On the doorstep stood a beaming Roman with a cake in his hands and a small, wiry woman in a stern, dark gray coat. She had gray hair combed back smoothly into a tight bun, thin, tightly compressed lips, and small, very light, almost colorless eyes that were now staring at Kira point-blank, unwelcomingly, appraisingly.
— Mom, meet Kira! Kira, this is my mom, Larisa Andreevna! — Roman announced cheerfully, entering the hallway.
— Hello, Larisa Andreevna! It’s very nice to meet you! Please, come in! — Kira tried to smile as warmly as possible.
Larisa Andreevna did not return the smile. She nodded silently, ignoring the “very nice to meet you,” and stepped into the apartment. She did not take off her shoes. After removing her coat and hanging it on a hook with the care of a museum curator, she proceeded directly into the living room without waiting for an invitation.
Roman, taking off his shoes, shuffled awkwardly in the hallway, trying to diffuse the tension.
— Look, Kiryush, see what cake I bought! “Bird’s Milk”! Your favorite! And this is from Mom for you! — He handed Kira a small bouquet of chrysanthemums wrapped in crackling cellophane.
— Thank you, they’re beautiful, — Kira said, accepting the flowers, but her gaze was fixed on the living room.
Larisa Andreevna stood in the middle of the room, slowly turning her head and surveying everything. Her gaze swept over the walls, the furniture, the curtains—there was not a hint of curiosity or friendliness in it. It was the gaze of an auditor on an unscheduled inspection. Her eyes stopped on the sofa. More precisely, on that very silk pillow the color of baked milk. For a second, she looked at it, pursing her lips, then walked over to the sofa, picked up the pillow with two fingers—as if it were something dirty—and, without a word, disdainfully set it aside in the far corner of the armchair, almost dropping it. Then she turned, picked up her bulky, well-worn dark faux leather bag, which had been at her feet, and with a sort of demonstrative thud, placed it in the cleared space, right in the center of the sofa section. The bag was heavy; it indented the cushion, occupying the entire space meant for one person.
It was a flag planted on conquered territory. Kira froze with the flowers in her hands. The air left her lungs. It was so fast, so mundane, and so monstrously insulting. She looked at Roman. He had just entered the room and, of course, had seen everything. But he pretended that nothing had happened. He averted his eyes, looked at the ceiling, then at his shoes, which he had just taken off. His face adopted that very expression of complete detachment that Kira was beginning to know well. He didn’t want conflict. He wanted everything to somehow resolve itself.
The silence lasted for a few seconds, but to Kira, it felt like an eternity. In that silence, the silk pillow, crumpled and shoved into the corner of the armchair, screamed of its humiliation. Kira was screaming too, but only inside.
— Well, why are you just standing there? — Larisa Andreevna broke the silence, turning to them. Her voice matched her gaze: dry, without intonation. — Take off your shoes, Roman, you’ll make a mess. Is dinner going to be served? I haven’t eaten since lunch.
Kira blinked, returning to reality. She forced herself to smile. The smile came out crooked, stretched like a bowstring.
— Yes, of course. Please, come in, have a seat. Roma, help me in the kitchen.
She turned and walked towards the kitchen, not looking to see if he was following. She needed to be out of sight of those colorless, prickly eyes for a few seconds. In the kitchen, she put the flowers in the first jar she could find. She had neither the strength nor the desire to look for a vase. Her hands were trembling slightly. Roman followed her in, closing the door behind him.
— Kir, what’s wrong? — he whispered guiltily.
— Nothing, — she answered in a whisper, looking out the window. It had gotten dark. The panorama of the developing neighborhood had turned into a scattering of distant lights. Beautiful. But she no longer felt the beauty.
— Don’t be offended by her. She doesn’t mean any harm, — he began his usual song. — She’s just used to order. Everything has its place for her. And that pillow… well, it’s too bright, maybe not to her taste.
“Not to her taste. In my apartment,” flashed through Kira’s mind. But she didn’t say it out loud.
— I’m not offended, — she lied. — Just a little tired. Let’s set the table.
She took out the plates. Her favorites, white with a thin gray rim. She had spent a whole week choosing them, visiting several stores. Now they seemed like just dishes. Ordinary, soulless dishes. The celebration she had been so carefully rehearsing in her soul had been canceled. What lay ahead was just dinner. A long, heavy dinner in her own apartment, which had suddenly become an arena, a battlefield, where it seemed she had just lost the first, most important battle without even joining the fight. She felt like a stranger in her own home. And that was the scariest part.
She led them to the table, feeling her new, bright apartment suddenly shrink, darken, and become unwelcoming. The table was set in the living room. Kira had decided not to crowd into the small kitchen, but to use the space that was her pride. She spread a gray linen tablecloth on the light wood dining table, set out those same white plates with the thin border, and laid out the heavy cutlery that felt pleasantly cool to the touch. In the center of the table, in an olive jar serving as a temporary vase, stood the chrysanthemums Roman had given her. They looked forlorn and official in their cellophane wrapping, which Kira hadn’t removed, as if subconsciously unwilling to accept this gift as something genuine, from the heart.
Larisa Andreevna sat down at the table first, without waiting for an invitation. She pulled out her chair with a screech, as if testing not only its durability but also the hostess’s nerves. After casting a critical eye over the table, she slightly shifted her plate, aligning it with the edge of the table with mathematical precision, and froze in anticipation.
Kira brought a large platter of golden-breaded chicken cutlets and a salad bowl full of bright, juicy vegetables from the kitchen. She had cooked quickly but neatly. The food looked appetizing, smelling of garlic and fresh herbs.
— Please, help yourselves, — Kira said, placing the platter on the table.
Roman immediately began to busily serve his mother the largest piece.
— Mom, try this, Kira’s cutlets are to die for! Tender, juicy.
Larisa Andreevna picked up a tiny piece of chicken with her fork, brought it to her lips, and chewed with the focused expression of a taster.
— A bit dry, — she delivered her verdict, looking not at Kira, but somewhere off to the side. — You use breast, I see, girl? Breast is good for broth, but for cutlets, you need boneless thigh, it has fat, it has juice. This is diet food, for the sick.
— Mom’s an expert on meat, — Roman inserted with foolish pride, as if that explained everything. — She knows more than any butcher at the market.
Kira said nothing. She silently served herself some salad. There was a lump in her throat, and she had no appetite. She felt like a guilty schoolgirl whose work had been publicly criticized and devalued.
— In our time, we didn’t live lavishly, — Larisa Andreevna began her long, detailed story, which was obviously the main event of the evening. — There was no time for cutlets. A potato in its jacket and some herring—that was a whole dinner. And we were happy! Because it was ours, earned. I came to the ‘Red Banner’ factory right after technical school, just a girl, into the HR department. Thought it was temporary, but I stayed for 43 years. The entire factory passed through my hands. And everyone knew: Larisa Andreevna means justice. Who gets on the board of honor, who gets in line for an apartment, who gets called to the director’s office—it all went through me…
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