The Stylist. Александра Маринина

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СКАЧАТЬ to stop. He decided once and for all that there was nothing to be afraid of, there was nothing of value in the house and robbers wouldn’t come here. It was ridiculous being such a coward. He had to get hold of himself.

* * *

      Contrary to his expectation, he woke up in a marvelous mood. The sun was shining and it was his birthday. He didn’t care that he was an invalid. It was holiday and he would celebrate.

      Solovyov decided not to get up until the masseur came, since he would have to get undressed and get back into bed anyway. The masseur came at ten on the dot, as promised, and forty minutes later Solovyov felt his skin tingling and his weakened back muscles feeling stronger. After the massage, he had a bath and shampoo, shaved, put on a gray silk shirt with a beautiful dark gray pullover, and went to breakfast.

      The first thing he saw was a huge bouquet in the middle of the table. Andrei was smiling, and Solovyov saw that he was holding a large gift.

      “Happy birthday, Mr. Solovyov!” his assistant said, handing him the present. “I wish you all the best and hope that you spend the day so that you’ll enjoy looking back on it the whole year.”

      Solovyov’s spirits soared, he felt so easy and happy, the night fears forgotten and gone, it seemed, forever. He was glad that Andrei shared his mood and was ready to celebrate.

      He untied the package and almost gasped in amazement. It was lovely landscape, stylized in the traditional manner of Japanese prints. Solovyov had never considered himself an art connoisseur and always evaluated art on the simple test of whether or not he liked it. He liked this painting at first sight. He simply fell in love with it.

      “Thank you, Andrei,” he said warmly. “Thank you so much. It’s a wonderful gift and a wonderful painting. Where do you think it would look best? I’d like to hang it in the study, since I spend most of my time in there, and it will give me pleasure to look at it.”

      “All right,” Andrei said. “We’ll hang the painting in your study after breakfast. But now, a surprise.”

      “Another one?”

      “Since it’s already eleven thirty, instead of a light breakfast, we’ll have a real European lunch.”

      And with those words the assistant took out a huge pizza from the oven and put it on the table. Just think, it was his favorite, Quatro staggione, the four seasons. How did he know?

      “First a Caesar salad with tomatoes and cheese, then the pizza, then coffee with strudel. And without rushing, with feeling. We’ll stretch out the pleasure for at least an hour.”

      “Great,” said Solovyov, suddenly realizing how hungry he was.

      What an amusing young man! How subtly he sensed his mood and his tastes. Solovyov really enjoyed Italian cuisine, and Andrei must have been told that by the Sherkhan people. A long time ago, when they were just beginning to work together, they took a trip around Italy. Solovyov was with his wife, Svetlana, Kirill Esipov had his girl friend, and Grisha Avtayev, his son. What a wonderful time they had! It was very touching that they had gone to the trouble of telling the new assistant so much about him. What good people they were. They appreciated quality work.

      The salad was authentic, and that was another pleasant surprise.

      “Did you make the salad yourself?” he asked, helping himself to a second portion.

      “Of course. Out of a cookbook. Is something wrong?”

      “No, no, it’s perfect. Marvelous. What about the pizza?”

      “The pizza is from the restaurant. I’m not good with the dough. Mr. Solovyov, Esipov called this morning to find out what time was convenient for you. I took the liberty of telling him any time after five. But if that doesn’t suit you, I’ll call them back.”

      “It’s fine. Let them come after five. Did anyone else call?”

      “No one.”

      For a moment, Solovyov was sad. There used to be a time when his phone started ringing early in the morning on his birthday. People called to wish him the best and to find out what time the meal was, and asking if they could bring a friend. And now…

      He chased away the sad thoughts. Everything’s fine, Solovyov, don’t sulk, people don’t like sorrow and you can’t blame them for that. Why don’t you think back how many times you called an old friend last year with birthday greetings? You’re the one who moved and changed phone numbers, and even though Igor was still at the old apartment, you couldn’t expect him to take the trouble to pass on your new number to callers. He lived in a permanent party state, and whoever was closest picked up the phone. All they say is that you don’t live there anymore.

      “Let’s finish breakfast and go for a walk,” he ordered. “The weather is fine. It’s a shame to stay indoors on a day like this.”

* * *

      But his mood changed abruptly during the walk. And he couldn’t say why. No one insulted him or upset him, but he felt depressed. It had been a mistake to want a celebration. A lonely invalid should lead a quiet hermit’s life instead of trying to be like people who are healthy and independent.

      Andrei was pushing his wheelchair along the paved path that circled Daydream Estates. The spring air was warm and delicious, and Solovyov took deep breaths with pleasure, but nevertheless he wanted to go back home, to his translations. It was only in his work that he felt independent and self-reliant and even more importantly, irreplaceable.

      Solovyov was about to ask Andrei to turn back, but he changed his mind. Why let the boy know that his mood had soured. He had tried so hard to make this a special day, had bought him a present and cooked a great lunch. He would be saddened to see that his efforts had been in vain. “What’s the matter with me?” thought Solovyov. “What do I care if his feelings are hurt? He’s not a friend or relative, he works for me. And his feelings shouldn’t effect me in the least.”

      “It’s probably time to go back,” he said calmly, so as not to reveal his sudden irritation. “I have work to do today.”

      “Of course, Mr. Solovyov. As you wish,” Andrei replied, turning the wheelchair around.

      At home Solovyov went straight to work and his depression and irritation quickly disappeared. He plunged into ideographs, reading them easily and turning them into polished, refined phrases in Russian, at the same time respecting the mastery with which the author developed the plot. He was distracted from his work by the sound of a car stopping outside, and he looked up at the clock in surprise. Was it already five o’clock and he had not noticed the time fly by? It was only a little after three. The doorbell rang, he heard Andrei’s hurried steps and the click of the lock. Solovyov heard a woman’s voice that did not seem familiar. It must be somebody lost and looking for a neighbor’s house, thought Solovyov. However, a minute later the assistant was in his study.

      “Mr. Solovyov, you have a guest.”

      Solovyov rolled out to the living room in his wheelchair. In the middle of the room stood a blonde woman in narrow trousers that hugged her slender hips and a loose white sweater. At first he did not recognize her. They had not seen each other in many years, and Solovyov had not thought of her in almost as long. He had simply erased her from his memory as something superfluous and unnecessary.

      “Hello, Solovyov,” she said softly. “Happy birthday.”

      His mouth went dry. Now he remembered her and recognized her.

      “You?”

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