Aderin Bran
Past imperfect

Prologue

The blood is rushing in his ears. His vision is blurred and flashes. But yet he finds her. There she is, standing in front of him, smiling tenderly. Saintly. She is illuminated by an inner radiance, an unearthly light seems to flow from her divine red hair. She looks only at him. For the first time in so many years, she looks only at him, and at no-one else.

She is dressed in white, like angels on icons. Behind her, he sees flickering pearl-white wings fluttering in the air. She opens her arms to embrace him and hug him to her chest. There are terrible wounds on her palms. She had suffered so much, his poor girl. His only love. His eternal love, for which he would do anything. For her he would kill, betray and destroy anything and anyone. She was his bliss.

She calls him and he heads to her, bursting into tears. Now he knows what happiness feels like. His love has embraced him. He goes to her, seeing nothing but her. He has found her and he would never let her go. She has embraced him and loved him. Tears roll from his eyes but he does not feel them.

One step, one more step. That's how those who reach the gates of heaven feel, he knows for sure. He ascends to her. His body feels light as air. He shines in the light coming from her.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices something that could not be real. The world around him freezes like an ice block. Everything around is grinning and laughing at him. He turns his head and sees blood. Blood on the bedsheets. Almost losing consciousness, he sees bloodstains spreading, flooding everything around with an unstoppable endless crimson stream. He hears a crash and the sound of thunder. It was pieces of his body falling into hell. He is falling apart, revealing his immortal soul.

Brute!

A roar of pain escapes from his throat. His heaven bursts into flames of Gehenna, and he burns alive in them. He feels his hopes burning in the flames. His whole life burns. His blood boils and evaporates, leaving only bubbling stinking acid behind.

Fallen!

He looks at her and sees signs of decay on her face. The decomposition peels the skin off her darkened skull. Her eyes burn with a devilish light. She has betrayed him. She lied to him.

Harlot!

His hands shake feverishly. The hot air cannot get past his throat, causing him to choke. A red veil covers his eyes. The gun in his hand dances, bursting with life. But it's all right, she is close enough. He will not miss.

He sees the horror on her face, and this horror spreads over his broken heart like molasses.

He pulls the trigger.

Chapter 1

"Hermes" was uncommonly crowded today. Lera virtually hopped into the busy office and beamed at everyone.

"Ciao tutti!" she blurted out, searching for a free hook on the coat rack.

"Hola!" Lena was the first to respond.

"Grüß!" The elfish Tasia replied after her.

"Hi!" miniature snub-nosed Alissa waved her hand.

Greetings in different languages came from all directions. Lera shook off the snow from her shoulders and tried to dust it out of her hair. Her mood was great. You bet it was! Today it was the last working day of the year and, let's face it, it wasn't really much of a working day.

Even half an hour before the start of the working day, it was impossible to find sufficient space to as much as drop an apple. Frankly, their work as simultaneous interpreters is done not in the office, but rather while travelling. And, generally speaking, freelance staff do written translations right from home. Therefore, usually, "simultos" appear in the office only for a short period of time, just to sign documents.

Well, sometimes Vasilisa can be found here, with her Greek, which is a very refined language but not very popular. Or Karina, who specializes in North Germanic languages could be here. Lera, on the other hand, rarely visited the office as she works with Romanesque languages. She simply never had enough time.

In general, two tables were usually more than enough for the entire staff. However, today, the stars aligned in such a way that almost every employee was gathered in the office. After all, with the end of the year approaching and the long weekend coming up, it was time to extend the fixed-term contracts. So, Irina Konstantinovna gathered everyone together in one day to, as they say, kill all birds with one stone.

"Salut!" their regular sylph, Sveta, exclaimed, a little out of breath.

Sveta's cheeks, chilled by the frost, turned rosy, giving her a fleeting resemblance to Degas' delicate dancers. The girl unwound her huge scarf and, standing shoulder to shoulder with Lera, carefully inspected the hanger filled with jackets, coats, and fur coats. The December day had turned out to be cold and the lack of a proper wardrobe had suddenly become very noticeable.

"Impossible!" Sveta said thoughtfully.

"Sono d’accordo!" Lera replied gloomily, and the girls turned and walked harmoniously towards the "changing room".

The "changing room" was a separate tiny chamber that housed a collection of formal wear, evening gowns, cosmetics, and hair styling products. At the dawn of Hermes's existence, the boss ordered the decoration team to fence off and equip a dressing room. She motivated this decision by saying that her employees should always be ready to perform any job in an any event dressed in an appropriate fashion.

The girls giggled at the idea. Lera could not recall a single instance of anyone ever getting ready for a business meeting in the office. However, Irina Konstantinovna was adamant about not expanding other areas at the expense of the "changing room".

Despite this, no one objected, as if the employees were ashamed to take dresses without permission, it was still a privilege for the girls to prepare themselves here for a date. As a result, the supply of cosmetics was gradually dwindling, which only reinforced Irina's belief in her decision.

Lera squeezed into the "changing room" and hung her coat on the hangers, carefully pushing aside the silk dress next to it to avoid getting the expensive fabric wet from the melting snow. The Sylph glided in after her and also hung her coat. The ephemeral Sveta had an amazing quality – she didn't make the tiny "changing room" feel any smaller with her presence.

"How are you?" Sveta asked with a smile.

"Fine, thanks! What about you? Do you have any plans for the holydays?" Lera replied.

"Oh, yes! I'm going to the countryside, to a cabin in the woods. I'll wrap myself in a warm scarf and sit by the fire and just be quiet for a whole week!"

"Isn't that boring?" Lera smiled.

"Bof! It's better to get bored than get myself into the same thing that I had last time! I'm deliberately going to get as far as possible to be definitely out of cellphone range. You know, Irina Konstantinovna would find anyone of us with satellites from space if there was even the slightest chance."

"You are probably right," Lera drawled.

Sveta's indignation was understandable. Last year, during the New Year weekend, their boss dragged her out of a quiet vacation with her husband in Marseille for some work trip to Normandy. Sveta caught a terrible cold there, and then spent two weeks in bed suffering with the flu.

Of course, Irina Konstantinovna then categorically declared that it was Sveta's own fault, because she should have dressed more warmly. Sveta in her turn objected, quite reasonably, saying that she had clothes only for the weather that she had actually expected. They didn’t agree, the boss was unshakable, but she still paid Sveta a more than enough fee to demonstrate that the company was not going to shirk its responsibility.

"And what about you? Are you going anywhere?"

Lera smiled dreamily and said, "Yes, I'm leaving tomorrow."

Sveta opened her mouth to say something else, but then they heard the sound of heels clicking in the hallway.

"That's how fate knocks on the door!" Lera said, and the two girls burst into laughter.

It was easy to recognize the boss – even her walk was somehow unmistakable. It was time for them to leave the "changing room" and wait near the boss' office so they wouldn't miss their turn to sign the contract. For some reason Irina Konstantinovna didn't hand out copies of contracts for the staff to sign at their own workplaces, but called them in her room individually. Every year.

Sveta was the first to leave. Lera checked herself in the mirror and saw a red-haired, wide-eyed version of herself staring back at her with bright turquoise eyes. After a long ride on the Moscow subway, Lera felt quite disheveled, curly red hair sticking out in all directions, and her beige outfit made her look like a lit matchstick. Smoothing her hair while walking, she hurried to the common area.

"Lera, here is… for you… again…" Lena said from the corner of the office.

The girl was holding a small box in her hand. Lera sighed and walked towards her. The other girls around began to chat with interest:

"Again?"

"Who is it anyway?"

"Maybe pretty-Marat?"

"Nah, he wouldn't be shy."

"Then Kostya, maybe?"

"Which Kostya?"

"Yeah, the driver of Irina Konstantinovna…"

"It doesn't match. He's only been working here for six months, and Lera's been receiving gifts for more than a year…"

Lera ignored the usual banter. With a soft, tired sigh, she took the box, untied the ribbon and looked inside. At the bottom was a little velvet case evidently brought from a jewellery store. Lera froze.

Karina asked impatiently, "What's there?"

Lera shuddered, but she did not take her eyes off the case. Jewellery? Well, this was too much! At first, she was even pleased with those presents. She and her colleagues wondered who could be so shyly courting her.

Lera even tried to catch the glances of her male colleagues, but they answered her with polite curiosity. None of them looked away shyly or blushed. Lera quickly became convinced that the secret admirer was not a colleague, which didn't bring her any closer to understanding who it could be.

She didn't really get along with men. A couple of male friends who tried to date her somehow faded away. This was also the same at university. A few attempts at dating, which never worked out. Lera had never had a serious boyfriend, or even an unserious one. It was like she was in a bubble, where only women seemed to be allowed. The thought of a woman sending those gifts made Lera uncomfortable. That would have been too much.

Basically, the list of suspects was very short and consisted of exactly zero people. For a while, Lera was suspicious, but then she just got tired of worrying about it. The stalker didn't show himself in any other way, except for those small, meaningless gifts. Lera gave up and simply left the flowers on her desk or took them home. She also treated her coworkers to sweets that appeared out of nowhere.

But this!.. Lera pulled out a velvet case and looked at her colleagues with a somewhat anxious expression. The girls fell silent and responded to her with wary glances.

"It looks like Romeo is taking things to the next level," Alissa drawled.

Lera stammered, "Girls, I don't know what to do with this… I just can’t take it…"

Tasia said darkly, "Open it. Maybe there's just a penny-worth pendant inside."

Please, not the ring! Lera swallowed hard. She had a bad feeling about it. She didn't want to open the case, but Tasia was right. If it was just some small item that was being pushed at the jewellery shop as the change or some free gift, then that would be fine. It would be no worse than a box of chocolates, maybe even cheaper. However, such trinkets are usually packed in plastic bags, not cases. But she could hope, right?

Finally, Lera snapped open the lid and gasped. The girls stood up and stared inside. On a cushion of dark blue velvet lay earrings, shaped like bird wings or laurel branches. The noble gleam of reddish gold was barely visible behind the sparkle of countless definitely non-glass stones. Lera shut the case with a snap and threw it onto the table, as if it had stung her. The girls watched Lera intently and in silence.

"Well, at least it's not a ring," Tasia said almost plaintively.

"If it were a ring, it would be a good time to be scared," Sveta agreed.

"And now? Isn’t it a good time?" Lera asked nervously, not addressing anyone in particular. "These earrings are worth more than my monthly salary! No one makes such expensive gifts without serious intentions!"

"I agree," Karina nodded.

"Maybe you should go to the police?" Vasya said uncertainly.

To her own surprise, Lera liked the idea very much. The gift had, frankly, scared her. Suddenly, Irina Konstantinovna's voice rang out from the door, stern and authoritative.

"What do you all have here? Why are you huddled together like kittens around a bowl of milk?"

The girls jumped in surprise and turned around. They really looked like naughty preschool kids. The boss, stood in the doorway. She was a stern, gray-haired skinny lady, dressed in her usual elegant outfit. Marat loomed behind her.

Without waiting for a response, Irina Konstantinovna marched into the room. Having adjusted her glasses on her nose she looked at the centre of the spontaneously formed circle where the ill-fated case lay. She didn't share her employees' reverence for jewellery gifts so she snapped the lid, then she blinked and chuckled after a barely noticeable astonished pause.

"And who is the lucky one?" the boss said after having managed to control herself.

All eyes instantly turned to Lera, unwittingly giving her away. Lera's cheeks flushed treacherously. Like many redheads and pale-skinned people, she blushed incredibly easily.

"A rich admirer?" the boss asked a little more dryly. "Remember, Larina, if you go on maternity leave…"

"Irina Konstantinovna, I don't know who this gift is from," Lera said hastily, with fervour.

For some reason, Lera was very embarrassed because Irina Konstantinovna thought she was openly being given expensive gifts. The woman's eyebrows rose in disbelief, and then she took a closer look at the girl's concerned face, she chuckled again and drawled.

"Really? Well, well… Then, come on in, you're the first to enter my office. We can talk about it along the way."

The boss occupied the largest office space in the company – the meeting room. She hosted particularly demanding clients here to discuss business, having seated them exactly facing a wall densely covered with certificates and photos.

And in honesty, she had a lot to be proud of. Only Lera had brought Irina Konstantinovna seven copies of her language certificates and diplomas. Other girls, too, were also not limited to one language or one educational institution.

Along with the diplomas, Irina Konstantinovna also hung particularly successful photos of events where her "kids" had the honour to participate. Exactly like a grandmother, proud of the success of her grandchildren. Any accusations of sentimentality were dismissed by Irina Konstantinovna as nothing but dirty insinuations. Of course.

There were three Leras there. One in a formal suit – from some Terribly Important Business Negotiations, one in an evening gown – from the premiere of a film in Venice, and one in a fancy outfit – from a fashion show in Milan.

Lera was uncomfortable with this "showcase" where she and her colleagues were displayed as simple products. Many girls disapproved of this Glory Wall, but there was nothing they could do about it. Irina Konstantinovna was deaf and blind to requests to remove the photos and leave only the diplomas.

Their boss was completely devoid of mercy when it came to ways of increasing profit. By the way, Irina Konstantinovna unfailingly conducted the personnel selection process personally, and did it with such care and attention as if she were choosing not just translators but, at the very least, secret agents.

Staff seriously suspected that her preferences were not only based on the academic achievements and merits of candidates, but more than that on their external qualities and charisma. Even their sole male interpreter, turkophone-Marat, was a notably handsome guy. This is without even mentioning the attractiveness of the girls.

Naturally, the boss denied having such a biased attitude towards applicants, pointing out that not all employees looked like they were from the podium. Technically, it was true. Not all the girls were long-legged makaroni-models with a hungry look, but Irina Konstantinovna was still lying.

Lera, with her bright red curls turquoise eyes, struck customers on the spot. Alissa was so petite and feminine that everyone fussed over her like a delicate crystal vase. Sveta simply charmed everyone with her warm tenderness, and clients usually looked at her, rather than the contracts.

Inessa, full-blooded, was so all roundly beautiful that men hardly looked above her cleavage, but since she specialized in Arabic, clients – due to their national preferences – permanently salivated over her exceeded "thirty-three inches" and strictly kept "twenty-four".

As soon as Inessa lowered her thick silver braids that played around her coccyx when she walked, they signed documents without looking, confusing Arabic script for Cyrillic when writing their own names. In general, Inessa's non-standard appearance was absolutely appropriate, Irina Konstantinovna had her advantages here too.

Lera waved off annoying thoughts about Inessa's admirers out of her head and plopped down in her usual spot opposite the boss. Irina Konstantinovna quickly rifled through a stack of employment contracts and handed Lera a pile of papers. The girl quickly scanned them and signed both copies. There wasn't much to review.

“Well, now tell me more about your secret Santa”, Irina Konstantinovna said sternly, placing the contracts in a separate folder.

“Well… I don't even know where to begin…” Lera hesitated.

“At the beginning!”

Lera jumped slightly at her sharp voice, but when she looked into the woman's eyes, she saw genuine concern and worry in them. Overall, despite all her flaws, Irina Konstiantinovna took care of her employees like a mother hen.

“I often receive small gifts from someone at work. It came today”, Lera blurted out.

“And you have no idea who it is from?” The boss asked in disbelief.

Lera vigorously shook her head, making her red hair even more messy.

“What about a signature?” the boss pressed.

“Firstly, I thought it was one of my coworkers, but no one admitted to it. The packages were always delivered by a courier, according to the girls…”

“A courier? According the girls?” Irina Konstantinova's eyes narrowed. “So, do you mean the presents have never been delivered to you personally?”

“Well… Y-yes…” Lera stammered.

She suddenly realized this simple fact too. True, for over a year and a half, the courier had never delivered gifts to her in person. All that while, the box had either magically appeared on her desk or been passed on by one of the employees.

“What about any notes?”

“There were always stickers on the boxes with my name printed on them. That’s all.”

“Hmm…” Irina Konstantinovna tapped her manicured fingers on the table. "How long has it been going on?" she asked almost without interest.

“For about a year and a half.”

The woman jumped up, "Anonymous, fabulously expensive gifts have been arriving for a year and half, and you aren't surprised? Are you crazy? Russia isn’t a habitat for any Robin Hoods!"

“Until today, it has been just worthless things!” Lera interrupted her again, "Cheap flowers, I don’t know, a box of chocolates, a little key chain with an angel on it. Really, it’s never been anything so expensive!"

The woman slumped slightly in her chair and bit her lip. "Have you told anyone?" she asked more calmly.

"Yes," said the girl sadly. "To my mom."

"And?"

"She said, 'Don't worry about it! What’s the problem? They give, you take.'"

The boss chuckled dejectedly, rolling her eyes slightly. Leaning towards Lera, Irina Konstantinovna began to speak in an admonishing tone. "Normal men don't send flowers without a note for a year. Courting openly for a year is something I can understand. There are some men who act like unbelievably stubborn screw-horned sheep. But doing it quietly? I don't believe it. What if it's some kind of maniac, have you considered that?"

"But no one kills for a box of chocolates." Lera said spreading her hands.

“Actually, I don't know. I didn't communicate with maniacs much. But, please note, there isn't merely a box of chocolates on the table right now!” Irina Konstantinovna pointed her finger at the door of the conference room. “Can you imagine how much these earrings cost?"

Lera shook her head and bit her lower lip. It felt like she was being scolded for something that wasn't her fault.

“Red gold, diamonds, fluorite of the exact colour of your eyes’. I would say they are worth five thousand dollars.” Lera looked at her boss, hiccupping. And then Irina Konstantinovna nodded and said, "Maybe even more."

Lera sat there, mouth open, not knowing what to say. She had only ever seen those sums in movies. The boss chewed her lips and casually asked, "What are you doing this weekend?"

Lera felt scared. This is it… Now she will offer some kind of work in such a way that it will be impossible to dodge… Poor Sveta's fate has caught up with Lera right on the very edge of her vacation! Lera started babbling confusedly in fright:

“Irina Konstantinovna, I have plans! I very very much have plans! I can't work!”

The woman suddenly laughed genuinely, and Lera paused. “Don't worry about it!” The boss said with a smile. “That's not why I'm asking. Are you going to leave the city, by any chance?”

“I am going to!” Lera blurted out. “Tomorrow! To a very distant place! The phone will not work there, it is in the middle of nowhere!”

The woman continued to look at her subordinate with amusement, then slammed her hand on the table and said sharply: "Great! Firstly, bring the box here, I will hide it in the safe. Then, sit in the office motionlessly until I let Marat go. He will escort you home. Thirdly… How will you get there, in your middle of nowhere?”

“B-by p-plane” Lera stuttered, pinned down by the commanding voice. “From Domodedovo.”

“That’s even better! It's nice to realise that Russian airlines have developed to the point where planes from Domodedovo fly to the middle of nowhere.”

At these words, Lera flushed and looked away.

“So, I will ask Kostya to pick you up at home and meet you upon your return. Don’t argue!” The boss growled, raising her eyebrows when Lera tried to object. “He will not just take you to the airport, he will meet you at your apartment and take you back! Door-to-door! No arguments!”

Lera's face fell.

“And finally, while you are in your "middle of nowhere," I will make a request to the security company. They must be keeping the CCTV recordings for a while. Can you roughly tell me when the other presents arrived?”

"Uh-huh" Lera replied meekly, apparently resigned to her fate.

“That's good to be “uh-huh”. Here you are the paper, write the dates and approximate times. After you come back, we will watch the videos and, if we recognise your admirer, we can take him over his boll… humm… we’ll talk anyway… If not, we should go to the police.”

“To the police?!” Lera became nervous.

“Of course! It's pointless to apply now anyway. The earrings will be taken, but policemen still won't start moving until after the holidays. That's right, Larina! Write down now!”

The boss thrust a piece of paper in front of the girl, got up abruptly, and went to call the next person over. Lera, meanwhile, buried her head in the blank paper and started writing…

Chapter 2

Lera was spinning around in front of the mirror, smiling at her reflection. Her blue-green eyes were shining with amusement today. The girl had already been dressed and was ready to go a long time ago, and while waiting for her escort, she enjoyed picking out a scarf to match her coat.

After all, Irina Konstantinovna's idea of a voluntary-compulsory escort was a good one, although Lera initially still tried to protest. Hearing the combat mission "the beautiful lady is in danger" announced, Marat, as a true son of his nation, activated knight mode and joined forces with the boss to press Lera.

Upon hearing Lera's confused objections, Marat threatened to ensure her compliance by force if necessary. Specifically, by immobilizing her with swaddling. He vowed to bring immediately his entire brood of brothers to protect his beloved colleague, one brother for guarding each of Lera’s limbs. At this point, Lera babbled even more desperate. When Marat, stern faced, reached for the phone to call for help, Lera realized it was pointless to resist. She gave in with a sigh. Marat smiled with satisfaction looking at Lera with his hazel eyes and put the phone down.

Ten minutes later, Lera realized that walking home with a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic guy supporting her gallantly on the icy sidewalk was much more enjoyable, calmer, and safer than hobbling home alone. Marat smiled and joked, but his bright tiger-coloured eyes carefully scanned the street from under his hair that fell on his forehead. Looking at him, Lera felt cheerful, and smiled. She hadn't realised until that evening how much she had been putting her head down and hurrying to and from work.

The evening passed much more calmly for Lera than usual. Now the girl looked at the two packages of pills on the table in the hallway with hatred, and then still shoved them in her bag, along with the prescriptions.

Strong sedatives. Those that needed to be taken daily and those that were only needed in cases of breakdowns. She hated the sight, taste and smell of them. Lera shuddered each time at the clicking of the foil as she removed the pills.

Only half an hour ago, she had coped with nervous nausea that came every time she took these damned pills. Her therapist said that it happened to her because she had not yet accepted her illness, or come to terms with the fact that taking the drugs was a continual and strict necessity

Yes, she had not come to terms with it. She still did not accept it! Lera still didn’t believe that she was ill, even though everyone tried to convince her that she was mad. She was tired of proving her point to everyone and would just look like a monster when someone tried to have a heart-to-heart talk with her.

It felt like she was drowning in fear but still didn't fully believe in her disease. She still didn’t, although no one else seemed to notice the things she told her mother and doctor about. No one listened to her. Sometimes she was tormented by doubt and had a pathetic tantrum. Especially after her periodic visits to the therapist, a kindly fellow looking like Santa who, with warmth in his voice, urged her to devote herself fully to the treatment.

In a few days everything would pass and she would find her inner strength again. Despite that, she took the pills because they helped her cope with persistent anxiety and fears. Lera was alone. Surrounded by all these therapists and relatives, these liars with caring faces, she was still alone. Alone, resisting them all and resisting her fear. Face to face with her terror.

Every time she felt nervous, they dragged her to the doctor again, and Lera had learned to hide her emotions behind a stone mask. She had learned to control her breathing, to calm the trembling in her hands by sheer willpower. This had worked. Visits to the doctor had been reduced to a minimum. However, it was all a lie, because the things that scared her had not disappeared.

Lera shook her head and said, "Don't think about it!" No thoughts of illness today! She was going to Rome and wanted to enjoy her vacation. Oh, beautiful Rome! With these thoughts Lera spun around in the hallway, almost tripping over a suitcase that was lying by the door.

Almost packed, it had stood in the most prominent spot for a week, with its wide mouth agape as if with anticipation, it seemed to be waiting for Lera. All this time Lera had been seized by the very mood that appears when the tickets are playfully sticking out of the passport, and the vacation date is getting closer. In a fit of fashion excitement, she packed her suitcase several times, she put clothes in it and then picked at and reviewed everything inside, selecting carefully what to wear for the trip.

Just think! A vacation! A real vacation with travel, and not for work. No more meetings that made her brain burn and required long stretches of sleep to recover. No more business trips where she has to talk so much that she is silent for days afterwards.

She will relax and enjoy walks around the ancient city, exploring monuments and eating real pizza. On Lera's left shoulder, the devil danced and provocatively tugged her earlobe, urging her to perform mischief.

In her excess of emotions, she danced toward the piano and played Rachmaninoff's Italian Polka fluently, missed the key in the second phrase, giggled and tapped on the keys, "So fate knocks at the door."

The upcoming trip was even more pleasant because it was, honestly, personally paid for with money that Lera had honestly earned. Here you are, all of you who discouraged me from going on a linguistic university, she thought! You can earn money on "chat," as her relatives disparagingly called her profession! For renting a great apartment where Lera is dancing now, and for the vacation.

The coveted ticket didn't want to fit entirely into the tiny purse, showing Lera its tongue, forcing the girl to smile more widely. Lera winks back at it. In the last few minutes before leaving, she went through a list of things she might need during the trip.

However, it's a stupid idea! Lera knew that as soon as she drove far enough away, it would be too late to return, she would definitely remember something absolutely essential, especially left in the most visible place and forgotten in her apartment.

A loud bell rang in Lera's ear and the girl almost lost her balance while dancing. Looking through the peephole, she recognized Kostya, Irina Konstantinovna's driver. Kostya, who was always gloomy and serious, stood on the stairwell, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. Lera quickly clicked the lock and smiled at the guy joyfully. Nothing could upset her that morning. Except for the damn pills.

At the sight of Lera, who seemed radiant, Kostya even smiled a little, but quickly returned to his usual cloudy expression. Glancing around the hallway, he reached for Lera’s suitcase.

"Valeria Sergeevna, I’ll help. Are you ready?" he asked softly.

Lera suddenly realized that she had never heard his voice before, and it sounded as if Kostya himself could hardly remember how to use it.

“Of course! And just call me Lera, okay?” Lera picked up her down jacket and purse and gave Kostya a bright smile again.

“Okay” Kostya muttered a little more softly and, with one hand, easily picked up the suitcase that Lera was pushing into the hallway with considerable effort.

Lera flew down the stairs as if on wings. Everything seemed beautiful to her. Kostya was not disgustingly gloomy, but mysteriously stern. It was not beasty cold outside, but Pushkin's creaking frost. And they were not going to get stuck in traffic on their way to the airport, but beginning a magical journey. Overall, Lera felt as though she was barely touching the ground with her stiletto boots.

“Lera, get in. I'll put your suitcase in the boot.”

Lera nodded, so that her red curls flew up and whipped her face. She laughed happily and galloped to Irina Konstantinovna's expensive SUV's passenger door, but hesitated. It was difficult for her to climb such a height without outside help. Kostya was forced to push her up with a light laugh. The SUV drove smoothly, and Lera pressed her nose against the window.

As Kostia promised, they spent a long time suffering in traffic jams stretching far south of Moscow. But it didn't bother Lera at all. The car was incredibly comfortable and the driver finally gave up under a hail of Lera’s questions and joined the conversation.

At the airport, Lera removed her warm jacket with great pleasure and put on a lighter coat. In Rome, it was a pleasant autumn temperature of fifty-four degrees. An ice apocalypse for the aborigines and a trifle for a native Muscovite.

After annoying checks, removal of shoes, numerous metal detector frames, and passport control, the girl was finally allowed onto the plane. Lera had flown a lot for work, in particular to Rome, but she had never done so for her own pleasure before. Admittedly, this greatly brightened the more than five-hour flight and added flavour to the disgusting airline food and no less disgusting tea.

Five hours later, the city finally appeared through the porthole. The small brownish-beige houses arranged in almost regular rows along the valley for some reason reminded Lera of diced fudge sold in a shop near her home. The standard announcement came from the speaker:

"Signori e signori, per favore prendete i vostri posti e allaccate le cinture. Arriviamo all'aeroporto di Fiumicino – Leonardo Da Vinci. Grazie."

Lera looked impatiently at the seaside town over which the plane was circling. After successfully overcoming all those usual "Buona Sera! Qual è lo scopo della sua visita in Italia?" she, with her huge suitcase, finally boarded the Leonardo da Vinci Express, which would take her to the centre of Rome in half an hour.

Everything seemed unreal to Lera. The people around her were chatting loudly in Italian, smiling unusually frequently and gesturing a lot. This relaxed, cheerful crowd, so different from the gloomy Muscovites, finally made Lera feel like she was far from home. All the surroundings were a bit unfamiliar. Everyone was new. Absolutely nothing reminded her of her usual life. It was relaxing.

It was like Lera was escaping from something and had finally managed to break free. With each new mile, some invisible tension left the girl and a faint smile appeared on her face. She didn't even realise how she straightened her back and stood up straighter.

Getting to Testaccio, where Lera had booked a room, was not difficult. However, during the journey, Lera said goodbye several times to her life, while a taxi driver, who was crazy like all Roman drivers, rushed her through the streets of an ancient city with screaming tyres and illegal U-turns.

Most of all, Lera was worried about the fact that, for most of the way, the taxi driver was sitting facing her, constantly waving his right hand and lisping "Che bella ragazza!" in all possible variants at her. So, Lera herself was the only person in the car looking at the road.

Only when Lera's eyes became ideally round with horror, did the driver reluctantly turn right ahead to jerk the steering wheel, wave his hand through the open window, and yell, "Chi ti ha insegnato a guidare?!". Then everything repeated. Lera was more than ever glad Rome was half the size of Moscow. Her nerves could not handle a longer trip.

Rome welcomed her with warmth. Lera giggled at local dwellers wrapped in down jackets. A light coat was enough for herself. Passers-by looked on at her in disbelief, like saying, these turisti were completely mad if they could walk around naked in such frosty weather.

Lera entered the hotel with a serious face of russa turista, but as soon as the girl tipped the porter and closed the door, all assumed seriousness flew off her. Lera ran forward with a girlish squeal and jumped into bed to bury herself in pillows and blankets, stifling laughter. Tired of freaking out, she went to the window and opened it wide. She leaned over the broad sill and inhaled fresh air of freedom with all her chest.

The room overlooked the Tiber technically, but the view was obscured by trees that grew thickly along the embankment. The river burned with fiery flashes in the setting sun's rays, sending fervent sunbeams through the leafless crowns.

Lera, without undressing, rushed back into the hallway to jump into high-heeled boots and run outside. The muddy Tiber, clad in stone, was slowly rolling south towards the sea, where Lera's plane had landed. The girl leaned against the stone parapet and looked at the river for a long time. That night, she slept peacefully, like in her childhood. Everything was fine.

The next morning, Lera got up nearly before sunrise and hurried out. Yesterday, during her extreme taxi ride, the girl realised that the ten days she had left were too short to see everything. So she would have to rush.

Even the damned morning ritual of taking pills did not cause her usual desire to turn her stomach inside out this time. This time, Lera put on comfortable sneakers and went out in search of new experiences.

It was the thirty-first of December. This was almost an ordinary day in Italy. The Christmas holidays were over, but the city was not in a hurry to get rid of the festive decorations. Decorated Christmas trees were everywhere, and tipsy tourists wearing cheap Santa hats walked the streets.

At first glance, it seemed unclear whether they had crawled out of their hiding places and started having fun or whether they hadn't yet managed to return home to their hibernation spots to get themselves sober. It was a peaceful sight! Lera enjoyed this festive atmosphere, breathing it in, drinking it up.

By the end of the day, Lera had trampled Capitol Hill and wanted to rest her aching legs and pamper yourself in honour of the upcoming New Year holiday. At random she went to the first restaurant in Sant'Angelo she spotted hoping for nothing – the very centre of Rome on New Year's Eve.

Imagine Lera's surprise when il cameriere pointed out a tiny empty table in the corner. That table was large enough only for a glass and a little saucer to place it on, but Lera didn't need more.

It was warm in the restaurant and there were delicious smells of a food from the kitchen and pine needles from wreaths hanging on the walls. Lera squinted like a cat who got warm and lazily watched passers-by hurrying home for the holiday outside the window.

She ordered a spumante and a cake with a huge cap of air cream. On top of the cream was a tiny hemisphere of reddish jelly – the pulp of the prickly pear fruit, frico d'India. A dessert spoon glittered on a beautifully folded napkin, and, looking at it, Lera felt a devil jumping on her left shoulder. The imp tugged at her ear demandingly and smiled toothily.

Lera looked around furtively, made sure no one was watching her, bent down and took the fruit pulp with her lips with inexpressible pleasure. Her face was smeared with cream, which had to be licked off for a long time with giggles. After making sure no one paid attention to her hooliganism, she drank half a glass of wine in one go.

The bubbles instantly hit her nose, and a minute later they passed through an absolutely empty stomach and reached her very heart, warming it. The imp on her left shoulder straightened up, swayed drunkenly, looked around and rubbed his hands in anticipation.

Lera looked after him. Instantly got tipsy, she was eager to continue her hooliganism. Looking around the small room, she saw a beautiful polished minion standing in the corner. She stretched her fingers to check if they were warm enough and, with confidence fuelled by the spumante flowing through her veins, began to make her way towards the instrument.

****

Marco was sitting in a restaurant, slowly sipping wine from a glass. He didn't feel like eating or going home. The only thing waiting for him at home was a mess made by Marco himself that no one would clean up during the Christmas weekend.

He and Paola separated almost two months ago and for some reason, the loneliness was especially acute today. He didn’t want to see Paola, their relationship had outlived its usefulness and ended surprisingly quietly. When they broke up, they both felt nothing but relief. Marco didn’t actually know what he wanted.

The couples and groups around him were annoying. Everyone was wearing red for the New Year, they were celebrating, laughing and taking pictures. Marco sat alone, twirling his glass with his fingertips. Not even the wonderful smells from the kitchen tempted him.

All Marco's muscles were aching frantically – today Giorgio had tormented him with special frenzy. At the end of training, Marco cursed the author who had invented the fighting scenes in the book, the screenwriters who had brought these scenes to the forefront, and himself for getting involved in this adventure.

The director was delighted with Marco's acting, but his fighting skills were not up to scratch. Well, Marco had never fought! He preferred noble ways to sort things out, and he loved team sports rather than this scuffle.

Unfortunately, it was very obvious on the screen. Marco confessed that his attempts to hit the face of an imaginary opponent were pathetic. However, Marco Guerriero did not shy away from difficulties! And for six months, Giorgio the mixed fight trainer had been bullying him at the gym.

Today, the trainer was particularly merciless. He seemed to be trying to inflict bruises on Marco for the future so that he would have enough for the weekend. Marco's ass, which was beaten off the floor, ached disgustingly, and Marco himself whined in unison with it. Both of them, Marco and his ass, hid their pain behind a mask of severe tension, like real men.

Tomorrow was supposed to be a day off, but Marco couldn't let go of the feeling that no one would let him relax. And it was even more infuriating. On New Year's Eve, Marco was supposed to celebrate and have fun, but he was in no mood at all.

The door of the restaurant opened and a girl fluttered into the hall. She was a tall, curly–haired redhead wearing a light coat. However, the coat quickly explained itself – the girl spoke to the waiter and Marco heard an interesting accent. A northern tourist. "I hate tourists!" thought Marco and starred at his drink. The girl went to a table in the corner, opposite Marco, and began looking around with her big eyes.

Marco wasn't sure why he was staring at her. Perhaps it was because she was alone on New Year's Eve as well. The waiter brought the girl a huge tart with cream and a glass of wine. The red-haired girl carefully looked at the tart and then furtively looked around.

"Well, now, he's going to steal a spoon as a keepsake!" Marco thought wearily, but the girl did something absolutely different. She gently opened her lips and delicately held the tip of her pink tongue. Marco swallowed. His field of vision narrowed instantly to a tiny spot in the centre of which was the flushed face of the red-haired beast.

With an expression of lust, the girl bent over the tart, carefully wrapping her lips around the reddish flesh of the finico d’India and sucking it into her mouth with visible pleasure. At this movement, her cheeks slightly retreated. The girl tilted her head back slightly and closed her eyes, savouring the sweetness on her tongue. There were faint traces of white cream on her lips.

Marco's blood instantly boiled. He gripped the stem of his glass tightly. The man leaned further into the shadows so no one would notice him staring at the girl. Involuntarily, he parted his lips, watching the girl tastefully roll the pulp of fruit on her tongue before licking the remnants of cream from her lips with a giggle.

Marco cursed inwardly, feeling an unwelcome heaviness in his groin, and suddenly became angry. He was angry with Paola because his pride prevented him from calling her and inviting her to spent an evening to relieve tension. With Giorgio for aching legs and arms. With all of the couples at the tables for being so cheerful and laughing loudly. And finally, at the girl for not being able to use a spoon or a napkin.

Marco turned away abruptly, noticing how the girl had gulped half a glass of wine as if it were plain water. A drunk! A minute later, this witch was already stomping across the hall. Marco realized from her flushed face that the wine had reached its goal and was directing her actions more than her brain. The girl definitely couldn’t drink! Marco snorted contemptuously turned away keeping watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Meanwhile, the girl reached the piano in the corner, hesitated in confusion for a second, then finally fell down on the banquette and began playing some Christmas melody. Marco involuntarily turned around and looked at the girl. Her graceful fingers were fluttering over the keyboard, and her slender feet were stomping on the pedals. He wondered what those feet would look like without shoes.

The little red fox was swaying to the beat of the music, a slight smile playing on her lips. She clearly enjoyed what she was doing. Marco cursed again, tossed a few bills onto the table, and left the restaurant before he could properly put on his coat

He was waving his arms as he pushed them into his sleeves, accidentally hitting a homeless man who had been looking through the restaurant window. Without much remorse, Marco threw out a "Mi scusa" and kept walking, cursing under his breath about the December cold and all tourists in general.

He barely noticed the angry, hateful gaze of the homeless man he had accidentally kicked.

Chapter 3

While Lera was playing, only one guest left the restaurant, and he left at the very beginning. After that, the evening went smoothly. Lera sobered up quickly and started to play more cheerfully. However, the rest of the guests got drunk and started singing discordantly.

Lera regained her composure and began playing all the Italian songs she knew. The atmosphere became fun and emotional. Il cameriere moved her glass from the table to the piano and poured wine into it. Lera thanked him with a nod, but her hands were busy.

By eleven o'clock, the restaurant guests started leaving with songs, drinks and leftovers. Lera stepped away from the keyboard and went back to the table. A plump man, Signor Giuseppe, immediately sat down next to her with a basket full of goodies and two sparkling bottles of wine beneath them. Lera didn't know who he was, whether he might be the owner, the chef or someone else altogether.

Giuseppe, with expressive gestures, began to praise la bella ragazza, who had at least doubled his earnings that evening. He was so happy that he wanted to hire Lera immediately for a permanent position. The man was terribly disappointed when he realised that Lera was foreign and would not be able to work at the restaurant regularly. However, he pushed the basket towards her, not listening to any objections.

“And why is bella ragazza here alone on a night like this?” Giuseppe asked, watching as Lera ate her tart and finished her wine.

“Bella ragazza is on vacation and escaped to the eternal city to be away from everyone” Lera admitted.

“Oh! What about suo damo?! Did he really let you go alone?”

"No damo, Signor Giuseppe," Lera laughed, "Only the strict boss who let us go with gnashing of teeth, forced and reluctantly having to obey the inexorable Russian law. If she had her way, we would have worked without interruption!”

“Oh, what a shame!” Giuseppe cried. “Beautiful girls can't be without il damo! It makes them angry. Oh, I could call my nephews! One word from you and there would be five ragazzi here ready to do anything for you!”

“No, signor!” Lera laughed back, “You'll condemn me to returning home with a broken heart.”

Giuseppe laughed kindly.

“And what work do you do for such a strict boss?"

“An interpreter! From Italian”, Lera replied with pride in her voice.

“Madonna mia! Are you working for the government?” Giuseppe cried.

Lera stared at him in astonishment.

“What are you talking about, signor? Of course not! I work for a private translation bureau. Oh-oh! The agency! The boss would slap me on the lips for using the bourgeois word "bureau." Lera giggled. “Our boss is really worried about our status. They say she had been thinking about a name for the agency for ages.”

“And what did she come up with? Some kind of masterpiece?”

“Hermes”, Lera said with a serious face.

“Gah! And here are the Greeks! She should have named it Mercury”, Giuseppe said indignantly.

“That's right, signor!” Lera agreed with a smile.

Giuseppe raised his hand and checked his watch.

“There is less than an hour until the new year signorina! You should definitely try to catch your luck with clock striking, mia bella ragazza! And next year you'll definitely meet him.”

“Who?”

“Il damo of course!” Giuseppe shouted.

Lera snorted at first, but the imp on her left shoulder suddenly perked up, and the girl looked mischievously at Giuseppe and said:

“You know, Signor Giuseppe? Let me tell you about one of Russian New Year's traditions. Maybe it will help you too. Could you bring me paper, a pencil and a matchbox?”

Giuseppe looked at Lera with interest and asked the waiter to bring what Lera had asked for.

“So, Signore Giuseppe, this is a sure way to fulfil all your wishes!”

"I am all ears," Giuseppe smiled.

“You need to take a piece of paper and write your most cherished desire on it. So that nobody can see what’s written. Then at the first chime of midnight, the paper must be set on fire, then you, fingers crossed, pray so that it burns quickly.”

“Please keep your voice down, signorina! Judging by the ears pricked up around us, we risk triggering the fire alarm tonight," Giuseppe laughed.

“Totally secret, signor!” Lera said in a stage whisper, "So that's it! The ashes of the paper must be thrown into a glass of champagne…"

“Champagne?!” Giuseppe snorted in contempt. "Madonna mia! Drinking this French mockery isn't easy even without ashes!"

“Okay! Let's have prosecco, as long as it’s sparkling”, Lera got her bearings, "So! You need to stir the ashes and drink it all up before the last chime of the clock."

"Will that help?" The man arched an eyebrow doubtfully.

"I don't know," Lera smiled, "I haven't tried it, but that's reason to try, isn't it?"

The waiter brought a paper and pencil and stood by, intrigued as much as his boss. Lera ripped the notebook page into pieces and gave one to Giuseppe, who immediately scribbled something in small handwriting.

Lera took a pencil too and held it over the paper, but suddenly froze in confusion. Nothing coming to mind and the pencil hovering over the page without moving. She painfully tried to imagine what she wanted.

Now, sitting in the restaurant in the Eternal city, drinking wine and having fun, she felt like she had everything. Her favourite job, great apartment, good friends. But what else did she need? Giuseppe's words about a knight's heart touched her mind, but then they disappeared.

And suddenly, white packets of pills floated before her mind's eye. Lera hated the colour white because it reminded her of those damned boxes. They were a symbol of distrust, disbelief, and neglect. They were a symbol of Lera's constant fear. The fear that has not left Lera for twelve years.

For the first time in twelve years, that fear receded as she found herself in Rome. It seemed to Lera that in moving away from everything familiar and close to her, she had run away from her fear, and it was a great feeling. She felt a sense of lightness, confidence, and fun. Did all people feel that way all the time?

For the first time in years, Lera looked around with joy and curiosity, instead of suspiciously searching for who-knows-what. Lera resolutely lowered her pen and wrote in sharp handwriting, almost tearing through the page:

"I want to stop being afraid!"

“What now, mia bella signorina?” Giuseppe asked when they both were finished.

“That's it, signor! We are waiting for the last moments of the year, lighting the fire, drinking. If we don't do this before the clock strikes midnight, nothing will happen!” Lera said, quickly folding the paper in half.

“Then we need to hurry!” Giuseppe laughed.

Lera took out a thermocup from her bag, which had been filled with tea until recently, poured the rest of her spumante into it. After doing this, she grabbed a basket of food and a box of matches from the table and headed towards the exit.

"Happy New Year!" She shouted across the now empty room.

“And to you, Signorina! And you too! Please come again! You are always welcome here!” Giuseppe shouted, waving goodbye to her.

Smiling, Lera pulled on her coat and hurried to the bank of the Tiber. There, at the beautiful Fabricio Bridge, with her back to the Marcellus Theatre and her face to the Basilica of Saint Bartolomeo, she fought through the crowds of people. She wanted to get closer to the river.

Her watch said it was two minutes before midnight. Lera unscrewed the lid of her thermocup, which was lined with metal on the inside so it could serve as a miniature barbecue. Lera put a note inside, covered it from the wind with her hand, and taking out the matchbox began to wait.

“Uno!!!” The crowd shouted after a moment.

Lera struck a match and, without letting it flare up, poked at the piece of paper. The match went out.

“Due!!!” People burst out in chorus.

Lera got a little nervous and struck a second match. This time, she let the flame flare up properly and held the match to the piece of paper.

“Tre!!!”

The paper lit. Lera covered the tiny fire from the wind with both palms.

“Quattro!!! Cinque!!!”

Why did the waiter give her such a thick piece of paper?!

“Sei!!!”

The piece was almost burnt out, and Lera watched impatiently as the last slightly bluish light faded and extinguished.

“Sette!!!”

There it is! Lera slammed the lid with the ashes on the termocup, twisted it and began to shake so that the ashes would be mixed with wine.

“Otto!!!”

She snapped off the plug from a small hole in the lid and, almost spilling, began to swallow wine from the cup which turned out to be too much.

“Nove!!! Dieci!!! Undici!!!”

Lera pulled herself away from the cup, swallowed the last drop and shouted with everyone:

“Dodici!!!”

The sky exploded with fireworks. Shots and explosions rattled, shaking the bones. Lera screamed and cheered with everyone else, almost losing her voice. Fireworks reflected in the oil-black water of the Tiber illuminating everything around with fantastic colours.

Lera's heart filled with childlike joy. She had done it! What if it actually works? And although it was silly, Lera sincerely hoped that smoke from the burnt paper would fly directly to heaven and reach the someone it was meant for.

An hour later, she headed to her hotel, responding to constant shouts of "Buon anno!" Just before entering the building, an old pair of men's long underwear thrown from a window for luck fell on her head. It was the final straw. The girl burst into laughter.

****

In the early morning, a car pulled up to the back door of a restaurant in Sant'Angelo. Giuseppe hurriedly left the building and quickly walked towards it. The cold did not please him. As with all Italians.

One of Giuseppe's nephews drove the car. The man was serious about calling a bunch of guys. Vincenzo, for example, definitely was ready to meet some brava ragazza! His work will ruin him completely very soon. However, Giuseppe had married late and lived happily.

"Hello, Uncle!" said his nephew cheerfully.

"Hi, Vincenzo!" replied Giuseppe. "Thank you for offering to give me a lift!"

Vincenzo turned on the heating for his uncle's seat. Giuseppe sat down comfortably and looked out the window, smiling, looking forward to the long trip.

"Where's Aunt Chiara?” Vincenzo asked, looking at the back of the restaurant.

“O! Madonna mia! She's packed things on a trip for a week, even today! It’s four o'clock in the morning and my Chiara was late anyway! Women!”

Giuseppe threw up his hands and Vincenzo burst out laughing.

"I swear to you, nephew, men should be paid by the hour for the time they spend waiting for their wives to finally get ready.”

“Oh, I see you're cheerful today!" Vincenzo winked at him.

“Of course I am! Today a cute ragazza made me double my profits! And it only cost me a basket of food and two bottles of wine!"

“Really? How did you manage it?” Vincenzo was surprised.

“I mean that! A Russian interpreter. She played piano in my restaurant all evening. Can you imagine? The guests didn't want to leave.” Giuseppe was excited and waving his arms like a windmill. "And I told everyone, we need to hire a musician. Let him come at least once or twice a week. My guests were singing, with their arms around each other. That's why I run this restaurant.”

But Vincenzo wasn't listening. He clung to one phrase like a pit bull and jumped on the chair.

"Uncle! I desperately need a Russian interpreter," the guy shouted. "Did she leave you her phone number?"

"I'm not so young and attractive that beautiful girls give me their phone numbers," laughed Giuseppe, patting his belly.

"Oh, the devil!" Vincenzo said in serious frustration.

Giuseppe looked at his nephew with some regret, the nephew who thinks about his job even at four in the morning on New Year's Day. It's scary to think – even on a night like this, the poor guy has no other business than to take his uncle to the airport. Or maybe he and this Valeria will work out? Giuseppe squinted and decided – well, why not?

“She said the name of the agency where she works and also, she said that her boss was a stingy donna. Try contacting her… Look up the name of the agency on the internet. What if it works! The interpreter said that her boss, she would get an employee out of vacation if the client offers good money.”

Giuseppe was glad that that money definitely wouldn't be from Vincenzo's pocket.

"What’s the name?" Vincenzo asked, hope lighting up in his eyes.

"Hermes."

Chapter 4

The morning started with a phone call. Lera pulled her right hand out of the warm cocoon of the blanket, groping for the ringing phone and looking at the display with one eye. It was Irina Konstantinovna calleding. Lera automatically answered the call and muttered sleepily:

“Yes? Irina Konstantinovna, I'm leaving now the house going out already soon yeah…”

“Where do you think you're going?” there was a laughter on the other end. ” You’re supposed to be buried in the wilderness, covered in snow. And your phone should be off. You must be sitting on a tree since new year chimes, waiting for a call from your beloved boss!”

While Irina Konstantinova was practising philology, Lera woke up and realised where she was. "Oh damn! I’m a mess" she thought. Other thoughts flashed through her mind: "earrings", "security cameras", "police". In alarm, Lera jumped out of bed.

“Did you find out who brought the earrings?”

“Pfff, I beg you!” The boss snorted. “Those ones who work in security offices are normal people too! They were drinking champagne yesterday, just like you, and they had no time to search for our oligarch Romeo.”

Lera's face fell.

"I'm calling you about something else," the boss said, and added sarcastically: "since your phone is working so well there on the pine tree".

Lera pounded her fist on her forehead: "Damn it, damn it! She is calling about a job! She’ll make me work now! Definitely! That's what it is! Why didn't I throw this phone into the Tiber last night?!"

“There's a job for you!” Irina Konstantinovna said happily.

"That's great!” Lera thought. “And I can't refuse after the escort organised by her. It's rude… But it's worth a try."

“Irina Konstantinova, I'm not sure…”

“Come on, everything could be done on the phone. Hopefully it won't be for long if the client isn't an idiot.”

“Which is very rare…” Lera muttered.

“Hold it! Stand down! The client is your breadwinner, drink-winner and blessed mother! Respect and honour him right after your boss! I will pay double the rate! As we always agreed!” The boss quickly added, softening her tone.

“Irina Konstantinovna, it's the morning of the first of January…”

“So grab the client before he comes to his senses!”

Lera sighed. The whole verbal pas de deux was meaningless. Irina Konstantinova, who smelt the scent of possible profit, and the great white shark who smelled blood behaved in the same way. Pushing ahead, with no chance of changing course. If the boss called, it wouldn't be possible to politely get away with a refusal, and Lera asked fateful:

“What should I do?”

“It's nothing difficult! To instil in an Italian a love for Russian speech.”

“What?”

“Gah, they're making a movie there.” Irina Konstantinovna said. “Something about bandits. Or about the police? Anyway, I don't know. No difference. So, the main character has to say a few phrases in Russian and now they only have access to Italian interpreters because the Russians are all on holiday! And they don't want their hero to say something stupid. In short, they need a native. Well, they asked us…”

“I see. Do I need to teach someone how to speak some phrases on Russian without an accent?” Lera asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, that's right. And that's all we have. For an hour a day until they finish some scenes. They say it’s for three or four days. On the phone." Irina Konstantinovna replied lightly.

"Irina Konstantinova, it's going to be really hard to do it on the phone. He needs to watch our articulation…" Lera began.

“Well, what can we do? We can't refuse!"

“Of course not, Irina Konstantinovna! You will definitely not refuse them if they pay!" Lera grumbled to herself and asked: “Where are they working?”

“Rome. Synesytta.”

“Cinecitta” Lera corrected automatically.

“Oh, what's the difference? So what? Will you take it?”

Lera sighed resignedly and said, "Make the appointment… I'm in Rome."

“What a middle of nowhere!” The boss laughed. “Agreed! I'll send the coordinates and time via message within half an hour. Payment as agreed. That's it! Get to work!”

The phone went silent. Lera fell back onto the pillows with a groan. She allowed herself five minutes whining in self-pity, then got out of bed. Bulgakov’s Margarita looked at her from the mirror. Her fiery hair, tousled by the wind and felted on the pillow stood up in a mess. There were mystical dark circles under her eyes from lack of sleep. Her face was pale and angry with the realisation that she needed to work on her vacation. When she tried to smile, she saw that a piece of burned paper was stuck on her front tooth.

It was too much and Lera climbed into the shower. A quick shower had a beneficial effect on her smile and complexion, but it completely ruined her hairstyle. The hotel shampoo and hairdryer had turned an already abundant mass of hair into a perfect avant-garde style.

Lera tried to call them for order, but she did not succeed. Her last trick was to do everything so everyone around believed that this was what she intended, which was what Lera did. She neglected her makeup, believing fresh air would still give her a blush.

But the clothes could not be neglected. We’re represented by them. Taking out two dresses from her wardrobe, coral and light blue, she turned them this way and that before her eyes and chose the second one. She carefully put the coral dress back in the wardrobe. Gah! Too much honour to wear such beauty for an ordinary work meeting!

The phone gurgled. A message flashed on the screen: "Marco Guerriero. Torre Argentina Square. Cafe on Vittorio Emanuele Avenue 2. At 11:00." Lera sighed. There was not much time left, but there was just enough time for a quick breakfast.

After eating at the hotel, she headed to the meeting place on foot. It was not a long walk, just half an hour. The most important thing was not to get lost in the maze of small streets, so Lera decided to be careful. She walked along the banks of the Tiber to the Garibaldi Bridge and turned onto Arenula Street, which should lead her to her desired square.

When she reached her destination, Lera came to a standstill. There, on the square, in the middle of the residential buildings, surrounded by honking cars and rushing people, stood the ruins of several ancient temples in the open air, without any tickets or fences.

Lera used to visit Italy solely for work, and she never had time for sightseeing. That's why she felt like she was coming to this city for the first time. And today, as on the first day, she was stunned by the simplicity with which antiquity coexists with modernity here. Lera felt like a time traveller. It was easy to step off the busy highway of the twenty first century and get into the white-haired pre-Christian era.

Cats roamed the ruins, and Lera, involuntarily, slowed down her pace as she stared at them. She will definitely, unavoidably approach the columns that had seen the change of so many generations! Absolutely! As soon as she gets rid of this Marco Guerriero, for whom it suddenly became necessary to speak like a Russian at this most inconvenient time.

Her phone beeped, announcing it was eleven o'clock in Rome. Oh damn! She was gawping and now she was late! Lera ran towards the avenue like a hare, and definitely found the right café, it was only one there. It was quite large.

Lera fell into it from a running start, like a stormtrooper into a bunker. The numbers "11:04" were on the clock behind the hostess counter. She turned to the receptionist, taking off her coat in the same movement.

"I have an appointment with Signor Guerriero. Is he here? Can you show me?"

The hostess nodded and motioned for Lera to follow her. She trotted after the receptionist, but when she took a step aside to point to the table where the man was sitting, Lera stumbled. Because the being who was sitting there definitely was a God.

Marco was tall. Very tall. And dark skinned, with strikingly sharp features. His glossy black hair was neatly combed back revealing a high, prominent forehead. His bushy eyebrows were furrowed. He tapped a long elegant finger against his lips while studying the menu.

He was so handsome that Lera almost felt herself suffocating. She had never seen such a beautiful person in her life. She could barely move her legs and walked towards Marco like a rabbit towards a boa constrictor. He would have made a suitable model for the ancient sculptors for the statue of Apollo. Lera was stunned by him.

Until the man looked at her. His translucent ice-blue eyes burned with such undisguised anger that she was taken aback.

****

Marco was furious. He ran shamefacedly away from the restaurant in Sant'Angelo, which hurt his ego. He couldn't stand being in the same room with this stray tourist. Him! Marco Guerriero, on whom women threw themselves in bunches. Moreover, even the long walk to his apartment in Flaminio had not cooled him down. Marco seethed, tormented by hot thoughts and anger.

On New Year's Eve he had hoped to sit out at a restaurant where there was at least an illusion of being in some company. Well, Marco could not really celebrate the new year with his own assistant, honestly! Although, now it seemed to Marco that anything was better than sitting in an empty apartment listening to other people rejoicing. The emptiness would not leave him alone, pointedly demonstrating he had nowhere to go and nothing to do for now.

The apartment greeted him with a booming echo, then silence. It was empty today. There were no women, no relatives, and no pets. Even Rosa, the housekeeper, had taken some free days and gone home. Marco threw his keys onto the console and went into the living room.

He casually threw his expensive coat onto an even more expensive sofa, which was designed to perfection. The whole apartment was pricey and thought out to the smallest detail. And completely impersonal, like a hotel room.

Marco snorted bitterly. There was no cup of half-finished coffee, no socks thrown on the floor. Rosa carefully cleaned up the traces of his stay in this place before leaving. It was like Marco had never existed at all. As if he existed only on the screen.

He looked around and angrily kicked the coffee table to somehow disrupt this idyll. The table creaked and slid to the side; the echos quickly faded away. Marco stood for a minute, looking irritably at the walls and went to the bar for lack of anything better to do. There he found and uncorked a bottle of wine.

Rome was blackening outside the window. Flaminio's obelisk pierced the darkening sky. The frozen Tiber loomed to the right. Today, Marco's beloved view from the window did not please him. With a chuckle, he caught himself thinking about summoning a call-girl. However, Marco quickly dismissed the idea, and scolded himself, deciding that he had not quite fallen so low – at least not yet.

He wandered around the living room like a caged tiger. The wall clock showed fifteen minutes until midnight. New year is coming soon, and Marco had nothing to prepare for a celebration – his table was bare. Moreover, what sort of celebration would it be if he was alone?

Marco came up with an idea: when he was a child, his mother had told him about how to attract good luck on New Year's Eve. She said it was essential to dress in red, throw out old junk from the window and eat twelve grapes while the clock struck. One grape at a chime.

Marko didn't believe in all that nonsense, but today he felt especially saddened. Perhaps it was the wine that went to his head, but nevertheless for some reason, he stumbled into his bedroom. There was a photo frame of himself and Paola on the bedside table beside the huge bed. Marco thoughtfully rubbed his stubbled chin and, after considering it, took the photo out and tore it up into small pieces. Not because he hated the girl. He just wanted to make sure there would be nothing compromising if he threw the photo out of the window.

Then he entered the dressing room and pulled out the first red object that caught his eye. It turned out to be a beautiful, large-knit sweater that his mother had made with her own hands. Marco put it on over his sports T-shirt.

Then Marco forced himself to look in the far corner of the dressing room. Having decided, he reached onto the top shelf and took out an old, torn T-shirt that was faded, but very carefully washed and repaired. It was his favourite T-shirt which he wore when visiting his parents in the campagna. He had not lived with them since the age of nineteen, since he started studying.

Two years ago, their house in the village was completely burned down. A remote area, an isolated house with almost no neighbours… His parents didn’t survive. It was fortunate that his brother was not there at the time. An old T-shirt and a vineyard taken care of by strangers were all that remained of that particular past. Marco had the house rebuilt rebuilt in detail, but it never again felt the same.

Marco looked at the T-shirt for a long time, then he took it out of the dressing room, gathered the pieces of the photo on the cloth, and went to the kitchen. It was two minutes before midnight according to the clock. He reached into the fridge, picked out a dozen from a bunch of grapes, rinsed them, and placed them on the table. Some scattered, so Marco collected them in a pile. He opened the window, letting cold air into the apartment. Then he turned on the live broadcast from St. Mark's square in Venice and waited.

Almost immediately, joyful voices came from the TV, announcing that the clock was about to strike. And it was true: the first "boom-m-m-m-m" rang out and Marco put a grape into his mouth. He desperately wanted good luck.

He swallowed the grapes like a duck, without chewing, and with at last stroke, he finished the last of them. The sky lit up with bright fireworks. Marco grabbed the T-shirt and the scraps of photo and walked towards the window albeit reluctantly. He couldn't take his eyes off his burden. His fingers convulsively at the fabric.

At the last moment, he scooped up the paper scraps from the shirt. Placing the cloth on the table, he threw the photo fragments out the window with no regret. There was no shame before Paola, but the desire to release the grief that had tormented him for two years gave rise to a bitter sense of guilt.

Marco sighed heavily, lowered his head, stood there for a minute and finally slammed the window shut. He went into the living room, took the wine and sat down to watch "Christmas Holidays", the plot of which he already knew by heart.

After half an hour, Marco realised that he was not looking at the screen. He turned off the TV and trudged into the bedroom. Stripped naked, he stretched out on the bed on top of the blankets with a sigh. Fireworks were booming outside the window, illuminating the room with coloured flashes.

The sight of coloured confetti made from the photo flying out of his window rose before his eyes. Marco would soon be thirty-nine, many of his classmates were already sending their children to school, and he had just thrown his past affair out of the window.

Marco rolled over on his side. "I wonder what that redhead is doing now? Probably dancing somewhere on the street, in a crowd of other idle revellers" he thought, and immediately regretted it. The image of soft lips picking up red, juicy flesh from a creamy bed instantly burst into his consciousness. Heck! He could describe in details where he would like to see those lips.

He tried to force the image away, but it was instantly replaced by another one: a girl with her eyes closed sat at the piano, slowly swaying to the music, her head tilted back in pleasure. Her open throat was white against red curls and a slight smile played on her full lips. For some reason, in his fantasy, the girl was barefoot. He wondered what else she could do so slowly and delicately?

Marco cursed out loud, slammed his fist unnecessarily hard into the pillow, and tried to lie down on his stomach. After all these thoughts, lying on his stomach was uncomfortable. Marco cursed his stubborn body, which did not want to eat starvation rations, and declared it in every possible way.

Marco realised that he would not be able to sleep. He got up, grumbled through his teeth, and – naked – went back into the living room. He picked up a glass, drained it in one gulp, and poured himself more wine. But it only made things worse. His brain, clouded by alcohol, refused to obey and gave him a series of images of a red-haired temptress one by one.

After two hours of fruitless attempts to distract himself with TV, wine, music, or anything else, Marco gave up and went to take a shower. Standing in front of the transparent wall, he wondered if he could act like a true stoic and stand under cold water. His second option was to stop acting like a moral idiot and get into a warm shower and solve the problem as a real warrior. In other words, as some poor guy who was quite an adult but didn't have access to women in the flesh. Ignoring his ego, Marco turned on the hot water.

The image of the hated witch didn't leave his mind, and Marco stayed in the shower for much longer than planned. He wasn't able to get to bed until four in the morning, drunk and exhausted.

He dreamed of a red-haired witch. Naked, she lay on a white rumpled sheet, shamelessly spreading her legs, beckoning to him and smiling invitingly. The reflections of the flames danced on her white skin, her hands reached out to him, stroking his flushed face and pulling him closer.

She asked him for something softly and tenderly, clinging to him like a cat. She kissed him and whispered something tender in his ear. Her accent drove Marco crazy, and he tossed and turned in his sleep unable to calm his newly awakened excitement.

And then the flames burst into his dreams again and Marco woke with a muffled cry. Marco did not see the tragedy that happened to his parents personally. All he found was the black, sooty and gloomy parental remains of a house that looked like a cemetery crypt.

His recollection of the process of identifying of his parents was poor. Of course, they showed him what was left of them, but he would not have recognised those charred remains as human had he not been told what they were. Since then, he had often dreamed about fire.

For two years now, fire had been preventing Marco from getting a good night's sleep. Almost every night, the ubiquitous flames penetrated his dreams and woke Marco up mercilessly. They did not take pity on Marco even on New Year's Eve. Marco went to bed at four and at five, the nightmare awakened him. Then, Marco tossed and turned for an hour before finally falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

And at eight, his assistant Vincenzo called. Marco's head throbbed and his body still ached from the previous day’s exertions. Marco was ready to get mad and tear up the contract but then he remembered the size of the penalty and answered the phone.

"I hope you have an important reason for waking me up at eight o'clock in the morning on New Year's Day on my legal free day," he said gloomily instead of greeting.

Vincenzo was cheerful and radiant, to the point of making Marco grind his teeth.

"Ma-a-arco, dear! Buon anno!"

"So far, it's not a good start," Marco growled.

"Don't get angry, Marco!" Vincenzo continued undeterred. "Do you remember that we start filming 'Russian' scenes tomorrow?"

“Tomorrow, Vincenzo! So why a hell are you calling me today and at such an early hour?!”

“We were lucky, my dear friend!”

“Really?!” Marco growled again.

"Quite by chance, an interpreter from Moscow is visiting Rome right now," Vincenzo almost sang. “This girl just yesterday taught my uncle Giuseppe to make wishes when the clock strikes. It is demanded to drink prosecco with the ash of a piece of paper where the wish is written!”

“What kind of nonsense is this? Vincenzo, are you drunk?”

“I’m totally serious, Marco! Honestly! My uncle told me that his entire staff burned paper at night. The residents of the upper floors have almost called rescuers and firefighters!”

“What a folly!” Marco snorted, desperate to get rid of his assistant.

“So, about the interpreter. She kindly agreed to help you with your text at a reasonable price. And she’s ready to do it today.”

"What makes you think I need help?” Marco muttered.

“Because, Marco, you've only heard Russian language in American action movies and this is a not really good study guide!” Vincenzo replied quickly.

“I trained with an e-translator!" Marco got angry.

"I'd prefer you to get a consultation with a native speaker." the assistant insisted.

"And I’d prefer to sleep!" Marco barked, losing his temper.

"In this case, you are not paid to sleep. If they have to reshoot scenes with your Russian text, the penalty may be higher than your fee. Do you need it?"

Marco howled like an enraged beast; Vincenzo burst out laughing.

"Come on, come on my friend! I've set up an appointment with your interpreter at Largo di Torre Argentina at eleven. You have three hours to make yourself presentable and get there."

Vincenzo hung up, and Marco barely resisted the urge to throw the phone against the wall. This was absolutely not how he had imagined a successful start to the year. Grinding his teeth, he finally dragged himself out of bed. The icing on the cake of his anger was the discovery of an empty coffee tin. Marco somehow forgot that supplies tend to run out and had not bothered buying more.

Marco arrived at the meeting five minutes before it was due and decided he could finally satisfy his need for coffee. The interpreter was late and this did not improve his mood at all. He was inspecting the menu when a woman broke noisily into the cafe and began asking for Signor Guerriero. She was led to him, and Marco reluctantly looked up from his menu to see who the hell his assistant had sent to punish him for his sins. As he looked up, a red fog covered his sight.

The same split-tail from the restaurant was gliding towards him. So that was what the accent had been! She was Russian. In daylight, she looked even younger, like a teenager. Her pale blue silk dress elegantly emphasized her slender figure, making her look like a mermaid. She wasn't wearing makeup, and her red hair was tousled.

She looked as if she had just jumped out of bed, where she had been sleeping very restlessly. Or didn't sleep at all. Her full lips formed a surprised "o" and her eyes became wide open. Marco finally saw their colour. Bluish-green, like the shallow waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

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