“I can’t just let you leave like this,” she chuckled. “You know I can’t.”
Danylo walked imperiously right behind her, while Oleh, quite guardedly, brought up the rear—he stopped in front of the kitchen door, grabbed the little terror who was now shadowing them (his relatives had only just fished him out of the pool, but he’d already managed to change clothes), turned him around, and kneed him in the rear end.
“Go enjoy the reception,” he said gloomily, closing the door.
There was one thing she liked about Senia—he never even thought about saying “thank you” when she paid for him. He’d say that a man shouldn’t have to grovel, and if he happened to be low on cash that didn’t mean he had to apologize and thank his girlfriend up and down. That was his idea of a guiding principle.
“Principles force us to take action; they give us the strength we need,” Sonia thought. “Or the weakness we need. Or both.” When he moved all his stuff—T-shirts, cleats, shin guards, sweat-stained keyboard—over to her place, her life hardly changed at all. Not even her dreams changed; they continued as though nothing new had happened in her life—like she had been hooked up to some channel that only displayed outlandish educational dreams that she didn’t always understand, so she often didn’t finish watching them. Senia treated her with a certain restrained politeness, he didn’t need a lot of attention, and he didn’t say much—sometimes his continuous silence would make her anxious. He liked sleeping beside her and looking at her in the morning before she woke up, before she could start talking. After a night with her, his body looked as though he’d been fighting through briar bushes in the dark. With all those bitemarks, bruises, and scratches on his shoulders and back, he looked like a great martyr who had taken some serious abuse for his beliefs. Senia would stand in front of the mirror, looking at the blood exuded by his skin, and he’d get this inexpressibly sweet feeling. After practice, he’d stand there in the shower as the blood seeped out of his wounds and mingled with the cool water like wind hitting sheets of rain. His friends would make fun of him, and he’d get angry and dress quickly—but at home, before he collapsed into bed, he’d walk over to the mirror and examine his cuts, which never seemed to heal.
Where had everyone gone? Why had they left so early? Well, it was late in the evening—actually, you could say it was early in the morning, but who keeps track of those things at a moment like this, in a mood like this? There was nobody in the kitchen; light spread evenly across the shiny, sauce- and cream-stained stove, the metal surfaces of the tables and the tin insides of the sinks, and the heavy fridges and sharp knives stuck in the bloody cutting boards. Half-empty pots of leftover delicacies were everywhere, bright-green cabbage and tender salad greens littered the floor, the last slivers of precious beef lay in one of the sinks, and the table was covered with glasses, jars filled with honey and chocolate, and plates of something spicy and peppery, viscous and weightless.
“Come on in, ya lumberjacks,” Sonia said, laughing. “There’s nobody here. I haven’t eaten anything all day. Man, that’s at my own wedding, too! I’ll grab something now. Take a seat.”
Oleh hopped up on the table, snatched a stray cabbage leaf, aimed, and shot it into the sink. “Three-pointer,” he thought, rather pleased with himself. Danylo was leaning up against the fridge, looking at his brother mockingly, and listening to the silence in the hallway. Sonia started peering into the pots, sniffing around and fishing out something tasty—the last morsels of Mediterranean dishes, eastern spices, and southern fish—rattling dishes, pouring gravy all over, lighting up all four burners on the stove, which flared like sea flowers, flinging lilac shadows all across the ceiling. She produced a block of cheese, found some lemons, took out an open bottle of cognac, and passed it to Oleh, who froze every time their fingers touched. She sat down next to him, taking out an apple from behind her back, and tossed it to Danylo, who caught it effortlessly. Sonia took a massive swig of cognac, passed the bottle back to Oleh, picked up some food and sliced it into equal portions with a big knife, sharing everything she had. Oleh started drinking hard, keeping a close eye on her. Sonia bit into a lemon, and its golden juice ran down her chin. Not a single muscle in her face twitched—only a few tears slid down onto her cheeks, but she wiped them away smoothly and then reached for the cheese and parsley. Her teeth ripped through black bread and she smoothly washed it down with cherry juice. Her fingers snapped bars of chocolate and she licked strawberry jam off her palms, laughing all the while. A white flame whipped across her mouth—her smile was wide and bountiful. That’s the kind of smile only kids—not all of them, though—can have. The cherries left a bloody trail on her lips and the alcohol made her breath warm; eating gave her such a light and cheerful air that Oleh was instantly drunk, a sleepy kind of drunk. Something was tossing him up into the air. Now he noticed that it was cold in there; not even the gas stove could heat up the damp air hovering over the sinks and freezers. “She’s gotta be cold,” he thought, shedding his leather jacket and using it to cover her shoulders. Sonia wrapped herself up in it and breathed deeply, inhaling his smell, turning to kiss him—she kissed him for a while, and her kisses smelled like lemons and honey. Oleh waited and waited some more, until he couldn’t take it anymore, then he grabbed his jacket back and tossed it on the cold tabletop—Sonia went right along with him, dropping back onto the jacket, pulling his shirt toward her, still kissing him as he took it off. Lemons were tumbling to the floor, bouncing off the jam-stained tile, dates were crushed under his arms, making his skin sweet, alcohol was spilling across the table, hopelessly soaking the stray salad greens.
“I’m just wearing this dress. Like that’s it,” Sonia said suddenly.
“That right?” he asked, surprised. “Don’t your sneakers count?”
But she just chuckled, taking his hand and showing him that she really wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Who would have thought? As they were laughing together, Danylo walked quietly over to the door and switched off the light, taking out a pack of cigarettes. “It’s a good thing I have some left, otherwise I’d have to bug my brother,” he thought, lighting up, looking out the dark window, and cracking the faintest smile. He was trying not to bother them and trying not to look at them. Her skin was golden, her hair was copper, and her heels were yellow, like lemons.
Persistent fists pounded on the door. The iron was ringing dully, bombarded by men’s heavy shoulders, but the locks were durable and the metal impenetrable, so over there, on the other side of the door, in the black hallways, there was nothing to be heard but sharp curses and frustrated cries. Danylo kept smoking, burning through one cigarette after another. Oleh jumped down onto the floor and started getting dressed in a hurry, trying to slide his hand into the armhole of his jacket, hopping on one foot, sticking the other one into his shoe, and looking around the room for something heavy.
“Take it easy,” Sonia said.
She was sitting on the metal table, tying her sneakers unhurriedly. Hazelnuts and coins were sliding down the creases of her dress. Her hair looked like a red flame flapping in the wind. Her voice was calm, though, and her eyes tender. When they’d first started pounding on the door, Oleh had stopped and whirled around, looking at his brother apprehensively, but Danylo, hiding out there in the gloom, hadn’t even flinched. Sonia had wrapped her arms around Oleh’s neck, pulled him toward her again, whispering something in his ear—quickly, quietly, yet coherently—which brought Oleh to a sudden stop inside her, and then it stopped her too, but she kept whispering, overcome by gratitude, joy, and drowsiness.