said calmly, hanging her coat in the closet.
—Taking the day off!—Zina squealed. —And the man’s stuck at the stove! Glebchik’s been on his feet all day! Look at him—he’s a wreck!
—Like a chef?—Alla suggested.
—Do you have any conscience?—the mother-in-law pressed on. —Spending money on your… coiffures! Money my son earns!
At that moment, Gleb would’ve preferred being locked in a cage with a wolverine. He kept quiet, feverishly wiping down an already spotless stove.
—Money that I earn, Zhanna Yegorovna,—Alla corrected. —Let me remind you: I work as a waitress at The Seagull. And my tips, you know, aren’t bad.
—Tips!—Zina snorted. —Serving people… What a “job.” And we heard you invited your husband to a restaurant. Your little “Seagull”? That must cost a fortune!
—Exactly!—the mother-in-law jumped in, grabbing her favorite topic—other people’s spending. —It’s pure… greed! Instead of staying home like a family! Saving money! But no—off to a bar! Living it up! On poor Glebushka’s dime!
Alla leaned wearily against the doorframe. She’d expected this. It was their standard routine: “Alla the spender,” “Alla the egoist,” “Alla the bad housewife.”
—Zhanna Yegorovna, Zina. Sit down. I have news. That’s actually why I was late.
Her tone was so firm that even Gleb stopped scrubbing the stove. The relatives dropped into their chairs automatically, waiting for a catch.
—I wasn’t only at the salon today. I also stopped by a notary,—Alla said casually, pulling a bottle of good cognac from her purse—one she’d bought for herself. —My Aunt Klava in Vologda died. Two weeks ago.
—What aunt?—Gleb didn’t understand.
—The one who used to send you honey. And Vologda butter. The one you didn’t want to visit because her “bathroom is outside.”
—Ah. That one…—Gleb drawled.
—May she rest in peace,—Zhanna Yegorovna sighed theatrically, still not seeing what a dead aunt had to do with the ruined dinner.
—So. Aunt Klava lived alone. And she left me an inheritance,—Alla said, pouring herself a glass of cognac.
The kitchen fell so silent you could hear a crow caw outside the window.
—What kind of… inheritance?—Zina was the first to recover, her eyes lighting up with an unhealthy gleam.
—A little house in the village. Old, of course,—Alla took a sip. —And a deposit. At Sberbank.
—A big one?—Zhanna Yegorovna breathed, forgetting the “fur coat.”
—Big enough,—Alla answered vaguely. —Big enough for me to… quit The Seagull.
Gleb dropped the dishcloth.
—Quit?—He stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time.
—Why not?—Alla smirked. —My feet hurt. My back is falling apart. Enough. I’ve worked. I want, you know, to live for myself. In fresh air.
—Right!—Zhanna Yegorovna suddenly cried out, instantly switching from prosecutor to honey-sweet. —Allochka! Of course! Quit! You need rest! That job has worn you down! Glebushka, why are you standing there? Your wife is exhausted!
—And a little house… that’s wonderful!—Zina chimed in. —A dacha! We’ll come visit… help… plant cucumbers!
Alla looked at them—at those suddenly softened, ingratiating faces. At the greed that crawled out of every crack, pushing aside their contempt from minutes ago.
—Yes. The house is good. Aunt Klava was into herbs, you know. She had whole plantations. She taught me. Said there’s nothing better for aching joints than cinquefoil tincture. Zhanna Yegorovna, your knees are always hurting, aren’t they?
—They hurt, Allochka, they hurt!—the mother-in-law immediately wailed, scooting closer. —No relief at all!
—Exactly. And she knew how to dry white naliv apples properly so the compote smells fragrant in winter. And her tomatoes—huge!—Alla showed her fist. —“Bull’s Heart.” Sweet and meaty.
As she spoke, the kitchen seemed to smell not of burnt chicken anymore, but of Vologda herbs, apples, and warm earth.
—I’ve been thinking,—Alla set down her glass. —I’m leaving.
—Where?—Gleb and Zina asked in unison.
—To Vologda. To the house. Next week. Spring’s coming soon—I need to get ready for the season. Start seedlings. Fix the roof.
—And… and us?—Gleb blinked, lost. —Me? My job? The zoo?
—And what about you, Gleb?—Alla looked him in the eye. Straight and merciless. —You’re staying. You’ve got your mother. Your sister. They’ll take care of you. They’ll make “fluffy” Olivier. Every day. You love it “the way Mom makes it,” don’t you?
—What do you mean… staying?—It started to sink in. —And the inheritance? The house? That’s… ours!
Zhanna Yegorovna’s face hardened again.
—Gleb,—Alla said evenly. —The inheritance is mine. It’s my aunt. And the feet that hurt are mine. Ten minutes ago you were shouting that I’m a greedy egoist living it up on your money. Well, here you go. I won’t anymore. I’ll live it up on my own.
—How dare you!—Zina howled, realizing the “dacha with cucumbers” was slipping away. —That’s… that’s cruel! Abandoning your husband!
—Cruel, Zinaida,—Alla snapped,—is coming into someone else’s home on a birthday you weren’t invited to and insulting the hostess. Cruel is counting other people’s money and envying someone else’s hairstyle. And me? I’m simply going where I’m wanted. Even if it’s just an old house and a garden.
—Gleb! Tell her!—Zhanna Yegorovna grabbed her son. —Are you a man or not?!
Gleb looked at Alla—at her calm face, her new hair. Then at his mother. At Zina. At the ruined herring under a fur coat. He imagined going to Vologda—fixing a roof, digging potatoes. Him, who was used to doing no more than pouring feed for raccoons.
And he said nothing.
—I thought so,—Alla nodded. —Alright then. Happy birthday to me. Gleb, I’m filing for divorce on Monday. The apartment, by the way, is mine—my parents’ place. But I’m not greedy. We’ll exchange it. I don’t need much. I’ll have enough for the little house.
She took an apple from the fridge, went into the room, and closed the door behind her.
Three of them stayed in the kitchen. Zhanna Yegorovna stared at her son with such hatred, as if it were he—not Alla—who had just deprived her of a dacha, free cinquefoil tinctures, and sweet meaty tomatoes. Zina ate her dry “Zebra” cake in silence. And Gleb… Gleb suddenly felt, sharply, that at the zoo, next to the quiet, stern meerkats, he’d always been much more comfortable.
Six months later, Alla really was living in Vologda. The little house turned out to be solid. She fixed the porch, got chickens, and became friends with the local postwoman. Her feet almost stopped hurting.
Gleb moved in with his mother. Zhanna Yegorovna quickly took control of his budget, and now he wore an old sweater and ate “proper,” but hated, cutlets every day. Zina called only when she needed money.
Sometimes, cleaning the fox enclosure, Gleb would think: what if, back then in November, he’d simply taken his wife to a restaurant? But the foxes only squinted slyly in reply.
