— Valentina asked, ladling borscht into bowls.
— Fine, — Gennady answered curtly, picked up his spoon but didn’t start eating, continuing to sit and stare at his bowl.
— Did something happen at work?
— No, everything’s fine.
Valentina sat down opposite him, pulled her bowl closer, but she had no appetite. She watched her husband, and the anxiety that had been smoldering in her chest all day flared up. Gennady was pale, with beads of sweat on his forehead, although it wasn’t hot in the kitchen. His hands trembled slightly when he finally brought the spoon to his mouth. They ate in silence. Usually, Valentina didn’t like silence at the table, she would try to get her husband to talk, telling him news she’d heard from neighbors or on TV. But today she was silent, and the silence was oppressive, like before a storm.
— Valya, — Gennady finally spoke, pushing his half-eaten bowl away. He cleared his throat and rubbed the bridge of his nose. — I need to talk to you.
Valentina’s heart sank. This was it. She gripped her spoon so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
— I’m listening, — she managed to say.
Gennady paused, choosing his words. Then he looked her in the eyes, and in his gaze she saw something strange: a mixture of guilt, irritation, and some kind of feverish determination.
— I need the keys to your safe, — he said at last.
Valentina froze. The blind old woman’s words echoed in her head so clearly, as if she were standing right there, whispering in her ear: “Don’t give them to him! Say you lost them.”
— Why? — she asked quietly.
— I have some important documents, I want to put them in there. My desk is a mess, I might lose them, but they’ll be safer in the safe.
— What documents?
Gennady winced, and a sharp tone entered his voice.
— What difference does it make? Just work documents. Give me the keys, I’ll put them in and that’s it.
— But my money is in there, — Valentina carefully placed her spoon on the table, folding her hands in her lap so her husband wouldn’t see them shaking. — You can keep documents somewhere else.
— Valentina, don’t make a problem out of nothing! — Gennady raised his voice, slamming his palm on the table, and she flinched. — I’m not going to touch your money, I just need to put some documents in there. Where are the keys?
She looked at him, at this familiar face she had lived with for 30 years, and suddenly felt like she was looking at a stranger. There was a feverish insistence in his eyes, his lips were pressed into a thin line, and his jaw muscles were clenched.
— I lost them, — Valentina said, and her voice sounded surprisingly firm.
— What?
— The keys. I lost them.
Gennady jumped up from the table so abruptly that the chair toppled backward with a crash. Valentina recoiled, pressing her back against her own chair.
— What do you mean you lost them? — He stepped toward her, looming over her. — When did you lose them?
— I don’t know, somewhere today. I only noticed this evening, I looked for them but couldn’t find them.
— You’re lying.
— I’m not lying, — she forced herself to look him in the eye. — I really did lose them. Maybe I dropped them at the store or on the way, I don’t know.
Gennady stood over her, breathing heavily, his fists clenched. Valentina could see a vein throbbing on his temple, and his eyelid twitching. She had never seen her husband like this; he had always been reserved, calm, never raising his voice beyond a certain point even when angry.
— You have a spare key, — he said finally, his voice quieter but no less menacing. — In the box on the dresser.
— I know.
— It’s gone too, — Valentina lied. — I lost it a year ago, I didn’t tell you.
— That can’t be.
Gennady turned and went into the bedroom. Valentina jumped up and rushed after him. He yanked open the dresser drawer, grabbed the box, and emptied its contents onto the bed. Earrings, a chain, buttons, an old note scattered across the bedspread. The key wasn’t there.
— Where’s the key? — He turned to her, and Valentina saw something in his eyes that truly frightened her. — Valentina, I’m asking you for the last time, where are the keys to the safe?
— I don’t know, — she pressed her hands to her chest, backing toward the door. — I told you, I lost them.
— What convenient timing to lose them, — he sneered, but there was no humor in his sneer. — Right today, when I urgently need them.
— And why do you need them so urgently? — she blurted out. — What kind of documents are so important that they need to be put in the safe right now?
Gennady fell silent, staring at her with a heavy gaze. Then he waved his hand and left the bedroom. Valentina heard him go to the kitchen, then the balcony door slam—he had gone out for a smoke. She sank onto the edge of the bed, covering her mouth with her palms. My God, what is happening? Why is her husband so agitated about some documents? Why that fury in his eyes, that insistence?
The blind old woman was right. She was right. Valentina gathered the things from the bed and put them back into the box with trembling hands. One thought pounded in her head: the old woman knew. How did she know that her husband would ask for the keys specifically today?
Gennady returned from the balcony about ten minutes later, smelling of cheap cigarettes. He walked past the bedroom without looking at his wife, disappeared into his study, and slammed the door. Valentina stood in the hallway, not knowing what to do: follow him and try to find out what was wrong, or leave him alone. She chose the latter. She went back to the kitchen, mechanically cleared the table, and washed the dishes. Her hands were shaking so much that a cup almost slipped from her fingers and shattered against the edge of the sink.
She placed the cup on the drying rack, leaned against the sink, and closed her eyes. Thirty years. They had lived together for thirty years. Raised a daughter, built this life, survived the hardships of the nineties when he went months without pay and she tutored to feed the family. Together they celebrated Irina’s wedding, the birth of their grandson. Together they buried their parents—his first, then hers. And now this strange conversation, this rage in his eyes, this insistence about the keys.
Valentina wiped her hands on a towel, went into the living room, and turned on the TV. Some travel show was on, the host talking with fake enthusiasm about the sights of Istanbul. She stared at the screen without seeing the images, listened to the voice without grasping the words. Around ten in the evening, the study door opened, and Gennady came out into the hallway. Valentina tensed up, but he walked past the living room to the bathroom, and from there to the bedroom. She heard the bed creak—he had gone to bed.
She sat in the living room for another hour, then turned off the TV and went to the bedroom as well. Gennady was lying on his side of the bed, turned towards the wall, breathing evenly, apparently asleep. Valentina undressed in the dark, put on her nightgown, and got into her side of the bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Sleep wouldn’t come. She lay with her eyes open, staring into the darkness, listening to her husband’s breathing.
The clock on the nightstand glowed with green numbers: 23:47. Then 0:15. Then 0:53.
At half-past one, she was finally starting to drift off when she heard a cautious rustle…
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