“Wife?” A chuckle sounded in Marina’s voice. “Funny to hear that from a man who kicked her out onto the street in the middle of the night without money or a phone.”
“I just wanted to teach her a lesson.”
“Congratulations, you taught her. Now she’s free. Goodbye.”
“Wait!” Igor raised his voice. “Marina, I need her address. Tell me where she is.”
“No way. And don’t call again.”
She hung up. Igor threw the phone on the bed, paced the room. Anger boiled inside, mixing with fear and some new, unfamiliar feeling. Was it remorse? No, couldn’t be. He was right. She was guilty, she spent his money, behaved disrespectfully. He had the right to teach her a lesson.
But why did he feel so lousy then?
Igor remembered their first meeting at the book fair. Olga stood by the counter with secondhand books, leafing through an old book by Tsvetaeva. He approached, asked if she liked poetry. She looked up at him — gray, intelligent, kind eyes — and smiled. And he fell in love with that smile.
Remembered their wedding. Modest, in a narrow circle. Olga was in a simple white dress, without a veil, with a bouquet of wildflowers. She laughed when he awkwardly put the ring on her finger and whispered: “It’s okay, don’t worry, we’ll manage.”
Remembered how she sat by his bed when he had the flu three years ago. Changed compresses, cooked chicken broth, read aloud to him so he wouldn’t get bored. Didn’t sleep at night, afraid his temperature would rise.
When did he become like this? When did he turn into the person who humiliates his own wife, considers her a nonentity?
Igor walked to the window, looked at the street. People were walking below: couples, families with children. Ordinary Saturday life. And his apartment was empty, cold, dead.
Pride. That’s what hurt the most right now. Not love, not longing for Olga (although, maybe those too, somewhere deep down). But primarily — wounded pride. He was sure he controlled the situation. That Olga depended on him, needed him, couldn’t live without him for a day. And she went and disappeared. She’s been gone from his life for a week, and she seems not to care. It was unbearable.
Igor returned to the phone, started scrolling through contacts. Who else might know? Her colleagues at the library? No, he didn’t know them. Distant relatives? Olga had almost no one left, her parents died long ago.
Stop. The bank. They have a joint card, he can go into the app, check the latest transactions. Maybe there will be something there that leads to a trail. He opened the banking app, found the section with transactions on their joint card. But there was nothing there: the last transaction was dated a week ago, the day Olga bought that blouse.
So, she didn’t use the card. Living on some money of her own. But where did she get it? Igor remembered that Olga had her own card, a salary one. He never took an interest in it, considered that money insignificant. But maybe she’s living on it? Twenty-five thousand a month — not much, of course, but enough for a rented room somewhere on the outskirts.
He imagined her in some wretched communal apartment, huddling on a cot, counting every penny. And for some reason, this picture made him feel even more disgusted. Not out of pity for Olga, but because his, Igor’s, wife was living in such conditions. What will people think if they find out? That he is so cruel that he drove his wife into poverty?
No, this won’t do. Need to find her. Talk. Maybe even… Apologize? No, what apologies, he’s not guilty. But tone can be softened, offer to return, promise not to make scenes over money anymore.
Igor remembered his buddy Kostya, who worked at the bank. Maybe he can help? Find out where Olga is now, what address she has in the database. He dialed Kostya’s number. He answered cheerfully, apparently in a good mood.
“Oh, Igoryok! Haven’t called in a while. How are things?”
“Kostya, listen, I need your help.” Igor lowered his voice, although there was no one in the apartment but him. “Can you run a check on a person’s address through the bank base?”
“What person?”
“My wife.”
“Olya? And what happened?”
“Just stuff, not living together right now. I need to find her, talk. Can you help?”
Kostya was silent.
“Igor, that’s illegal, you realize? I’ll get fired for disclosing personal data, maybe even taken to court.”
“Kostya, come on, please. I’m not interested in just anyone, but my wife. Just to know the address.”
“You better call her yourself…”
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