Olga was ironing the children’s clothes, occasionally brushing away the tears that welled up. The tears were utterly pointless—after all, there was less than an hour left until the morning performance for Sema and Volodya, and there were still so many tasks to complete. Why had she set the ironing board by the shelf with Ivan’s portrait? She had forgotten. She’d forgotten that she still couldn’t bear to look calmly at the contrast between the somber border and his youthful face, at his radiant, toothy smile. At least she no longer cried out loud as she used to.
The iron hissed as it released puffs of steam, drawing perfect creases on the trousers, while Olga’s thoughts drifted far away—to that summer evening on the embankment when she first met Ivan. That night, the wind had snatched her new white hat and carried it toward the water. Olga had gasped and frozen by the balustrade, unsure how to retrieve her hat. Suddenly, one of the young men sitting on the pier with his fishing rod had nimbly dived into the water and swum after the hat. Reaching it, he waved it like a flag and shouted something to Olga. She couldn’t make out his words, but understood that he was asking her to wait until he reached the shore. Within a few minutes, before her stood not exactly a hunk, but a very charming guy with a smile that was impossible not to return.
“Keep your beauty,” he said, extending the slightly damp hat. “It will dry—then it’ll be as good as new. Not even the little flowers are crushed.”
Olga blushed and began to carefully examine the forget-me-nots on the silk ribbon, now sprinkled with droplets of seawater like dew.
“Thank you very much,” she finally managed to say, calming her nerves. “I don’t know how to thank you. This is my favorite hat.”
“Do you have many of them?” he suddenly asked in a serious tone.
“Not really, but I have different ones. I enjoy wearing them. Does that matter?” Olga became confused again.
“Of course it does!” the young man exclaimed. “It’s often windy around here, and I could catch them, and in gratitude offer you walks along the embankment. Then I’d have a real chance to get to know you. At the very least, I’m not about to miss the first opportunity to show my gratitude.” He bowed courteously. “I’m Ivan.”
All of Olga’s collection of hats for making acquaintances, it turned out, wasn’t necessary. On that very first evening, she realized that she had fallen in love with this energetic, cheerful, yet somehow down-to-earth guy. He was a local, worked in the merchant fleet, and seemed himself steeped in salty spray, bright sunshine, and fresh breezes. For Olga, a homebody on her first independent vacation, this sudden feeling both thrilled and frightened her. Ivan seemed to her like the wind—a wind she would never be able to contain within the cozy walls of a comfortable home with its small delights. And as yet, she had never known the grand life and, in truth, feared it. The vacation was coming to an end when, one quiet evening, as Ivan was seeing her off, he suddenly stopped by a bench and briefly said:
“Let’s sit.”
Olga felt the importance of the moment and, holding her breath, sat down on the bench.
“Olga, I won’t beat around the bush,” Ivan said, gazing somewhere deep into the park while nervously rubbing his hands. “I’m not strong with romantic words, nor do I know any lofty phrases. I’ll ask it straight: will you go with me?”
Olga swallowed hard and froze, processing what she had just heard.
“Why are you silent?” Ivan asked after a pause. “Aren’t you attracted to a prince?”
The girl shook her head in denial.
“I feel like I’m not cut out to be the wife of a sea wolf.”
Ivan laughed in relief.
“What’s there to be cut out for? Do you think you’ll have to knit ropes or scrub the deck? A sailor’s wife only needs loyalty, patience, and an inner strength. Everything else is trivial.”
“I never thought that I had any kind of strength,” Olga admitted honestly.
“You do. I’ve been beaten by life and seen much. The very fact that you grew up in this world of pragmatism and calculation, yet still recite ‘I remember a wondrous moment,’ speaks volumes. Your inner strength is different—flexible and durable, like a Manila rope.”
Olga sighed and buried her face in his chest, feeling his heart beat loudly and steadily.
“Good thing you’re without your hat—otherwise it would have been crushed,” Ivan joked, kissing her wind-tousled hair.
The wedding was modest. Olga had only her grandmother and a couple of friends, and Ivan had his elderly mother and a few friends from the fleet. But everything felt heartfelt, homely, without unnecessary noise or pomp.
After the wedding, seeing how much Olga suffered in separation, Ivan switched to short trips so he could be home more often. He rightly believed that no amount of money would be earned anyway, and that a family required care and attention at least as much, if not more. Olga was endlessly happy with this decision. Furs and jewels had never tempted her, but the opportunity to see her beloved Vanya more often was true happiness. Ivan didn’t delay fatherhood either, and in less than a year, the voices of twins filled their apartment: deep-voiced Semyon and slightly thinner Volodya. Olga was overwhelmed trying to handle the twins, but after the difficult childbirth, it was a struggle. Ivan persuaded his bosses to let him use up his accumulated vacation days to help his wife. In short, they lived together in harmony and happiness. Neither of them had been spoiled by life, neither suffered from whims or exorbitant demands, and most importantly—they truly loved each other.
Almost seven blissful years passed. The first real cloud appeared on their family horizon the day when Volodya and Semyon, fastening their school bags, ran off to school feeling entirely grown-up—they had been first graders for a week. Olga stayed behind waiting for Ivan, who was supposed to return from a voyage. Her heart was uneasy. Her husband’s voice over the phone sounded tense and joyless, but it was awkward to ask, so she could only wait.
Contrary to habit, Ivan opened the door himself, and that became the first ominous sign. Usually, he adored greeting his wife with a hug at the doorway and the joyful shrieks of his boys running to him. Olga cautiously stepped into the hallway and shuddered: Ivan looked as if he had aged ten years. His face was drawn, and his gaze—gloomy.
“Vanya, are you sick?” she blurted out, the first thought that came to mind.
Ivan dropped his heavy bags onto the floor, pulled his wife into his arms, and said in a muffled tone:
“I’m fine, I’m fine. But something terrible has happened. Sit down, mother, this conversation is going to be serious.”
Olga, for the first time hearing her husband address her as “mother” and seeing him in such a state, quietly sank onto a stool, holding her breath.
“Marcello is dead. Along with his wife. They were buried yesterday. Mila and Tim are now orphans. That’s the way it is, Olga.”
Olga was stunned. Marcello, jovial and curly-haired, had been Ivan’s best friend and the best man at their wedding. His wife, Iya, calm and imperturbable, had always kept his emotional outbursts in check—so much so that he jokingly called her “my breaker of waves.” And now they were both gone? It was impossible to believe. And what about the children? Mila was a year older than the boys, and Tim—a year younger. How harmoniously they used to play together when the families met!
Ivan cast a brief glance at his pale wife and continued:
“They burned, Olga. At a country house. Marcello decided to add more gasoline, and the can was plastic. Self-ignition. Iya ran to him, and then… In short, everything caught fire. It’s good that Mila and Tim went off to play with the neighboring children. Now their fate is undecided. With Mark, you know, he had no one left—he was the last child. And Iya…,” Ivan waved his hand dismissively, “her father and brother are utterly useless. They’re drowning in grief. Twice over. Whatever they were drowning in before, it’s hard to say. In short, they don’t care about the children. The state, they say, will sort it out on its own. And the state—that’s what? A children’s home, Olga.” He struck the table with his fist in annoyance.
A fork, which had jumped from a plate, clattered in fear, and a heavy, lingering silence hung in the air.
Olga was the first to break the silence. Through sobs, wiping away her tears, she said softly but firmly:
“Vanya, even in war, people took away children who weren’t their own. And what, are we supposed to have it worse?”
Ivan looked up, and in his eyes flickered pain, joy, gratitude, and something else that made Olga immediately understand: he himself had really wanted this but hadn’t dared to propose it. In the next second, he embraced his wife and, kissing her, whispered:
“We’ll get through this, Olga. I’ll do anything for that.”
Thus began a new chapter in their lives. There were plenty of hardships. Mila and Tim, traumatized by grief, struggled to adjust to the new circumstances. Olga often heard their sniffling in the nights. And Semyon with Volodya, at first, felt out of place, unsure how to behave in such a situation. Olga was like a squirrel on a wheel, trying to comfort, caress, and manage everything around the house. Ivan, returning from his voyages, helped as much as he could. Gradually, everything began to settle, but Olga started noticing a stubborn wrinkle appearing more and more often between her husband’s brows. That could only mean one thing: he was pondering some important decision. She knew that in such cases it was best not to pry—he would speak when he was ready.
After a while, Ivan “ripened.” One evening, while helping his wife tidy up the room after a boisterous play session, he sat down on the sofa with a plush bear in his hands and, stroking its fur, said:
“Olga, I’m going on a long voyage.”
Olga’s heart skipped a beat.
“Why? You switched to short trips just so you could be with us more often.”
“Olga, it has to be this way. The children mustn’t have it worse than others. Mila needs English, and Volodya wants to learn the guitar. Semyon and Tim also need to engage in something. Besides, they need clothes—they’re growing like weeds. I’ll go just once, then we’ll try to return to short trips. Can you manage?”
Olga could only sigh. She already knew that if Ivan had made up his mind, arguing was futile.
“I’ll manage. But… I see that you’ve already decided. Yet if there’s even the slightest chance you might change your mind, please, reconsider. We’re not living in poverty.”
“Olga, I’ll stay in touch as much as possible. It’s not the first time, after all. Before our wedding, I often went on such voyages.”
Olga clung to Ivan, struggling to hold back her tears.
The days of separation dragged on painfully. To somehow ease the wait, Olga would cross off each day on the calendar, marking how the distance to that cherished date was shortening. The children missed him too—they grew quieter, trying to help around the house. Finally, the long voyage came to an end. Ivan’s joyful voice announced that he was boarding a train and would be home by morning. Olga rushed to the kitchen to prepare his favorite dishes, and the children began cleaning up. But neither in the morning, nor in the evening, nor the next day did Ivan appear. The phone stubbornly declared that the line was unreachable. Frantic with worry, Olga ran between the train station and the police. The train had arrived, and the conductor confirmed that Ivan had indeed boarded a carriage. But where he had gotten off remained unknown. The police initially treated her worry with skepticism: “Just wait, ma’am, he’ll go for a walk and come back. You know how sailors are…” After these words, Olga nearly hurled a heavy onyx ashtray at the sergeant, which had been sitting on the table. They pitied the loud woman and didn’t press the issue, but after three days they finally took action.
After some time, Olga was called in for identification. Although, to be honest, there was hardly anything to identify. In an abandoned house, they found a body of a man burned beyond recognition. In the corner of the room lay belongings similar to those Ivan used to wear. Olga, as if in a dream, slid her eyes over the charred remnants and stopped at a denim jacket with a condor embroidered on its back. There was no mistake. That jacket had been brought from Peru by the late Mark, and no one else in the vicinity had one like it.
“Is this your husband’s jacket?” came a creaking voice from somewhere afar.
“Yes,” Olga managed to reply before she lost consciousness.
Wiping away her tears, Olga forcefully pushed away the memories. How long would she torment herself? Two years had passed. Life, though bitter, went on. She had to finish preparations for the morning performance and hurry to work. The head of the department, whom Olga privately called “Gorynych,” wouldn’t let her go again. And what did he want from her this time? The mother of four children? Although it was long clear what he meant. But the very thought of it made Olga feel disgusted. To betray Ivan’s memory? And in such a humiliating manner? Never! She’d rather endure his nitpicking.
The children, in a noisy bunch, went off to the morning performance, and Olga rushed off to work, already late for her shift.
Gorynych lived up to his nickname. Olga bumped into him right at the entrance of the department, as if he had been waiting for her on purpose.
“Discipline, Koltsova, is an abstract concept for you,” he began, his bald head gleaming. “Do you think that by exploiting your status as a multichild widow you’ll achieve a special position here?”
“Just don’t let me cry,” Olga thought and retorted heatedly:
“I’m not expecting any special treatment, Igor Petrovich! I was just delayed because the children had a performance today while I was getting them ready. But it was only five minutes!”
“Everything starts from five minutes,” Gorynych said, not intending to let up. “First come discipline problems, then your duties. By the way, bring me the report on narcotic drugs.”
Abruptly turning on his heel, he strode into his office, and Olga, sighing, made her way back to her desk. Quickly changing her clothes and distributing the medicines as prescribed, she set off with a heavy heart to complete Gorynych’s task. And why had he latched onto her? Yes, she was the head nurse, responsible for everything, but such orders hadn’t been issued in a long time. She was even worried that the expiration dates on the drugs were nearing. Where was that log? Where had she put it? There it was! Olga opened the log, and the entries blurred before her eyes. Where from? How could there be such a massive write-off? She hadn’t dispensed these medicines. And the handwriting… hers? Or no? Olga tried to concentrate. No, it wasn’t her handwriting! Very similar, but with differences. The slant of the letters was neater, and the letter “t” was written with more weight. The same with the signature. With trembling hands, Olga opened the safe… And there it was! Everything had been neatly erased. She frantically flipped through the prescription sheets according to the list. Of course, there hadn’t been any prescriptions for such a write-off. And then she became angry—a rare occurrence. Grabbing the log, she headed to the head’s office and decisively opened the door. Igor Petrovich pretended not to notice her.
“I can’t provide the report on narcotic drugs, Igor Petrovich, because there are forged entries in the log. Look!” Olga’s voice rang like metal as she slammed the open log onto the head’s desk.
“What nonsense are you spouting?” Gorynych shifted into defense, unaccustomed to seeing his usually quiet subordinate in such a state.
“Nonsense?” Olga pressed on. “We haven’t had any prescriptions for this group of drugs for a very long time. I was already preparing to write them off after their expiration date. And yet there are entries made in handwriting very similar to mine, but with clear differences. At least, that’s what I see. And there are no prescriptions justifying these write-offs!”
“So you’re saying there are none?” Gorynych regained his composure and advanced. “Do you even hear yourself? What, have you been reading detective novels? Forged handwriting! You yourself abused your official position, committed a crime, and now you’re performing a comedy for me? I’ll have you arrested!”
“Arrest me!” Olga was not about to give in. “And in the process of the investigation, I will request a handwriting analysis. I even know an expert—I once dealt with him in the case of my late husband!”
Her mention of a known expert was, of course, a pure lie, but Olga decided that in wartime, all means were fair.
“Ah, please tell me, we have connections everywhere!” the expert remark clearly irked the head. “Don’t think too highly of yourself! For starters, I’m suspending you from work and ordering an internal investigation.”
“Do it!” Olga’s face blazed. “But if the investigation’s results aren’t objective, I’ll go to the police myself!” And, slamming the ill-fated log on the table, she stormed out of the office.
Olga broke down in tears in her own office, having closed the door behind her. Who? Who had set her up so treacherously? It was clear that Gorynych was in on it, and likely a part of it himself. But it had to have been written by one of his own people. And she never carelessly scattered her keys. Even if she lent them temporarily, she always checked afterwards. God! She hadn’t checked the safe after her sick leave, when little Mila had the flu. Then she had to take time off because of complications, and on the day of her return it was the anniversary of Vanya’s death. Oh, foolish woman! What a fool she was! What would happen to the children if Gorynych really had her arrested? Oh, dear, what is a mother to do now?
The door’s handle turned slowly. Olga tensed, intending not to open it, but then the phone rang, displaying Svetka’s number. Svetka was Olga’s only friend in this department, despite their complicated relationship. Although people gossiped behind her back that she befriended the head nurse for selfish reasons, Olga knew it was simply envy. She answered the call.
“Olga, open up—I know you’re in there. I have some information about the case,” Svetka’s voice came from beyond the door.
Olga realized that her resourceful friend was already aware of what was happening, and headed for the door.
“Now, don’t panic. It’s not all that bad,” Svetka began as she stepped inside.
“Is everyone already talking?” Olga asked, wiping away smudged makeup with a handkerchief.
“Of course! You were practically screaming in his office like a victim. Although, why ‘like’—you are the victim. The whole point is that he clearly didn’t expect such a scandal. He must have been planning to gradually catch you with some compromising evidence, put poor Mashka in your place, and demote you to just a nurse and his secret mistress. He can’t stand refusals—everything has to go his way. And here you are, not agreeing to either. And Mashka agrees to everything. What’s there to think about?”
The phone vibrated again. This time it was Gorynych calling.
“Come in!” he ordered curtly into the phone.
“Well, with God!” Svetka said to her friend with a dismissive gesture. “And don’t lose face!”
Olga’s face turned to stone. With that expression, she headed toward the head of department.
Everything happened just as Svetka had predicted. Olga was generously offered the chance to write a mutual separation statement, vanish from the clinic by the end of the day, and be grateful to Igor Petrovich for his “unspeakable kindness” for the rest of his life. The only thing Svetka hadn’t foreseen was the warning not to go near any other medical institution. The threat was real. Igor Petrovich had enough connections in the city, and arranging for Olga to be absolved in a way that suited him was as simple as spitting.
“Well then, they say that changing one’s occupation is beneficial—it reduces the risk of Alzheimer’s,” Olga retorted coolly and slammed the office door behind her.
The next morning, as she saw the children off to school, Olga felt an odd emptiness. She didn’t feel like doing anything, didn’t want to go anywhere. How would she search for a job, and what kind? The employment center? There, they’d first offer a job in her specialty. The Internet? In their small town, vacancies were scarce. An unfamiliar numbness paralyzed her, hindering her thoughts and actions. She just wanted to curl up in some hole far away from this world with its filth, sorrow, and despicable ways that she couldn’t accept. After sitting like that for about an hour, she remembered that she hadn’t delivered the joint pain tincture she’d prepared for her neighbor, Samvel. Samvel suffered from knee pain and insisted that no over-the-counter remedies helped him as well as her tincture. But Samvel wasn’t home. He ran a café not far from his house and often disappeared there, rightly believing that without the boss’s watchful eye, nothing would get done. She didn’t feel like going home. Standing by the closed door, Olga turned and headed to Samvel’s café.
“Oh, Olga-jan, come on in! I wasn’t expecting you. Have a seat—I’ll bring some stew that’ll make your fingers lick clean. And why so gloomy, not at work? What happened?”
The owner’s smile was sincere, and his large brown eyes looked so keen and compassionate that Olga couldn’t help but, between sobs, recount her story from the previous day—omitting the dangerous details.
“A dog!” Samvel’s face turned stern. “The master of life, huh? Work or don’t work! He’ll get what’s coming to him, the world is round, but that’s beside the point. You shouldn’t be sitting at home all day, you’ll break down, lose heart. Too much sorrow—it can weigh you down like a stone.”
“I can’t think straight right now,” Olga admitted between sobs. “I feel frozen. To be honest, I feel numb. Not a single thought in my head.”
“Don’t need thoughts,” Samvel’s eyes flashed with a spark. “You know what? Come help me in the kitchen tomorrow. Vera has been pestering me with complaints: too many dishes, too many dishes. If you can’t think, then don’t! Use my dishes—there’s no time for thinking here. Once you start thinking, you’ll go look for a job. And mark my words—I won’t take any excuses. If you don’t come, I’ll drag you by the hand. You understand, Olga-jan?”
“I understand,” Olga managed a weak smile. “I just feel like curling up in a hole. I think I’ve found one.”
“Hey, remember the tale of Thumbelina? After the mouse hole, the heroine ended up in the land of the elves. Maybe you’ll end up there too, Olga-jan?” Samvel teased slyly, pleased with his joke.
“All right, Samvel, that’s probably the best option for now,” Olga agreed. “I’ll finish up the laundry and cleaning, and tomorrow I’ll be at work.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Samvel said with a playful threat.
Thus began a new chapter in Olga’s life. The work wasn’t easy, and Samvel couldn’t pay much, but the fear of human treachery—sparked by the incident at the clinic—slowly began to subside. Necessity, of course, made itself known, but Olga, gritting her teeth, managed to pull through.
One day, Samvel, winking conspiratorially, beckoned Olga into his little room—proudly dubbed “the office”—and laid a sheet of paper on the table with an address and phone numbers.
“What is this?” Olga asked, surprised.
“This is your chance, baby. The address of a very rich, albeit not young, man. A simple story: his health failed him, his children are abroad, and he’s lost most of his relatives. He needs a live-in caregiver and nurse rolled into one. His previous one left—something happened with the relatives. Tomorrow at ten he’ll be waiting for you. You’re not going to wash dishes all your life.”
The meeting with the new boss went well. Vsevolod Savelyevich turned out to be an educated and well-mannered man, though with a fair share of snobbery. Upon hearing his offhand remark about women who “give birth to a bunch of children, then don’t know how to feed them and make demands of the state,” Olga was glad she hadn’t mentioned her own family, and decided to remain quiet about herself. The patient was not fussy and endured all procedures patiently, but Olga was troubled that the exquisite breakfasts and lunches were ending up almost untouched in the kitchen. Vsevolod Savelyevich had no appetite at all.
“He’s miserable without work and without his family,” explained Anaid Karenovna, the housekeeper and distant relative of Samvel, as she gently touched Olga’s hand after noticing with a knowing look how sadly Olga watched the untouched dishes, which were then thrown out as trash.
“Take whatever Vsevolod Savelyevich rejects for breakfast and lunch for the children. He wants three menu options in case his appetite returns. But his appetite stubbornly chooses only dried fruits and nuts. Why let good food go to waste?”
Slightly blushing, Olga nodded.
She got along well with her employer. He tolerated the medical procedures patiently and even joked, though his jokes were laced with sarcasm and bitter irony. But Olga understood it all: a pile of money means “I don’t want to live,” yet poor health and children far away leave no choice. And he didn’t have a wife—she had died, and he didn’t want to take on a younger one.
“A wife?” he once remarked casually. “I still want to live a little. Who needs an old wreck like me? But my money—now that’s a different matter. It’s far easier to use money in the form of an inheritance—you don’t have to report to an aging dodderer. I used to read the tale of the Golden Cockerel well as a child. Young wives only shorten one’s life.” He completely avoided the topic of children. Even the all-knowing Anaid Karenovna didn’t seem fully informed about the details of that alienation. Vsevolod Savelyevich clearly lacked something to reignite his former zest for life. The only thing that kept him somewhat occupied was constantly improving his home. He was always updating, adding to, and enhancing it. It seemed that the house had become this solitary man’s fortress, his creation, the meaning of his transformed life. He always eagerly discussed these topics. In every detail, Olga knew about the advantages of eco-materials for the renovated veranda and the plans for upgrading the surveillance system. Secretly, she was glad that the workers bustling around the house somehow revived the atmosphere.
“Today I’m going to test the new cameras,” Vsevolod Savelyevich announced one day with pleasure, patiently waiting for Olga to find a fragile vein for the IV drip. “I’m going to watch a movie about my own house.”
“The important thing is that you enjoy it,” Olga replied with a smile, unaware of the consequences that this screening would later have.
After finishing all the procedures, she habitually gathered the three-menu dishes—still untouched in the containers—unaware that the kitchen was being reflected on the monitor in the employer’s room at that very moment. With a light heart and a clear conscience, she headed home. Vsevolod Savelyevich, however, upon seeing this, was outraged.
“What the hell is this?” he exclaimed aloud, taking in the scene. “I’m paying her a good sum, and she’s even hauling food from the kitchen! What are these plebeian manners? Is she hungry? She can’t possibly be hungry on such a salary. What don’t I know about her? It’s bad when you don’t know something about the person who daily taps your vein. Investigate? She’d lie. Ask Anaid? Ah, those women, they’re all the same. Stop! I have Jack Sparrow! She couldn’t see him; she doesn’t go to that wing.”
The next day, Olga dutifully carried out her responsibilities. Vsevolod Savelyevich was notably quieter and more restrained than usual that day, but accustomed as she was to his mood swings, she paid it no heed.
In the evening, on her way home, Olga suddenly heard the screech of brakes and the driver’s curses. Turning around, she saw that a man—apparently someone who hadn’t quite managed to dodge the vehicle—was slowly getting up off the ground.
“Do you need help?” she rushed over to the injured man. He lifted his eyes, and Olga recoiled. The reason was not the huge crimson scar on his forehead, but his face. It was Ivan’s face.
“Vsevolod Savelyevich, please tell me everything. He remembers very little—perhaps you know more,” Olga pleaded the next day through tears to her patient, who was utterly shaken by her story.
“My dear, I’ll add a few details to what you’ve already been told. Your… um… Ivan came to me under rather unusual circumstances. You, as a medic, should know that in their quest for recovery, people don’t only go to hospitals. I’m no exception. I was once advised about a family of herbalists who lived in seclusion. It was a husband and wife who possessed quite effective folk remedies. I visited them for a long time, and by the end of the treatment, they asked me to arrange something for a guy who was once found unconscious on a railway embankment—without money, without documents, and nearly naked. It was impossible to call an ambulance—there was no mobile signal in that remote area, so they brought him to their place. They say he was beaten badly, his head severely injured. But somehow they managed to get him on his feet. And here was the hitch: it turned out he remembered very little. He recalled that he had a wife, children, and he remembered the sea. A lot of sea. Sparse, wouldn’t you say? The official authorities didn’t trust his spouse, fearing, firstly, their dishonesty, and secondly, that the man might have a rather checkered past. I understood their concerns and saw no reason not to take him in as a boarder. He made a good impression, and I needed someone for minor errands in my situation. He couldn’t remember his own name, so I nicknamed him Jack Sparrow due to his clear attraction to the sea. And that’s all. And did he recognize you?”
“Yes, he did. Only he doesn’t remember my name—only that I’m his wife, and that’s it. I was afraid to show him the children, lest the shock worsen their condition. I can vouch that he’s no criminal. He was most likely robbed—after all, he was returning from a voyage—and was thrown off the train. I just can’t figure out whom I ended up burying in place of Ivan.”
“Either the robber himself or the fence who deals in stolen goods,” Vsevolod Savelyevich shrugged. “And the police had to close the case quickly—they didn’t even conduct a DNA test. They closed both cases immediately: yours and that of the unknown man burned in the abandoned house. And everyone’s happy, except you, of course.”
“How is that even possible?” Olga covered her face with her hands. “I might never have found him!”
“Well, they did find him,” Vsevolod Savelyevich said, not inclined to rhetorical questions. “You know what we’ll do, my dear? Since your husband is a victim and not a criminal element, we will work on restoring, firstly, his memory, and secondly, his civil rights. I have connections at the neurology institute; they’ll take care of it there. And you, my secretive one, please bring the children here so that they can eat properly and be with their parent. I think that will expedite the process.”
“Why are you doing all this for us?” Olga couldn’t hide her astonishment.
“Well, for one, decorating my house no longer amuses me. Secondly, your mutual relationship and your life stance, I think, will keep me from turning into a complete misanthrope. And thirdly… this morning at breakfast, only two dishes remained untouched, not all three.” And, cutting off any further expressions of gratitude, Vsevolod Savelyevich left with dignity.
Six months later, on that very embankment where the vagabond wind had once swept away the fateful hat, sat an older, imposing man in a linen suit with a cane in his hand. Next to him sat a young woman, holding back her chestnut curls that danced in the wind. She looked at the young man, who was tossing small stones across the water with four little ones, explaining that this game was called “making pancakes.”
“Just as it was on the day we met: wind, sunset, and back then Vanya was fishing,” the woman smiled.
“Of course—back then he didn’t have four little rascals,” the older man smiled slightly. “Let him frolic; soon he’ll have to step up.”
“What do you mean?” the woman asked, alarmed.
“I mean that now that his body has recovered, it’s time to give it some exercise before it gets too used to idleness. Remember, in this life, you either move forward or backward—there is no standstill. He’s in pretty good shape now; it’s time to start involving him in my affairs. He can’t be sneaking around in the hold anymore, and among the managers there are plenty of swindlers. I want to find in him a rare exception—a stroke of luck. Come, girl, let’s go to the water. I used to ‘make pancakes’ magnificently; I need to check if I still can.”
With those words, the man rose, leaning on his cane, and, accompanied by the woman, began his leisurely walk toward the water.
