After dropping his mistress off on a quiet old lane, Buchin bid her a gentle farewell and turned his motorcar towards home. Pausing outside the entrance to his building, he stood for a moment, mulling over what he would say to his wife. At last, he climbed the stone steps and unlocked the front door.
Hallo? Buchin called out. Vera, are you in?
Of course, answered his wife in her usual unperturbed manner. Hello. So then, should I get on with frying the cutlets?
Buchin steeled himself. He vowed to act decisivelyfirmly, coolly, as a man should! He needed to put a stop to his double life, now, before his mistresss kisses faded from his lips and the murky waters of domesticity sucked him back in.
Vera, he cleared his throat and began, Ive come to tell you that we need to part ways.
Vera reacted with remarkable composure. It was nearly impossible to fluster Vera Buchin. In earlier days, Buchin had even teased her for it, calling her Vera Frost.
What do you mean? Vera asked, appearing at the kitchen doorway. So I shant bother with the cutlets?
As you wish, replied Buchin. Fry them, dont fry them. Im leaving you, Verafor another woman.
Most wives, upon hearing such news, would fly at their husbands with a frying pan, or at least stage a remarkable scene. But Vera was made of other stuff.
Oh, what a to-do, she said. Did you bring back my boots from the cobbler?
No, stammered Buchin, flustered. If its that important to you, Ill fetch them straightaway!
Oh, heavens above, Vera murmured drily. Typical you, Buchin. Send you for boots and youd return with someone elses old galoshes.
Buchin felt stung. The conversation wasnt turning out as he had imagined; there was no drama, no fireno accusations. But what could he expect from Vera Frost, wooden as ever?
Vera, it seems you dont even hear me! exclaimed Buchin. Officially, Im saying Im leaving you. For another woman. And all you can ask about is your boots!
Quite right, Vera responded. Unlike me, youre free to gallivant wherever you pleaseyour boots arent at the cobbler, after all. Why shouldnt you?
They had lived together for so many years, yet Buchin still couldnt tell when Vera was being wry and when she was in earnest. Hed once fallen for her steady temperament, her indifference to quarrels, and her quietude. Besides, her practicality and attractive figure had not been insignificant factors.
Faithful, unshakeable, and as cool-headed as an iron anchorVera had always been utterly reliable. Yet now, Buchins heart belonged to someone else. He loved herardently, wickedly, and sweetly! So, he must dot his is and cross his tsand set off into a new life.
And so, Vera, Buchin said with a solemn hint of sorrow, Im grateful for everything, but Im leaving, because I am in love with another woman. I do not love you anymore.
Well, I never, said Vera. Doesnt love me, he saysoh, you half-wit. My mother loved the man next door. My father loved dominoes and gin. And lookout came marvellous me.
Buchin knew well how impossible it was to argue with Vera. Every word from her mouth seemed to weigh a ton. His original zeal was draining away, and he lost interest in making a scene.
You truly are marvellous, Vera, Buchin admitted sourly, but I love another. Passionately, wickedly, and sweetly. And I intend to go to her, do you understand?
Who is it, then? Vera asked coolly. Is it Natasha Nettleby?
Buchin faltered. A year ago, indeed, hed had a secret affair with Nettleby, but he hadnt the slightest inkling that Vera even knew her.
But where did you? he tried, then stopped himself. Well, never mind. No, Vera, its not Nettleby.
Vera yawned. Perhaps its Susan Burbrook, then? Are you after her?
Chill crept up Buchins spine. Burbrook had also been his mistress, but that was ancient history. If Vera knewwhy hadnt she spoken of it? Oh yes, she was like granitetry getting words from a stone.
No, not Burbrook and not Nettleby, said Buchin. Someone else. A marvellous woman, the pinnacle of my dreams. I cannot live without herI am leaving. And dont try to stop me!
So, it must be Mabel, Vera remarked. Oh, Buchinwhat a muddle you are. The worlds worst-kept secret. The height of your dreamsMabel Valentine. Thirty-five years old, one child, two terminations Is that right?
Buchin clutched his head. The blow had struck home. It was indeed with Mabel Valentine that he was hopelessly entangled.
But how? Buchin stammered. Who told you? Have you been spying on me?
Elementary, dear Buchin, said Vera. My dear, Im a gynaecologist, seasoned in my field. Ive examined nearly every woman in this blooming town while youve only managed a handful. I need only look where I must to know youve been there, you daft turnip!
Buchin braced himself.
Lets suppose youre right! he declared with a show of dignity. Lets say its Valentine. It changes nothingIm still leaving.
Youre a fool, Buchin, said Vera. You could at least have asked my opinion, just for curiositys sake! By the waytheres nothing exceptional about Valentine; shes much the same as any other, doctors word. Have you, by chance, seen your dream womans medical history?
N-no Buchin confessed.
There you are, then! First, straight to the bath for you. Tomorrow, Ill have Dr Simmons see you at the surgery, skip the queue, said Vera. Then well talk. Its an embarrassment, reallya gynaecologists husband who cant even find himself a healthy woman!
So, what now? Buchin asked, his voice forlorn.
Im off to fry the cutlets, said Vera. You have a washand do as you please. If you ever want the pinnacle of your dreamswithout the ailmentsyou know where to come. Ill recommend someoneBuchin hesitated in the silent hallway, the scent of frying oil drifting from the kitchen. He looked down at his shoesworn at the toe, still caked with the mud of so many detours. From behind the half-closed kitchen door, Veras steady clatter continued, ordinary as sunrise and twice as sure.
Perhaps, he thought, all his searchinghis wild longing, his secret dallianceshad been as aimless as a man wandering city streets in mismatched galoshes. He had expected fireworks, tears, some monument to passion. Instead, there was Vera and her cutlets, the dependable shape of his life.
A strange warmthhalf relief, half ruesettled over him. For all his bravado, Buchin realized he had never truly stepped beyond the boundaries of Veras composure. She knew him through and through, right down to which boots he would forget.
He walked quietly to the bathroom, steam curling into the tiled air. Stripping away his coat, he caught sight of himself in the mirror: not young, but not yet finished. In the glass, he saw a man always searchingyet, curiously, always returning home.
He washed, slow and thorough, letting the water run over him like a kind of baptism. In the hush, he could almost hear Vera humming as she flipped the cutlets. By the time he dried his hands, the dinner table was waiting, set for two.
He padded into the kitchen; Vera, unruffled, slid a plate towards his usual place.
Well, will you sit? she asked, barely glancing up.
Buchin sat. He breathed in the familiar aroma.
They ate in companionable quiet, the years between them settling like a warm quilt. At last, Buchin found the courage to say what he hadnt managed beforenot with grand gestures, but something smaller, sturdier.
Vera, he murmured, the cutlets are perfect.
She smiled then, wry and secretive. Of course they are, Buchin. I know just how you like them.
Outside, the city hummed on. Inside, the evening unfolded as it always hadsimple, inevitable, and true as the next meal. And for now, that was enough.
