Grey in the beard. A lifes tale.
“Alright. Same as always.”
“Freddie, Fred, come have dinner! I made dumplings, just how you like them. Come on, eh?”
“Not hungry.”
“Freddie, Fred, how can that be? I waited for you, didnt sit down without you.”
“Listen, Tanya, whats wrong with you? Clinging on like a wet leaf, honestly! Youre suffocating me, dyou understand? Have I got to spoon-feed you like a child?”
“Freddie, Fred, dont shout, alright?”
“Freddie, Fred! Ugh! Sick of hearing it! Arent you tired of yourself, Tanya? Whats all this groveling? Dont you get it? You choke me with your fussing. I cant breathe with yousoon I wont have any air left. Youre stifling, Tanya, and your fussingits too much. Im not living with you, Im suffering. This Freddie, Freddiehow many times must I say it? I hear you the first time!”
“Freddie, Fred. Have a drink, love, itll ease things. Youre tired, you need rest.” Tanya guiltily twisted the hem of her apron.
“Are you daft or just pretending? Still in that bloody apron! Theres another, you understand? Another woman! I love her, breathe for her alone! Im leaving, Tanya.”
“Leaving? Thought it through, have you? Dont mistake me for softno coming back. You know me. Walk out that door, and it stays shut. Think shell keep you? Think its easy, watching nothing change? Sitting at the same table, knowing anothers got your heart? Think hard, Fredis your love strong enough to wreck a life in one go?”
“Not coming back, dont kid yourself.”
Fred, still in his boots, strode to the bedroom. Muddy prints smeared the woven rugs. He hauled out a rucksack, stuffing in his meager things. Without a glance at Tanya, he walked out.
As he crossed the village, thoughts swarmed. Was this right? Twenty years married, a good lad for a sonmilitary, though far off, just voices on the line now. Howd he take the split? Old enough to understand. Burned out, Fred hadno respect left for Tanya. Those endless Freddie, Freddies! She knew, yet stayed silent, eyes full of quiet blame. Another womand have scratched his face rawbut not her. Respect? What for, when shed none for herself? And this antiques nonsenselost her mind. A proper woman once, now obsessed with some old-fashioned kitchen: log walls, samovars, homemade rugs. Like a fool, scouring the village for scraps, tearing up floors for wood paneling.
No, Stella was different. Even her name spoke steel. Young, sharpbarely older than their son. Couldve been a daughter-in-law, but no, shed be his wife. With her, Fred felt young again, breathing anew. No pies, no borscht, no bloody rugs. She didnt gabble like Tanya. That one had antiques rotting her brainnot just the house, her head too. Stella was modern. Bright cabinets, stylish clothes, a figure Tanya hadnt kept. Gone to seed, that onea barge, always underfoot, peering into his mouth, desperate to please. Good riddance. Shouldve left years back.
***
Tanya sat on the kitchen floor, staring at the ugly stains on her rugs, crying soundlessly. Hed never understood. Not the rugs, not the samovar. Shed hopedfool! And these stains, like footprints on her soul, ground in by muddy boots.
She tore up the rugs in a rage. Who needed them? He remembered nothing, no sacred thing left in him. That strumpetbarely older than their son, flouncing back to the village, all primped, landing a cushy job at the council. Two years, and head economist. The chairman sweet on her, carrying onbut hed not leave his wife. Flings were one thing, wrecking homes another. Fred? Led like a calf. But would she keep him? A vets wages wouldnt stretch far.
Fine. His choice. No turning back.
***
She remembered their first year. Young, burningnothing mattered. No money? They had a cellar of potatoes, small but theirs. Evenings by the bonfire, pressed close, eating charred spuds skin and all, faces black, laughing. Theyd been given an old widows cottageTanya found treasure there. Handwoven rugs, a samovar, solid furniture. Shed scrubbed it all, washed rugs in the river, made it glow. Evenings, tea from the samovar, just them.
Shed dreamed of a big house, wooden kitchen, rugs, samovar. Carved cabinets. Growing old there, remembering.
When Fred strayed, shed thoughtif she built that kitchen, hed return. Forget the other.
But no rug, no samovar, could mend broken joy.
The village marveled at her patience. Knowing, yet silent. And Fredthat girl couldve been his daughter! Grey in the beard, devil in the rib.
***
She never let on. Alone in the house theyd built, she avoided her dream kitchen. At work, all smiles. Even greeting Fred like nothing happened. At first, hed dodged herwho knew what she might do? Then relaxed. These things happened.
He delayed the divorce, wavering. Then slumped when she handed him the papers at work.
Jealous, almost. Thought shed beg. But noblooming, bright. What went on in her head? Found another man? Unlikely. Village tongues wouldve wagged.
***
“Tan, I came about the house. Built it together, but youre queen here, while were squeezed in a room.”
“What, want to move in? Awkward, the three of us.”
“Dont twist it, Tanya. Youre not like thisyoure soft, kind. Why?”
“Well, Fred? Spit it out.”
“Well sell. Cant drag this out.”
“Sell? Just like that? Hands built it, now strangers take it?”
“No choice. Wont agree? Ill go to court”
“No need. Buy my half.”
“Serious, Tan? Wherell you go?”
“None of your business. Strangers can have it, but not my future.”
“Cant afford it. Need to think.”
***
Through the bus window, Tanya watched the village shrink. To the town first, then nearer her son. Vadik had flats lined upa vet with experience wouldnt struggle. Sad, leaving half a life behind, but better than pitying stares, watching Fred play house. Autumn wedding, they said. Let them. His choice.
The houseall those years, all that caredid she regret it? No. It brought no joy. Just things. Let Fred have it. Better than strangers.
***
Fred stared at the garish cabinets, fake flowers, plush throws, the gaudy rug, the glass table with its pointless pattern. A kitchen? How could anyone eat here, these poison colors grating already frayed nerves?
He missed the wooden kitchen, the samovar, the rugs. Tanya bustling, pleasing him. What a fool! Trading a true wife, mother, for this? Bright wrapper, hollow inside. Like these cupboardshe wrenched them open. Empty. Instant noodles, microwave meals, boxed tea. Nothing real. Empty house, empty heart.
Stella watched, eyes huge with mascara.
On the porch, Fred clutched his head. Fool. Fool. Fool. One stupid choice, wrecking the best years. Nothing good left.
Hed been thrilled, scraping together the money, watching Tanya sign the papers. Thrilled as he and Stella gutted the kitchen, chucking logs onto the pile where her garden had been. Stella tossing rugs like rubbish, Tanya walking past, indifferent.
Shed moved on. Taken something vitalpeace, warmth, belief in happiness. Nothing left but emptiness. Like dirty tracks on clean rugs.
