Andrey clenched his jaw. His fingers turned white on the edge of the table.
“Fine,” he said slowly. “Fine. So be it. I’ll do everything myself. I’ll cook myself, set the table myself, meet everyone myself. And you sit in your room and rejoice that you taught me a lesson.”
“Wasn’t planning to teach you,” answered Lida. “Just don’t want to be your servant.”
Andrey turned around and left the kitchen. Lida heard him calling someone. His voice was breaking, angry.
“Mom, hi! Listen, about tomorrow? Everything is normal, everything will happen. Yes, of course, waiting for you. At what time? At six in the evening, yes. Mom, I’m telling you for sure, everything is ready. Well, I promised, so it will be. Okay, see you.”
Lida listened and slowly ate oatmeal. Warm, bland, soothing.
Andrey hung up and returned to the kitchen. His face was determined.
“Done?”
“I’ll organize everything. Alone, without your help. And you’ll regret later that you refused to help me.”
“Maybe,” agreed Lida.
He stood looking at her, waiting for her to snap, scream, say something else. But Lida remained silent. Finished the oatmeal, washed the plate, wiped her hands.
“You’re a monster,” said Andrey quietly. “An unfeeling monster.”
“No, I’m just tired of being convenient.”
She left the kitchen.
Andrey spent the rest of the day in the kitchen. Lida heard him boiling potatoes, cutting something, swearing when something didn’t work out. Strange smells drifted out: sometimes burnt, sometimes too acridly vinegary. Closer to evening, she went out to the kitchen for water. Andrey stood at the stove, stirring something thick and gray in a pot. On the table—a bowl with chopped sausage mixed with peas and potato cubes. Olivier salad. Or what was supposed to be it. The salad looked pitiful. The potatoes had boiled apart, the sausage was cut in uneven thick pieces. Little, very little, for eight people this wouldn’t be enough even for the first serving.
“What do you think, is it okay?” asked Andrey without turning around.
Lida looked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well at least say, maybe add something?”
“I won’t say.”
Andrey turned sharply. A mixture of despair and anger on his face.
“Lida, what did I do to you that you hate me so much?”
“You spent my money without asking,” said Lida evenly. “You invited people without my consent. You decided for me how I would spend New Year’s. You treated me like a servant. Enough?”
“I didn’t want to offend you.” Andrey took a step toward her. “I just… I wanted everything to be beautiful, so mother would be proud of me.”
“And you didn’t think about me.”
“I thought!” He grabbed her hand. “I thought you would support. I thought we were a team!”
Lida freed her hand.
“A team is when two people decide together. And with us, you decide, and I execute.”
“Well forgive me, damn it!” yelled Andrey. “Forgive me that I’m so bad! Forgive me that I’m not ideal! But you can’t be so, so cruel! Guests are coming tomorrow! Tomorrow, Lida! What will I tell them?”
“The truth.”
“What truth? That you have no money for a banquet you arranged at someone else’s expense?”
Andrey turned pale. His lips trembled.
“So you want my mother to see how I screwed up? Want her to know I’m a loser?”
“Your mother knows that already,” said Lida quietly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be trying so desperately to impress her.”
Andrey froze, looked at her unblinkingly. Then slowly lowered himself onto a chair.
“Get out,” he said dully. “Get out of here!”
She didn’t sleep at night. Lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to sounds behind the wall. Andrey wasn’t sleeping either. He walked around the apartment, smoked on the balcony. Several times she heard him typing a message to someone—the rapid tapping of fingers on the screen.
On the morning of December 31st, Lida got up early. Dressed, went out to the kitchen. Andrey sat at the table, a sheet of paper in front of him. He was writing something, crossing out, writing again.
“Good morning,” said Lida.
He flinched, raised his head: eyes red, face gray, stubble.
“Morning.”
Lida poured water into the kettle, put it on the stove, sat at the table opposite. Andrey put down the pen, turned the paper toward her.
“Look, there’s a list on the paper. Bread, kefir, cottage cheese.”
Lida raised her gaze.
“What is this?”
“A list for the store,” said Andrey quietly. His voice was even, lifeless. “For your dinner. When the guests come, you’ll be in the room. So you have something to eat.”
Lida looked at the list. Three lines, three products.
“Thank you,” she said.
“You’re welcome.”
Andrey stood up, took the paper, folded it in half. Put it in front of her.
“Guests arrive at six in the evening. You can lock yourself in the bedroom earlier so you don’t feel awkward.”
“Okay.”
Andrey left the kitchen. Lida heard him go into the bathroom, turn on the water. He stood under the shower for a long time. She took the paper, unfolded it. Bread, kefir, cottage cheese. Handwriting trembling, letters uneven. Lida folded the paper back. Stood up, poured boiling water into a cup, brewed tea. Sat back at the table.
It was snowing outside the window. Large, wet flakes, melting quickly on the asphalt. The city was getting ready for the holiday. Somewhere people were buying gifts, decorating trees, compiling menus. Rejoicing. Lida drank tea and looked out the window. Her chest felt empty, quiet, calm.
She finished her tea, washed the cup, put it in the drainer. Took her phone, bag, got dressed. Left the apartment.
Andrey stood in the corridor, drying his hair with a towel.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“To a friend’s. I’ll be back in the evening.”
“To a friend’s?” he repeated. “On New Year’s?”
“Yes…”
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