З життя
Вишукана жінка середніх років ретельно обирає м’ясо на ринку.
Зінаїда Петрівна, красива і доглянута жінка років п’ятдесяти, прогулялась базаром, вибираючи вирізку. Її супроводжувала незнайома дівчина, яка здавалася значно молодшою. В цій дівчині все було “надто”: надто довгі вії, надто яскравий макіяж, занадто коротка спідниця… Чоловіки, що проходили повз, ледве контролювали свої погляди: частина з них повертала голови слідом за нею, інші, які йшли з дружинами, могли лише тихцем кидати погляди.
Дівчина неодноразово намагалася заговорити з Зінаїдою Петрівною, та врешті наважилась:
– Зінаїдо Петрівно, мені потрібно з вами поговорити. Справа в тому, що ваш чоловік і я… загалом, ми з ним зустрічаємось…
– Та ви що кажете! – вічливо, але трохи відсторонено відповіла вона, розглядаючи м’ясо на прилавку. – Як вас звуть? Ах, Лариса… Ларочко, ви в м’ясі розбираєтеся? Як думаєте, це свіжа вирізка? Не розумію, чи це яловичина, чи телятина…
– Вибачте, – зніяковіла дівчина. – Мені здається, ви не зрозуміли…
– Любонько, попри вік, у мене немає ані склерозу, ані втрати слуху. Ви – коханка мого чоловіка, і вам потрібно зі мною поговорити. А я такої потреби не відчуваю. Ні, це все ж не телятина… Будь ласка, зважте мені цей шматок. Дякую, скільки з мене?
Розплатившись, вона помітила розгублену Ларису поруч. Дівчина, вражена незвичайним поводженням суперниці, м’ялася на місці. Зінаїда Петрівна подивилася на годинник:
– Ну, добре. Я все одно збиралася зайти в кафе – тут печуть чудові тістечка. Хочете, там і поговоримо.
Після кількох ковтків кави, Зінаїда Петрівна звернулась до Лариси:
– То про що ви хотіли поговорити?
– Відпустіть Миколу, він нещасливий з вами! – випалила дівчина вже заготовлену фразу. Зінаїда Петрівна округлила очі і розсміялася:
– Це що, Микола вас на це настрену? О, ви самі вирішили! Я так і думала… Ну, знай, любонько, – вона лагідно усміхнулася, – Микола ніколи від мене не піде. Чому? Саме тому, що я його не тримаю. Не вірите? Переконайтеся самі. Але застерігаю: щойно ви почнете давити на нього, він втече від вас, як уже бувало не раз.
– Т-то як… – Лариса ковтнула каву і закашлялася. – Як це «вже бувало»!?
– Ларочка, дитинко, ви ж, здається, розумна дівчина! Ви не думаєте ж, що Микола жив зі мною, лише чекаючи зустрічі з вами?
Лариса почервоніла: вона саме так і думала. Зінаїда Петрівна продовжила, ніби нічого не помітила:
– Ви… Боже, пам’ять… чи третя, чи четверта… чи навіть п’ята підходите до мене з подібним. Не засмучуйтеся так! Звісно, він обіцяв вам золоті гори й казав, що ви найкраща, єдина, неповторна… Казав? Ось бачите! Не вірте чоловічим компліментам, Ларочко. Насолоджуйтеся ними, але ніколи не вірте.
Лариса була зовсім приголомшена.
– Зінаїдо Петрівно, а вам… Невже вам не образливо?
– Як вам сказати… з одного боку, звісно, образливо: зрада є зрада. А з іншого – навіть приємно знати, що мій чоловік ще ого-го! І я засвоїла одну істину: чоловіка слід тримати на досить довгому поводку, щоб він не відчував себе на припоні. До речі, дарма ви не їсте тістечко, – зазначила вона, відкушуючи шматочок кремової трубочки. Дієта, так? Даремно. Ви позбавляєте себе такого задоволення! Вашій фігурі нічого не загрожує, а голодний блиск в очах жінки її не прикрашає, повірте моєму досвіду. Ну, удачі я вам, звісно, не бажаю, бо в неї не вірю, – вона підвелася, допивши каву. – Зустрічатися з вами більше не хочу, тому – прощайте.
Микола Юхимович повертався додому з недобрими передчуттями. Після істерики, влаштованої Ларисою, на хороший прийом вдома годі було чекати. Він знову згадав море сліз і з роздратуванням насупився. Якби жінки знали, як вони робляться непривабливими від сліз, ніколи б не плакали. При чоловіках. Червоні очі, розмита туш, напухлий ніс… б-р-р-р!
Підійшовши до дверей своєї квартири, Микола Юхимович глибоко вдихнув, подумки перехрестився і увійшов, прикриваючи голову папкою. Його передбачливість виявилася не зайвою: синя чашка вдарилася об дверний косяк поруч з його головою і розлетілася на веселі блакитні скалочки по передпокою.
– Негідник! – кричала дружина, кидаючи один за одним предмети з кавового сервізу на шість персон у бік чоловіка. – Підлець! Розпусник! Старий цабе! Хто два місяці тому клявся, що це востаннє? – Зінаїда Петрівна вміло грала роль розгніваної дружини, проте чутливе вухо чоловіка вловило в її словах ноту нещирості, ніби вона лише грала (хоча й дуже вдало) цю роль. Дочекавшись затишшя, Микола Юхимович визирнув з-за свого “щита”. Жінка стояла з останньою чашкою в руці, з легким жалем розглядаючи біло-блакитні осколки на підлозі.
– Зінусю, любонько… – почав чоловік, обережно просуваючись у бік дружини. – Ну, клянусь, це був най-найостанній раз! Ну, ти ж у мене розумниця, ти все розумієш! Сивина в бороду… Ну, пробач!
– Негідник! – Зінаїда метнула в чоловіка останню чашку, не влучила, але не витримала і розсміялася. – Нестерпний ти! Старий псяка!
– Старий, та не дряхлий! – Микола вже обіймав жінку, цілуючи її в шию.
Зінаїда відштовхнулася. – Ні, Миколо, я кажу серйозно: припиняй! Або ти розберешся з сивиною у своїй бороді сам, або я доберуся до твого ребра і виганю всіх бісів, що засіли там, – і вона виразно кивнула на стіну кухні, прикрашену набором декоративних качалок.
Вранці примирені подружжя збиралися на роботу. Те, що сталося напередодні, було для них своєрідною традицією, способом освіжити відносини.
Зінаїда Петрівна фарбувалася перед дзеркалом. Микола Юхимович чистив черевики. Він кілька разів намагався щось запитати, але не наважувався. Зінаїда все бачила у дзеркалі:
– Ну, хотів щось запитати? Я ж бачу, як тебе розпирає. Про свою Ларочку, правда? Ні, личко я їй не торкалася, як Верочці, – вона посміхнулася, –а от фігуру… Закладаюся, вона зараз тістечка їсть без обмеження. Я, коли виходила, бачила як вона вчепилася в тістечко, ніби тиждень не їла… Ну і, звісно, твоя Лара розтовстіє некращим чином, у неї серйозна схильність до повноти. А мені доведеться зробити додатковий розвантажувальний день, – вона перейшла на серйозний тон. – Правда, Миколо, досить! Мені набридло. Я цього більше терпіти не має наміру.
– А що буде наступного разу? Сковорідки чи супові миски?
Зінаїда не відповіла в тон чоловіка і подивилася на нього дуже суворо:
– Ні те, ні інше. Око за око, зуб за зуб. Зрада на зраду…
– Зінусю, не варто так жартувати, – Микола виглядав стурбованим.
– Ніяких жартів. Я сказала – ти почув. Тобі важко лише від однієї думки, уяви на мить, яково мені?
Біля під’їзду подружжя розійшлися в нормальних відносинах, обмінявшись поцілунками, вони пішли у різні боки, кожен на свою роботу. Зінаїда Петрівна на ходу витягла мобільник і, озирнувшись, набрала номер: – Дімочка? Це я.
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The Manor Smelled of French Perfume and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands—Those of the Housekeeper, Nora. But One Day Money Disappeared from the Safe, and Those Hands Were Gone Forever. Twenty Years Passed. Now Lizzie Stands on a Doorstep, Her Child in Her Arms and a Truth Burning in Her Throat… *** The Dough Smelled Like Home. Not the home with a marble staircase and three-tiered crystal chandelier where Lizzie grew up, but a real home—the kind she invented for herself, sitting on a kitchen stool, watching Nora’s hands, red from washing, knead springy dough. “Mum, why is dough alive?” she would ask at five years old. “Because it breathes,” Nora replied without looking up. “See how it bubbles? It’s happy—it knows it’ll soon be in the oven. Strange, isn’t it? To rejoice at fire.” Lizzie didn’t understand then. Now—she got it. She stood by the side of a battered country lane, clutching four-year-old Micky to her chest. The bus had spat them out into the grey February dusk; all around, just silence—the singular village quiet where you can hear snow creak under a stranger’s boots three houses away. Micky didn’t cry. He had almost stopped crying altogether in the last six months—he’d learned. He just looked at her with dark, uncannily grave eyes, and every time Lizzie flinched: her ex’s eyes. His chin. His silences—the kind that always hid something. Don’t think of him. Not now. “Mum, I’m cold.” “I know, sweetheart. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was alive—twenty years had passed, a lifetime. All she remembered: “Pinewood, Oxfordshire.” And the scent of dough. The warmth of those hands—the only ones in that whole big house that ever stroked her hair just because. The lane led them past tilting fences; in some windows, lights glowed—dull yellow, but alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage, simply because her legs would go no further and Micky had grown too heavy. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps up to the porch. A weathered, peeling door. She knocked. Silence. Then—shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt dragging. And a voice—hoarse, aged, yet so unmistakable that Lizzie’s breath caught— “Who’s out in this darkness?” The door swung open. On the threshold was a tiny old lady in a knitted cardigan over her nightie. Her face—like a baked apple, a thousand wrinkles. But the eyes—the same. Faded, blue, still full of life. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then slowly lifted the very same hand—knotted and work-worn—and touched Lizzie’s cheek. “Merciful heavens… Lissie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood there, clutching her son, unable to speak, tears streaming hot down her frozen cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?” Not “why?” Not “what’s happened?” She simply unhooked her old wool coat and threw it round Lizzie’s shoulders. Then gently lifted Micky—he didn’t even flinch, only watched with those solemn eyes—and pulled him close. “Well, you’re home now, my darling,” Nora said. “Come in. Come in, love.” *** Twenty years. It’s enough time to build an empire and lose it. To forget your native tongue. To bury your parents—though Lizzie’s were still alive, just as distant as hired furniture. As a child, she thought their house was the whole world. Four storeys of happiness: a lounge with a fireplace, her father’s wood-panelled study, which smelled of cigars and sternness, her mother’s plush bedroom with velvet drapes, and—down in the basement—the kitchen. Nora’s kingdom. “Lizzie, don’t be in here,” nannies and tutors would chide. “You should be upstairs, with Mummy.” But Mummy was always on the phone. Always. With friends, with business partners, with lovers—Lizzie didn’t understand, but she sensed: something was wrong. Something not right in the way her mother laughed into the phone and how her face changed when Dad walked in. But in the kitchen, things were right. Nora taught her to pinch pierogis—crooked, lumpy, ragged seams. They watched the dough rise together—“Hush, Lizzie, don’t make a sound or you’ll upset it.” When shouts started upstairs, Nora would sit her on her knee and sing—something simple, wordless, just a melody. “Nora, are you my mother?” she once asked at six. “Of course not, miss. I’m just the help.” “Then why do I love you more than Mummy?” Nora fell silent, stroking Lizzie’s hair. Then she whispered, “Love doesn’t ask, see. It just comes, and that’s it. You love your mum, too—just different.” But Lizzie didn’t. She knew it, even then—with a child’s forbidden clarity. Mum was beautiful, Mum was important, Mum bought her dresses and took her to Paris. But Mum never sat up when Lizzie was ill. That was Nora—nights on end, her cool hand on Lizzie’s brow. Then came that night. *** “Eighty thousand,” Lizzie overheard from behind a half-closed door. “From the safe. I know I put it there.” “Maybe you spent it and forgot?” “Edward!” Her father’s voice was tired, flat, like everything about him in those years. “All right, all right. Who had access?” “Nora cleaned the study. She knows the code—I told her to dust.” A pause. Lizzie pressed herself to the wall, feeling something vital tear inside. “Her mother has cancer,” Dad said. “Treatment’s expensive. She asked for an advance last month.” “I didn’t give it.” “Why?” “Because she’s staff, Edward. If staff gets handouts for every mum, dad, brother—” “Harriet.” “What, Harriet? You can see for yourself. She needed the money. She had access—” “We don’t know for sure.” “Do you want the police? A scandal? For everyone to know we have thieves in our house?” More silence. Lizzie closed her eyes. She was nine—old enough to understand, too young to change a thing. Next morning, Nora packed her things. Lizzie watched from behind a door—a small girl in teddy bear pyjamas, barefoot on the cold floor. Nora folded her few possessions: a robe, slippers, a worn Saint Nicholas icon from her bedside. “Nora…” Nora turned. Calm face, just puffy, reddened eyes. “Lissie. Why aren’t you asleep?” “You’re leaving?” “I am, love. To my mother—she’s not well.” “What about me?” Nora knelt—so their eyes were level. She always smelled of dough—even when she hadn’t baked. “You’ll grow up, Lizzie. Grow into a good person. Maybe one day you’ll visit me in Pinewood. Remember?” “Pinewood.” “Good girl.” She kissed Lizzie’s forehead—quick, secretive—and left. The door closed. The lock clicked. That smell—the dough, the warmth, home—vanished forever. *** The cottage was tiny. One room, a stove in the corner, a table with an oilcloth, two beds behind a faded floral curtain. On the wall, that familiar Saint Nicholas icon, blackened by time and candle smoke. Nora bustled—putting the kettle on, fetching jam from the larder, making up the bed for Micky. “Sit, sit, Lissie. There’s no truth in tired feet. Warm up, we’ll talk after.” But Lizzie couldn’t sit. She stood in this poor, shabby hut—she, whose parents once owned a four-storey mansion—and felt something strange. Peace. For the first time in years—real, solid peace. As if something pulled tight within her had finally gone slack. “Nora,” she managed, voice cracking, “Nora, I’m sorry.” “For what, love?” “For not protecting you. For saying nothing for all these years. For…” She faltered. How to say it? How to explain? Micky was already asleep—gone the instant his head hit the pillow. Nora sat opposite her, tea cup in gnarled hands, waiting. So Lizzie told her. How after Nora left, the house became utterly foreign. Her parents divorced two years later—her father’s empire was a house of cards, lost in the crash, their flat, their cars, their country cottage vanished. Her mother fled to Germany with a new husband; her father drank himself to death in a bedsit when Lizzie was twenty-three. She was all alone. “Then there was Tom,” she said, staring at the table. “We knew each other since school. He used to visit us—you remember? Skinny, messy, always stealing sweets from the bowl.” Nora nodded. “I thought—this is it. Family, at last. Mine. But… he was a gambler, Nora. Cards, slots, you name it. I never knew. He hid it. By the time I found out—it was too late. Debts. Lenders. Micky…” She trailed off. Logs crackled in the stove. The candle-mote flickered against the icon, its shadow trembling up the wall. “When I said I was filing for divorce, he… he thought a confession would save him. That I’d forgive. Appreciate his honesty.” “Confess what, love?” Lizzie met her eyes. “He took the money. All those years ago. From the safe. Saw the code—peeked when visiting. He needed… I can’t even remember why. But yes—for his debts. And you were blamed.” Silence. Nora sat motionless. Her face unreadable. Only her hands around the mug whitened at the knuckles. “Nora, I’m sorry. I only found out last week. I didn’t know, I—” “Hush now.” Nora got up, slowly knelt—creaking with age—as she had twenty years before, meeting Lizzie eye to eye. “My darling. What are you guilty of?” “But your mother… You needed money for her treatment—” “She passed a year later, poor soul.” Nora crossed herself. “What of it? I live. Veg patch, goats. Good neighbours. I never needed much.” “They shoved you out—like a thief!” “Doesn’t life sometimes take us to the truth through a lie?” Nora whispered. “If I’d stayed, I’d have missed my mother’s last year. Being with her then—that was worth everything.” Lizzie was quiet. Her chest burned—shame, sorrow, relief, gratitude—all in a tangle. “I was angry,” said Nora. “Of course I was. I’d never so much as scuffed a penny in my life. Yet there I was—a common thief. But after a while… the anger faded. Not right away. Took years. But it did. Because if you carry bitterness, it eats you alive. I wanted to live.” She took Lizzie’s hands—cold, rough, knotted. “And here you are now. With your boy. At my old door. That means you remembered. Means you loved. And that’s worth more than any safeful of cash.” Lizzie cried. Not like adults do—quietly, to themselves. Like children. Sobbing, face pressed to Nora’s thin shoulder. *** In the morning, Lizzie woke to a smell. Dough. She opened her eyes. Micky snored beside her on the pillow. Behind the curtain, Nora clattered softly. “Nora?” “You’re up, sweetheart? Come, the pies will go cold.” Pies. Lizzie got up and, dream-like, stepped into the kitchen. On yesterday’s newspaper sat a tray of golden, misshapen pies, crimped at the edges just like when she was small. And they smelled—like home. “I was thinking,” said Nora, pouring tea into a chipped mug, “they need help at the village library. Pays little, but you don’t need much here. We’ll get Micky into nursery—Val’s in charge, she’s lovely. After that—we’ll see.” She said this so simply, as though everything was settled, everything perfectly natural. “Nora,” Lizzie faltered, “I’m… I’m nobody to you. All these years. Why did you—?” “Why what?” “Why take me in? No questions? Just like that?” Nora looked at her—that same childhood gaze. Clear, wise, kind. “Remember asking why dough is alive?” “Because it breathes.” “Exactly, love. And so does love. You can’t fire it, can’t dismiss it. If it settles in, it stays. Twenty years, thirty—you only have to wait.” She set a pie before Lizzie—warm, soft, filled with apple. “Come on. You’re skin and bone, dear.” Lizzie took a bite. For the first time in years—she smiled. The sky lightened. Snow shimmered under the first rays, and the world—vast, unfair, complicated—seemed briefly simple and kind. Like Nora’s pies. Like her hands. Like the quiet, steadfast love that cannot be sacked. Micky tumbled out, rubbing his eyes. “Mum, it smells yummy.” “Grandma Nora baked for us.” “Grand-ma?” He mouthed the word, studying Nora. She smiled—crinkles scattering, her eyes lighting up. “That’s right, love. Come eat.” And he joined them. For the first time in months, he laughed—when Nora showed him how to shape silly dough men. Lizzie watched—her son and the woman she once called mother—and understood: here was home. Not walls, marble, chandeliers. Just warm hands. Just the smell of dough. Just love—plain, earthy, unspoken. Love that can’t be bought or sold, that just is—while ever a single heart still beats. Funny thing, the memory of the heart. We forget dates, faces, whole eras, yet the aroma of mum’s pies lingers to our last breath. Maybe because love doesn’t live in the mind. It’s somewhere deeper, where neither hurt nor years can reach it. And sometimes you have to lose everything—status, money, pride—just to remember the way home. To the hands that wait.
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