“Anfisa!” Lukerya screamed, taking a step towards her daughter. “Don’t come near me!” Anfisa snapped. “You heard the conditions. If you come with us, we lose the apartment. And I have nowhere to take my child. Deal with your debts yourself.” Trofim, always a follower, looked at his wife, then at his mother-in-law.
And silently took out his phone. He had chosen a side. The side that was warm and free. The guests, witnessing this scene, finally understood: the party was over. The illusion of a wealthy family had crumbled to dust. A shameful retreat began.
A lady in fur, who just half an hour ago was admiring Lukerya’s generosity, sidled towards the exit. She was clutching a box with an expensive kitchen mixer—a gift for the birthday boy. “Where are you going, Izolda Markovna?” I called out venomously, unable to resist. “What about the cake?”
The lady quickened her pace, pretending not to hear. “Wait!” Lukerya suddenly screamed, rushing towards the guests. “Help me! Anyone! I just need a place to crash for a couple of days! Izolda! We’re friends!”
“Sorry, Lusha, we’re renovating!” Izolda Markovna mumbled, diving into her car. One by one, the “friends” disappeared into the darkness, taking their gifts with them. No one even left a toy car for Vanya. They took everything, understanding that this family had nothing left to give in return.
Lukerya was left standing alone in the middle of the emptying yard. Rejected by her daughter, abandoned by her friends, destroyed by her enemy. And then the front door of the house swung wide open. Two of Ignat’s guys came out onto the porch. They were carrying a huge, gaudy painting in a heavy gilded frame—some landscape with swans that Lukerya had bought for an insane amount of money at an art fair, claiming it would be a future classic.
“Where does this go?” one of the guys asked, shouting over the wind. Ignat, standing at the entrance with a tablet, waved his hand towards the lawn. “Put it on the grass! And get those plastic Greek goddess statues out too! And those meter-high vases. They have no place in a dormitory, they just collect dust.”
The guys dropped the “masterpiece” with a thud right onto the withered grass, leaning it against the wrought-iron fence. Next, they brought out a gilded floor lamp shaped like a palm tree. Then, boxes of Chinese porcelain that Lukerya passed off as antiques. The lawn in front of the house, intended as a model of landscape minimalism, was rapidly turning into a flea market.
The things with which Lukerya had tried to buy status now lay in the mud, unwanted by anyone, ridiculous and pathetic in their cheap pretentiousness. Ignat walked over to the fence and looked at Lukerya, who stood there, hugging herself and shivering from the cold. “Ma’am,” he said in a businesslike tone. “If you need any of this junk, take it now. In an hour, we’re calling a garbage truck.”
I turned and walked back to my car. I had had enough. I didn’t want to see her rummaging through the pile of things, trying to save her fake treasures. I got behind the wheel. My hands weren’t shaking.
In the rearview mirror, I saw Trofim and Anfisa getting into their taxi, without even a glance at Lukerya. The lights of the glass cube changed from deathly white to normal, warm ones. The new owners were reconfiguring the house for themselves. I turned on the ignition. The road to the airport lay ahead. But first, I had to pack a suitcase. This time—a real suitcase, for a real life.
