His voice cracked into a falsetto. He ran up to Ignat, trying to block his path.
“You can’t park here. We have a private event. Move the bus, you’re blocking the guests’ exit!” Lukerya was already standing on the porch, clutching the railing. Her face, even in this deathly light, seemed whiter than chalk. She understood. A scammer’s instinct told her that these were not just workers. Ignat stopped.
He sized Trofim up with a look that held neither anger nor sympathy. Only a weary resolve. “We’re not parking, Trofim,” Ignat said loudly, so that everyone could hear. His bass voice rolled across the lawn, drowning out the guests’ whispers.
“What do you mean you’re not parking? This is private property! I’m calling the neighborhood security now!” my son shrieked. Ignat slowly opened the folder and took out the very document with the seal that we had signed in the morning. He unfolded it in front of Trofim’s face like a shield.
“There’s no need to call security. Our documents are in order.” Ignat took a step forward, forcing Trofim to retreat. “As of yesterday, this house no longer belongs to your mother. She donated it to a foundation for helping former prisoners.”
A gasp ran through the crowd of guests. Someone dropped a glass. The sound of shattering glass rang out like a gunshot. “What?” Trofim froze, staring at the paper with a blank expression. “Mom!… Donated? To whom?”
“To us.” Ignat nodded towards his guys, who were already busy measuring the width of the gates with a tape measure to bring in bunk beds. “We live here now, Trofim.” Ignat smiled, but his eyes remained cold. “According to the foundation’s charter, this will be a dormitory. Guys, bring it in!” he commanded, waving his hand.
“Let’s start with the living room. There’s plenty of space there, about twenty beds will fit. And you’d better move that Bentley from the driveway. It’s in the way of the cement unloading.” Ignat’s words hung in the icy air, heavy and inevitable, like a concrete slab that had broken loose from a crane. For a second, there was an absolute, ringing silence, in which only the heavy breathing of twelve strong men and the distant barking of a dog could be heard.
And then a shriek shattered that silence. “Get out of here!” Lukerya flew down from the porch, stumbling over the hem of her cherry-colored dress. Her face was contorted, the mask of a high-society lady had cracked, revealing the snarl of a market woman.
“Get out! This is private property! I’ll call the police! I’ll sue you all!” She rushed at Ignat, swinging her hand with long, predatory nails at him, but he didn’t even flinch.
He stood with his legs wide apart, calm as a rock against which dirty waves break. “Calling the police is your right, citizen,” he rumbled, without raising his voice. “But I’m afraid they’ll have more questions for you than for us. We have the ownership documents. And you?”
Ignat slowly, with deliberate care, took out the very envelope from his jacket pocket that the courier had brought in the afternoon. The same envelope that Trofim had carelessly tossed on the small table. “Trofim,” Ignat handed the envelope to my son. “This is an eviction notice. You signed for it yourself today, at two-thirty in the afternoon. Is this your signature?”
Trofim, white as a sheet, took the envelope with trembling hands. He looked at it as if he were holding a venomous snake. “I… I thought it was a delivery…” he stammered.
“You should have thought earlier,” Ignat cut him off. “According to the law, you have twenty-four hours to remove your personal belongings from the premises. Everything that remains after that time becomes the property of the foundation and will be used for the needs of the dormitory. The clock is ticking.”
Ignat demonstratively looked at his wristwatch and then nodded to his guys. “Let’s get to work, men. We’ll start by dismantling the bar counter; bunk beds will go there. Take the paintings off the walls, stack them neatly on the lawn.”
The shaven-headed men moved towards the house as a single unit. The guests, seeing this inexorable force, scattered in panic, clutching their purses and glasses to their chests. Some ran to their cars, others simply stood frozen in stupor.
I realized it was time. I opened the car door and stepped onto the gravel. The frost immediately bit my face, but I welcomed the cold. It was sobering. I adjusted the collar of my black coat and slowly walked towards the gates.
I didn’t cross the line. I stopped right at the mailbox, on the edge of the property. This was someone else’s land now. The foundation’s land. I respected boundaries—both on blueprints and in life. Trofim saw me first. In the light of the floodlights beaming from the house’s windows, I must have looked like a ghost…
