Before, coming home after such a day, he would have vented to Olga. Told her everything, she would have brewed tea, sympathized, calmed him down. And now he walked into an empty apartment, and the silence met him like a slap in the face. Igor took out his phone, dialed Olga’s number again. Voicemail. He threw the phone on the sofa, swore. Where the hell is she? Why doesn’t she call?
The fifth day began with a call from his mother.
“Igoryok, how are things?” His mother’s cheerful voice sounded too loud for the morning hangover Igor had earned the night before, trying to drown out anxiety with alcohol. “I baked some pies here, wanted to share the recipe with Olya. Give me her phone number, I wrote it down somewhere and lost it.”
“Mom, she… She left,” Igor rubbed the bridge of his nose. “To a friend’s. For a few days.”
“Ah, well okay. Give her my regards when she returns. And tell her to call me.”
Hanging up, Igor realized he had lied to his mother. Why? Why didn’t he tell the truth? That he kicked Olga out, that she hasn’t shown up for five days? Because it was shameful. Because his mother would have given him a dressing-down. Because he himself began to doubt whether he acted correctly.
By the end of the week, Igor almost didn’t sleep. The apartment turned into chaos. Dirty dishes in the sink, dust on the furniture, unwashed floor. He went to work like a zombie, performed duties mechanically. Colleagues began to look askance, exchanging glances behind his back.
Seventh day. Igor woke up with a clear thought: stop waiting. Need to act. He got dressed, drank coffee straight from the cezve (all cups were dirty), and took out his phone. Started calling mutual acquaintances.
“Hello, Lena? It’s Igor. Listen, did Olya happen to call you? No? I see. No, everything is fine, just wanted to check.”
“Hi, Serega. Did you happen to see Olga this week? Didn’t see her. No, nothing serious, just lost connection.”
No one knew anything. Or pretended not to know. Igor felt the spring of anxiety tightening inside him. Finally, he remembered Marina, Olga’s best friend. Dialed her number. Marina answered after the fifth ring, voice cold, wary.
“Listening.”
“Marina, hi, it’s Igor. Do you know where Olya is?”
“I know.”
“And where is she?”
“Why do you need to know?”
Igor clenched his teeth. Marina’s tone was openly hostile.
“Marina, she is my wife. I have the right to know where she is…”
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