The next two days passed in a strange oppressive silence. Andrey tried to cook himself. Lida heard him fussing in the kitchen, swearing under his breath, clanging pots. She went out when he wasn’t there, cooked herself something simple, ate, and left again.
On the evening of the twenty-seventh, she went into the kitchen for water. A pot with something brown and lumpy stood on the stove, smelling burnt. Lida looked in—potatoes, boiled into mush, burnt to the bottom. Nearby on the table lay a filleted herring—crooked, with bones, skin torn off in shreds. Andrey sat on a stool by the window, smoking. He had quit smoking two years ago, but now held a cigarette in his hands. Ash fell on the windowsill.
“I can’t do it,” he said without looking at her.
Lida poured water into a glass.
“Pity.”
“Lida, please help.” His voice was quiet, almost begging. “But I can see that my hands are growing from the wrong place. Just do something at least. At least one salad.”
“No.”
“Lida…”
“No,” she repeated and left.
Behind her back, a cupboard door slammed. Something fell and broke. Lida didn’t turn around.
On December 28th, Andrey spent the whole day on the phone. Lida heard snippets of conversations. He called friends, explained something to someone, begged. His voice rose to a scream, then broke into a whisper.
“San, help me out, huh. I’ll pay back by the fifteenth, honestly. Thirty? Give me at least twenty. Fifteen? Listen, can you do ten? Sanya, at least five. Understood. Thanks.” He hung up, sat staring at the wall. Then dialed the next number. “Lyokha, hi, old man, listen, here’s the thing… No, just listen. Lyokha, I always helped you. When? Well, two years ago, remember, you asked for gas money. Don’t remember? Okay, doesn’t matter. Listen, I really need…”
Lida sat in the bedroom, reading a book. Words didn’t form into meaning, but she stubbornly turned the pages. Behind the wall, Andrey was calling his entire contact list. Toward evening, he returned to the kitchen gray, with red eyes, and threw the phone on the table.
“Borrowed five thousand,” he said into the void. “Damn, five thousand! Out of twenty people! Only one agreed.” Lida stood by the kettle, brewing herself chamomile tea. “Everyone bailed. Everyone.”
Andrey sat on the chair, clasping his head in his hands.
“I thought I had friends. Thought there was someone to rely on. But they… Everyone found excuses. ‘In debt myself.’ ‘Saving for a fur coat for the wife.’ ‘Renovation.’ Damn!” He fell silent. Sat rocking on the chair.
Lida stirred her tea with a spoon. The sound was loud in the silence.
“Are you happy?” asked Andrey suddenly. “See how I’m humiliating myself here. And you’re rejoicing?”
Lida looked at him.
“No. I’m indifferent.”
“Indifferent,” he repeated bitterly. “You’re indifferent that I’ll disgrace myself in front of my mother, that the whole family will laugh at me.”
“You disgraced yourself.”
Andrey flinched as if she had hit him.
“I wanted what was best!” he shouted. “Wanted everyone to see that I’m doing well, that I’m not a loser, that I can gather my family, feed them, make them happy!”
“With someone else’s money!”
“With ours!” He jumped up, knocking over the chair. “God, how long can this go on! We are husband and wife, we have a joint budget!”
“Had a joint one,” said Lida calmly. “Until you decided to dispose of it unilaterally.”
Andrey stood breathing heavily, fists clenched, face distorted.
“You know what?” his voice became quieter, but harder. “You’re selfish! A callous, cold egoist! I try for you, want you to feel good, and you? You only know how to count pennies and reproach me.”
“I’m not reproaching,” said Lida. “I just don’t let myself be used.”
“Used!” He laughed, angry, briefly. “I use you! It’s me who has lived with you for four years! Tolerating your character, your eternal dissatisfaction!”
“Living in my apartment,” added Lida quietly. “On my money.”
Andrey turned pale, opened his mouth, closed it. Turned around and left the kitchen. The door to the hallway slammed. He left.
Lida picked up the chair from the floor, put it in place. Finished the cold tea, washed the cup, wiped her hands with a towel. There was an emptiness in her chest, not even pain. Just a place where something used to be, and now isn’t.
On December 29th, Andrey didn’t sleep at home. Lida knew he was at his mother’s. Saw his story on social media. A photo of a table with tea and pies. Caption “Good to be home.” No location tag, but Lida recognized the oilcloth on the table—the very one, with small flowers, which Tamara Ignatyevna had been laying for about twenty years. Lida looked at the photo and thought that Andrey was complaining to his mother right now. Telling her what a bad wife Lida is. How she refused to prepare the festive table, how she humiliated him. Tamara Ignatyevna, of course, will support her son. Will say that Lida is ungrateful, that modern women have forgotten how to appreciate men, that in their times wives knew their place.
Lida closed the phone. She didn’t care what they were discussing there. Let them discuss.
In the evening, Andrey returned. Walked past Lida without saying hello. Locked himself in his office, sat there until late at night. Lida heard him typing something on the keyboard, then talking on the phone for a long time in a low voice.
On the morning of the thirtieth, she woke up to someone walking in the kitchen. She looked out: Andrey was taking groceries out of the fridge. The same ones he bought a few days ago. Laying them out on the table, looking at them, counting something on his fingers. Mayonnaise, peas, sausage, potatoes. The herring was already starting to dry out, wind-blown. He took an old cookbook from the shelf, a Soviet one, in a brown cover, which Lida had brought from her grandmother. Opened it to the Olivier recipe. Read, moving his lips.
Lida walked to the kettle. Andrey flinched, turned around.
“Good morning,” he said cautiously.
Lida nodded. Put the kettle on the stove.
“Listen,” began Andrey, “I was thinking here, maybe we still… Well, try to somehow wiggle out of this? Together. I understand that I messed up, honestly understand. But let’s not talk about that now. Guests arrive the day after tomorrow. Let’s make at least something. I’ll help, I’ll cut, wash, anything.”
Lida silently took a box of oatmeal from the cupboard.
“Lida, say something at least!” There was pleading in his voice. “But you can’t be like this. It’s my mother coming. The whole family. Do you really want them to see an empty table?”
“I don’t want anything,” said Lida, pouring flakes into a plate. “This isn’t my event.”
“But you’re my wife!”
“So what?”
“What do you mean ‘so what’?” Andrey raised his voice. “A wife should support her husband.”
“Supporting doesn’t mean covering up his stupidity…”
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