“Listen, Romeo,” she said, examining the wallpaper, as if she was trying to find an error in its pattern. “My friend is getting married tomorrow. She invited me to the wedding, but I don’t have anyone to go with. Why don’t we go together?”
“To a wedding?” I tensed up.
“It’s right around the corner,” Dasha replied quickly. “I already got her a gift.”
“What about the kid?”
“He’ll stay home,” she said harshly.
“Well, count me in.”
“Just make sure you wear something decent,” Dasha told me, grabbing her purse and vanishing into the hallway.
In the morning, she was standing outside my door—with the kid, obviously. Just my luck. She said that the nanny was sick, that an ambulance came for her neighbor last night, and that her friends were all being audited today, so there was nobody to look after him. Her face was a little swollen from crying, so she’d put on some big sunglasses. The kid looked at me triumphantly. A knock-off Rolex—a nice one, though—was sliding around on his wrist.
It would have been better if I hadn’t gone, obviously. Who was dragging me there? Well, I knew exactly who. She was the one dragging me there. Wearing her black dress and carrying her little black purse, she was walking ahead of me, pulling the kid along and casting despairing glances in my direction. I was lugging the present (something made of glass—porcelain, at best), unable to take my eyes off her smooth gait, off her feet gliding across the warm, cracked asphalt; her body moved under that black dress as though the wedding had started already, as though the holiday had started already, and we should be celebrating right here, amid the acacia and linden trees, beneath the blue June sky, in this city that she’d told me so much about, in these streets where everyone greets her by name. I’d known her for less than a month, but I’d already gotten used to her hasty movements, her combative tone, the comforting warmth of her hands, and the bitter cold of her eyes. This summer will be long, the sun will be hot, my delights will be dubious, and my suffering hellish. This story will have a happy ending that nobody in it will live to see.
The wedding was held at one of the bathhouses in town, which didn’t surprise me one bit—I’ve seen stranger things. One time, my friends got married in a high school gym, right under the basketball hoop, which was romantic, in a way. Here too was a hidden, mysterious place—car repair shop to the left, pharmacy to the right, and wedding tables in the middle. A metal gate with Olympic rings welded on it had been flung wide open; once inside, the guests found themselves in a large, open area with a decorative fountain in the center, which was flooding everything like a busted fire hydrant. This place didn’t seem to have a name—I guess they couldn’t think of one that would be appropriate for such a romantic establishment. The guests had parked all around—the newer, foreign-made cars were closer to the bathhouse and a few battle-hardened Zhigulis were parked out back. Under the morning sun, between the pharmacy and the black hubcaps outside the shop, the guests seemed particularly grand. They’d walk through the gate, look all around, and greet their friends. Meanwhile, servers were running, relatives were arguing, children were yelling, and there was a lot of sun. Dasha pushed her way through the crowd—everyone was glad to see her, stopping her, bending down to talk to the kid, and shooting appraising glances at me. I used the porcelain as a shield. I liked the look of the bride—about Dasha’s age, petite, short, dyed red hair, weary eyes, cigarette constantly in her mouth, light-hearted smile—it was as if she was saying, “You can wait a little longer; it’s not like you’re gonna start without me.” Sneakers poked out from under her dress. Dasha whispered back and forth with her for a while, dragged the kid over (to no avail, he bolted and crashed into the fountain without saying hello to anyone), and then brought me over too, introducing me as a relative of hers. The bride lunged forward to hug me and favor me with her tender nicotine breath; then the groom strolled on over—although he was older than me, his suit, which had clearly been tailored at the last minute, made him look like a high school senior going to prom. He had sharp features and gelled hair. His gaze was heavy, and he practically wasn’t even talking to his bride-to-be, never calling her by her name, as though he was afraid he’d get it wrong. He was hiding behind his friends, who had formed a tight circle to protect him from any unwanted conversations. A lot of them had shown up in warmup outfits with the logo of some team or other on them; most of them were wearing sunglasses. I made a big show of taking mine off. Dasha dragged me away from the soccer guys almost immediately, telling me to go find Amin, which I did.
“Come on buddy, let’s get back to the party,” I said.
The kid didn’t say anything, but he went with me. As soon as he saw his mom, he started whining—“I wanna go home, I don’t wanna be here. I want some water. I don’t wanna meet anyone new. I want love and I don’t wanna share it with anyone!” I tried my best to keep him entertained, but Amin made a big show of turning his back on me and started bawling even more determinedly, putting his wounded mother down with one last shot to the head. Dasha pretended everything was fine for a while, but eventually she couldn’t take it anymore—she walked away and dove into the crowd. The kid walked away, too, diving in the other direction, but what really got to me was that damn porcelain.
The guests were milling around outside, going into the bar, popping out of dark hallways, waiting for something and talking among themselves. I recognized John, the upstairs neighbor. He was standing next to some heavyset, diabetic-looking friend of his who was already a few drinks deep, making him look even more sickly. Older men wearing fastidiously ironed dress shirts and important-looking women with brightly colored makeup were mingling. Two guys who looked like taxi drivers—one of them was wearing a leather jacket and the other one had a bunch of prison tattoos—pushed their way through the crowd. “What an odd bunch,” I thought. “It seems like they should be at the train station waiting for the morning express to come in, not at a wedding.” Suddenly, I saw Dasha. She was leaning up against the wall, holding a glass of wine that couldn’t have been her first, laughing and hanging all over some little runt of a guy. He had a bloated, olive-colored face, squinty eyes, fat lips, a stale white dress shirt, and expensive shoes that he didn’t bother to keep clean. He kept trying to touch Dasha, leaning in to give her a friendly pat on the back, reaching for her hand, chuckling and excitedly shouting something or other. Dasha was pretending everything was just fine. Or maybe everything really was just fine. She wasn’t looking in my direction, just yelling something back at Squinty Eyes and patting him on the back to rein him in, but she’d occasionally step to the side or back into the shade ever so slightly, as though that dude’s breath stank. When he touched her leg right above the knee, either jokingly or accidentally, although he did it quite firmly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked over to them.
“Oh, Romeo.” She feigned pleasant surprise. “I’d like you to meet Kolia.”
He extended his hand, not even looking at me.
“Hold this,” I said, handing Dasha the porcelain. She was taken aback by my brusqueness, nearly dropping her gift, catching it rather awkwardly, and propping it up on her knee. Then Kolia finally acknowledged me. I took his big, damp hand, and he gave me a limp and reluctant shake.
“I’m Romeo,” I said. “It’s very nice to meet you. Dasha has told me so much about you.”
“Like what?” He seemed puzzled.
“All sorts of stuff.”