October was spent in negotiations. Ignat Romanovich Shcherbakov, a heavyset man with a short haircut and the attentive eyes of someone used to noticing details, inspected the apartment twice: first with the realtor, then with his son and daughter-in-law. The young couple liked it: a good neighborhood, a 10-minute walk to the Lopan embankment, high ceilings, a convenient layout.
— Seven million eight hundred thousand, — said Shcherbakov. — With furniture and appliances, it’ll be easier for the young ones.
— Agreed, — Polina shook his hand. — But I must warn you: on the day the keys are handed over, there might be people in the apartment who won’t want to leave.
Shcherbakov smirked, and in that smirk, one could read: “We’ve seen worse.”
— I have a friend, a police captain. If needed, I’ll ask him to come by. This isn’t the first time we’ve dealt with such issues, Polina Timurovna.
November. A preliminary agreement was signed, a deposit of 500,000 hryvnias in cash received. Polina began to quietly move her things out: first documents, then photos, then jewelry and her favorite clothes. Viktor didn’t notice anything, too busy organizing his mother’s move.
— Are you carrying boxes again? — he asked once, finding her in the hallway with bags.
— Just sorting through junk. Giving it to charity, — she replied.
He nodded, no longer listening, engrossed in his phone.
In Odessa, she found a studio to rent near her new office and looked at an apartment in a building under construction. The down payment for the mortgage was more than covered. Her business trips became more frequent. Officially, it was for handing over her duties and preparing for the transfer. Viktor was only too happy, as it meant fewer questions and more freedom.
— When will you be back? — he would sometimes ask. — When you’re done? Maybe mid-December? Okay, say hi to Mom.
And he would go back to his phone, where a group chat was discussing what curtains to hang in the nursery.
In early December, the main contract was signed. The documents were sent for registration. Polina left for Odessa, officially on a business trip, but in reality — for good.
Zinaida Pavlovna called every day.
— They’ve moved in, — she reported in an excited whisper. — Your mother-in-law, your pregnant sister-in-law, they brought three carloads of stuff. They hired painters, they’re painting the room.
— What color? — Polina asked, though she already knew the answer.
— Pink. A pale one, like milk with jam.
This morning, picking up the extract from the State Register of Property Rights at the Administrative Services Center in Odessa, Polina saw a new name in the “right holder” field: Shcherbakov Ignat Romanovich. She took an evening flight back to Kharkiv, two hours over snow-covered steppes and woodlands. And all that time, she thought about why she was returning.
She could have not come. Shcherbakov would have handled it himself with his experience and connections. She could have handed over the keys through the realtor, stayed in Odessa, and forgotten the whole thing like a bad dream. But she needed to see their faces.
For three months, she had played the role of a submissive wife, smiling, nodding, swallowing humiliations. For three months, she watched her husband plan her life without her, her mother-in-law command her home, her sister-in-law try on her rooms for size. For three months, she remained silent. She had earned the right to put an end to it personally.
December Kharkiv greeted her with a blizzard and minus twenty degrees. Polina took a taxi to the familiar building entrance, went up to the third floor, and stopped in front of the door of her — now former — apartment. The key turned in the lock easily, familiarly, for the last time.
The first thing she saw in the hallway was someone else’s shoes. Many pairs of someone else’s shoes. Men’s work boots with caked-on snow, women’s large-sized winter boots, pink Uggs with fur trim. Polina kicked off her own boots into a corner, set down her travel bag, and sniffed the air. The sharp smell of paint mixed with her mother-in-law’s cloying perfume — the cheap market kind that Larisa Semyonovna considered European and doused herself in as if the bottle cost pennies.
Polina didn’t call for her husband. Quietly, trying not to make the parquet floor creak, she walked down the corridor towards the smell of paint — to the guest room. The very one she had decorated in her favorite emerald green. Expensive wallpaper from Kyiv, handmade light fixtures, matching curtains.
Now the door was wide open, and Polina froze on the threshold, unable to tear her eyes away from what she saw. Two painters in paint-splattered overalls were rolling the walls. Pale pink paint was being applied evenly, shining glossily under the light of a bare bulb. Her emerald wallpaper lay in a dirty heap on the floor — torn off, crumpled, ruined. In the corner stood a stack of paint cans. By the window was a brand-new crib in its transparent packaging. White, with carved headboards, and a label on the box: “From birth to three years.”
Dishes clattered in the kitchen. Larisa Semyonovna’s voice commanded someone unseen:
— Give me the big pot, I’ll make borscht. Not that one, you idiot, the other one! The one with handles.
Polina peeked into the living room. On her sofa, the one she had spent six months choosing and had transported from Odessa, Ulyana was half-reclining. Seven months pregnant, a round belly under a house robe. Under her robe, by the way — a silk one, brought back from a business trip to Turkey. Her sister-in-law was flipping through a glossy magazine and absentmindedly stroking her belly, not noticing Polina in the doorway…
Comments are closed.