Sasha Kaya
Stupid genius

«Oscar» in the Garden

“You’re invited to two weeks in paradise on tropical islands” I read on a travel agency brochure handed to me by one girl on my way to work. Funny thing! Everyone rushes to the sea, the ocean, the sun, the beach and I ran away from there. I was born and lived for twenty years on an island in the ocean. Now I’ve come to Los Angeles, planning to become an actor and, of course, win an Oscar. Back home, everyone valued my acting talent and sense of humor very highly. Here, I’m just a waiter. At home, I was also a waiter, only across from our café there was the sea and fresh air; here the air is dirty and heavy, cars constantly roar by, and there’s a big dumpster at the door. I earn significantly more here than I did at home, but prices are higher, expenses greater. On weekends, I go to castings, so there’s no question of going to admire the local sea. No, I haven’t been disappointed yet. I know what I’m capable of, and I know that luck will come to me. The hope of landing a major film role never leaves me for a second. My colleagues (waiters, not actors) say that if luck never comes, at least I’ll get plenty of chances to see Hollywood stars they’re everywhere here, like vegetables in a garden.

Today, on a sunny April day, taking out the trash in the middle of my shift, I saw a homeless man. In him, I recognized the famous actor Bill Fly. What a catch! Three-time Oscar winner, four-time Golden Globe winner, and a pile of other awards, but most importantly, he was the one who hung on my wall at home! Not him personally, of course the poster for one of his films. Awards and recognition were long past, but the tabloids wrote about him constantly. One thing he certainly knew how to do was deal with the press: always smiling at the camera, waving at the paparazzi, loving to act absurdly. I’d heard that Hollywood stars often dress up to go unnoticed in the city, or, like Bill Fly, lie down to rest in the middle of the day… but why in a dumpster? Passersby walked or ran past, seemingly bewitched, unable to process seeing a star fallen into a pile of garbage. I saw, and so I reached out my hand (after wiping it on my apron). Nobody would believe I met this world-famous person, a great actor of our time! Bill Fly smiled at me, even though I had no camera in hand… I should have grabbed my phone for a selfie, but he could barely stand, was humming to himself, and smelled of alcohol, like a freshly uncorked bottle.

“I loved your character in your cult film… what’s it called… well, it came out about twenty years ago… You played the cop who rebelled against the corrupt colleague!” I said as sincerely as possible (my voice always wavered with excitement).

The eccentric actor said nothing and collapsed back into the dumpster. It reminded me of a scene from a 1984 film, where he played an impoverished aristocrat.

“Why are you hugging this bum?” my colleague asked when she saw me helping the star to stand.

“That’s Bill Fly himself! Don’t you see? He’s disguised as a homeless man, but he’s rich and famous!”

“Okay… Wash your hands afterward, don’t forget.”

She didn’t believe me. I handed her my apron and asked her to let them know I wouldn’t be coming in today. She said, “Not guaranteed they’ll let you back in.” I shrugged; at that moment, it didn’t matter, because in my hands was a man who won the Oscar in 2001.

I hailed a taxi and helped lift Bill Fly onto the back seat. He refused to give an address… or maybe the smacking sounds he made were meant to indicate the location? Never mind. The driver was experienced, often drove tourists, and knew all the houses of local celebrities. And yes, he didn’t believe I was with Bill Fly the great actor, Oscar and Golden Globe winner but he didn’t refuse to take me and the bum to the right house for a fee.

A snowy-white mansion with columns appeared on the horizon, and doubts crept in. What if this man, resting his head on my shoulder out of exhaustion, wasn’t Bill Fly at all, just an ordinary homeless man? I couldn’t leave him by the gate! Paparazzi would surely swarm, and they’d accuse me of deliberately finding a similar-looking bum to compromise the real one.

Ranger in jeans and a T-shirt came out to meet our taxi. I decided to wipe the homeless man’s wrinkled face with my handkerchief so that, if I’d made a mistake, he would at least slightly resemble Bill Fly just in case. But before I could bring the handkerchief to his cheek, ranger greeted him by name. I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Are you trying to sedate him with a chloroform handkerchief?” she asked, smiling. When I shook my head, she continued: “Then help me get him to the living room sofa. Yes, yes, under the arms… Carefully… Yes, he’s heavy, I know… Thanks, young man, thank you.”

We placed him on the sofa, and he laughed. I noticed Bill Fly had scratched his finger; there was blood.

“Do you have any antiseptic?” I asked, still unsure whether she was his wife or a servant.

“No,” she answered, and I noticed two more people had joined us.

Everyone in the house wore casual, comfortable clothes… and here I had thought servants of the rich wore uniforms and aprons.

“Well… May I?” I gestured to the vodka bottle on the table by the sofa.

“Pour” said Bill Fly himself. “And a glass for me, please.”

I moistened my clean handkerchief and applied it to the wound, instructing the actor to raise his hand above his head. Not sure it helped, but my mother always did that when I had abrasions as a child. She would also blow on the sore spot, but I didn’t dare blow on an Oscar winner: his servants had been watching me the whole time. One of them whispered “doctor,” and I felt proud. Everyone fell silent. Raising his arm, the host of the house suddenly laughed again.

“If the paparazzi got into the yard or are filming me from a satellite right now, what will they write about me tomorrow?”

“You wave at them, and they’ll write that you greeted them… I’m joking, don’t wiggle your fingers yet, let it dry first.”

Ten minutes passed. I looked out the window: heavy rain poured.

“I lotht my umpella…,” said John.

“What?”

“Lost… My unrella… in the dumpster,” he clarified.

The great actor (whose house I lounged in like a guest on a soft sofa) lisps and whistles, so I watched his mouth carefully to understand him; his teeth were bright white, though not cavity-free.

“Umpella… unrella… Ah! Umbrella?”

“Yes… need to go back,” Bill Fly said, unsuccessfully trying to stand.

“Oh, why bother! Buy a new one! This one could go to someone else.”

“Yes… Of course! Charity! Though it’s personalized… like this… this thing…”

Bill Fly elegantly reached under the sofa and seemed stuck, but he was a Talent, capable of escaping tricky situations: pretending deep thought, he paused, then knelt and began searching.

“There it is!”

In his hands gleamed the Oscar statuette. So that’s what he’d been looking for under the dusty sofa! Dusty… strange, so many servants, and no cleaning. Maybe he keeps the sofa like a safe and forbids dusting under it?

“No way, the real Oscar!” I exclaimed, full of genuine admiration.

“What? This little award?” the actor said, smacking his lips. “Magda! Magda, come here… put it in my grime!”

“Excuse me?” I asked, while ranger took the statuette and went somewhere.

“ Put it in my garden. Let it stand in my garden", the actor explained. "Well, you know, Oscar for ass…"

I was waiting with fascination for the continuation.

"Oscar for us, professionals, it’s a trinket". Bill said and I exhaled. “Have we met somewhere? Your face is familiar.”

Here was a perfect chance to tell a Hollywood celebrity how talented I am and how I long to make it onto the Walk of Fame! But no… I was overwhelmed with embarrassment, the same feeling that had stopped me from taking a photo after selflessly helping him home. All I could manage was: “But this is a real Oscar…”

“Think we deserved it? Think they deserved it? Think I deserved it? Ha-ha-ha! Well, maybe someone very diligent got it fairly, but actors in shabby little theaters, with fifteen spectators… they work just as hard! But who needs to promote ‘nothing’? I was once ‘nothing’! There was a time when ‘nothing,’ becoming a star, amazed! Now one ‘nothing’ isn’t enough. More than that: ‘nothing’ is a worthless element, easier to invent than to find and promote.

“Oh, you are not ‘nothing,’ you not only deserved this Oscar, you deserved all the other awards you didn’t get…”

“Actors give each other these things because they are famous,” Bill Fly continued, ignoring me.

“They won’t give them to the little-known, under-promoted, genius…,” he widened his eyes on the last word, as if underlining it with a marker, “…films, actors, directors… they give them only to those the whole world talks about or those it’s profitable for the world to talk about, because they signed contracts for superblockbusters with millions of dollars invested. Millions! First in promotion, then production. Scripts are structured with precision, evoking the right emotions, as if designed by veterinarians experimenting on animals. These films follow a worn path so the masses won’t get lost and will pay for tickets. Then… nominate for a prestigious award and attract attention to the ceremony also money. Money-money-money…”

Bill Fly fell silent, eyes closed. I waited eagerly. The continuation after such a long theatrical pause promised to be astonishing. It seemed the greatest secret of Hollywood would now be revealed to me! Cards were in hand, and I would later claim the jackpot myself!

A minute and a half passed. Bill Fly snored. Once again examining his luxurious living room, I decided to stop taking advantage of his hospitality. His guards frisked me from head to toe, as if I could steal something while the host slept with his mouth open. My joking suggestion to leave a metal detector at the exit did nothing to change their serious expressions. Outside, the heavy rain continued; I saw the Oscar, carelessly shoved into a palm pot, being drenched. The water cleaned the polished surface, making it shine even more.

“Mom! Dad! Today I held an Oscar in my hands! Think I’m joking? Think it’s a cheap souvenir? No! The real one! Personalized! The name isn’t mine yet… Bill Fly remember him? Of course, you do; if not, check my room. If you haven’t taken down my posters yet, you’ll see him on one! Bill personally handed me his award; I consider that a good sign. That’s it. I’m eating well. The weather is great. Waiting for your reply,” I finished writing an email, which would soon fly across the ocean, and reflected on everything that had happened to me today.

I remembered the Oscar, soaking in Mr. Fly’s garden. If I’d taken it, no one would have noticed its absence. I could have kept it dry. I would have dusted it daily… But I couldn’t steal it! Couldn’t! Even if he had given it to me himself… I didn’t deserve it.

On the photograph

“Mom, is this your sister? It says “Anya Makasenko” on the back.“

“ What, sweetie?.. Oh, yes. Anyuta. That’s her. Have you eaten enough? Do you want me to wash some more fruit for you? “

Mom was washing the dishes while listening to the radio, and only then did she glance at the old photograph from the early 2000s.

Aunt Anya was four years younger than her. I had never seen that kind of energy in anyone else before. In this photo, she is twenty-one, smiling openly like a Hollywood star, a girl from a magazine cover. She has dimples on her rosy cheeks, light chestnut curls of a short haircut softly framing her temples… Anya is a true firecracker, the kind you rarely meet in our gray city. Maybe some Latin American beauty laughs like that it’s normal for them. But not here. Here, you need incredible inner strength, self-belief, and love for life to shine like that. In the photo, she’s clearly with friends, arms around them, but they didn’t make it into the frame. It was probably taken on a hot summer day: her face glistens, making the image even more alive. She’s wearing a dirty-green tank top, and around her neck is a heart-shaped pendant.

And to think, the photo was taken before the era of social media! Such self-confidence, such ease in front of the camera. It’s as if she knew that twenty years later, her niece barely acquainted with her would look at the photo and think, “Wow! A popular blogger could post this.” Aunt Anya doesn’t resemble modern photo models, but she radiates some genuine, timeless energy.

And why does Mom dislike her so much? I would say, “A beauty!” and she’d reply, “Hmm. When she’s not smiling, her face is like a brick.” I’d say, “Clearly a self-sufficient, vibrant personality!” and she’d say, “Dependent, reckless. Crowds like her roam the streets at night.” I’d say, “Stylish haircut! They don’t do that now, but it’s chic!” and Mom would say, “Her hair just doesn’t grow well because of her unhealthy lifestyle, so she keeps it short.” I’d say, “And her smile? Charming!” and she’d say, “Her teeth are terrible. The gaps shine right through.”

In short, Mom is envious. And rightly so. Mom is always serious, strict. Always deep in thought, tense. Her features are correct, her figure slim, but there’s nothing to catch the eye. Quickly forgettable. I secretly hope I inherited more of the genes from my aunt’s side… I look at my aunt and think she would hardly say such nasty things about her sister. I’m even sure she only thinks good things about Mom.

I felt sorry for this cheerful girl in the photograph. I found a couple of other photos of her, where she wasn’t alone and wasn’t looking at the camera. “There was something touching, almost vulnerable about her smile especially when she looked slightly to the side and pressed her plump lips together, forming a sort of upside-down smile. I think if she looked at boys like that, she must have broken many hearts.

I never really thought much about my aunt’s existence until one day, when I was eight, Mom and I were walking home from solfeggio lessons, and some lady came flying out from behind a newspaper kiosk. It turned out she was a former school teacher of both Mom and Aunt Anya. She immediately remembered their last name and began asking about my aunt where she was now, how she was doing. Not a word about Mom.

“Such a lively, interesting girl! And that smile mischievous! Anyuta both sang and danced. I adore energetic people oh, a firecracker! Where is she now? “

“Well, I don’t even know where she is now. Traveling the world. It’s winter break everywhere now. She’s rarely home. She left her daughter with grandparents right after birth, and then she…“

Mom hadn’t finished when the teacher interrupted, continuing to recall my aunt:

“Oh, I’m so happy for her! Traveling! Ah, well done. She’s even gets a PHd? My former student worked at the university where she studied.“

“Yes, in Poland, “ Mom replied dryly, adding, “ Well, we need to go, it’s cold, Olga Nikolaevna. “

“I knew she’d turn out well. In which field? What’s the doctorate about? “ the teacher continued as if she hadn’t noticed we were freezing.

“Economy. “

“Well, well… Anya, good girl… And you never finished your higher education, right? “

Mom muttered something under her breath and, squeezing my hand in a mitten, silently led me across the street. Then she spoke as if to herself:

“Yeah, “good girl”… She realized the most important thing in life is titles. Diploma through Dad’s connections, qualification through Uncle’s connections. Now she’s found an easy way to live abroad: meets her academic advisor once every six months, eternal student. Lives off men, in small rooms. Will comfortably coast for another five years.“

All evening after the teacher’s visit, Mom grumbled about life’s unfairness. She had done so much for school: ran clubs, represented the class at a regional history olympiad and even won for the first time in the school’s history. Why? Not clear. And despite all efforts, mostly B’s came out. Teachers said the girl tried but lacked ability. Not like her sister wich had a natural memory, careless charm, just there was simply no motivation to study… but they could forgive her everything.

Mom got into university on her own, without connections, but not the one her parents wanted – archaeology. A year later, she quit under pressure, thinking she wouldn’t find work anyway. She ended up somewhere just to prove she could, and never escaped that comfort zone. Plus money was needed, and then she met Dad and I was born.

And Anya? Anya skipped classes, then sang and danced at mass events when performers were urgently needed among students. Later, she got into the university her parents wanted. In my opinion Aunt Anya knew how to live life: without stress and with foresight.

And they say everything depends on how parents treat their children… but the sisters grew up in the same household, isn't that right?

Then Aunt Anya came to her daughter’s birthday and that’s when we learned about her. I remember that meeting vaguely; I was around nine. For about ten minutes, I studied this unfamiliar, lively woman in a gray sweater and bright lipstick, comfortably seated on sofa in our apartment decorated by my parents for the occasion. She smiled at everyone, chatted with everyone as if she’d known them forever. Completely relaxed, confident. She spoke to her daughter as if seeing her every day, although it was their first meeting in two years. And her daughter, an unsociable child, shied away from her mother. Back then, I thought life must always be fun with such a mom. And then Aunt Anya disappeared from our life again.

After that, Mom often recalled her usually in moments of irritation, beginning with: “That’s always been my life, since childhood…” Sometimes she had to sit with the younger sister all weekend, sometimes gifts went to Anyechka, and she got nothing: “You’re already big.” At school, Mom had to study, sit at home in the evenings, while Anya got away with everything: stayed out until midnight, and parents just asked if she had fun.

Compliments poured over Anya from all sides. Mom, though attractive, had a stern look probably people were just afraid to say anything nice. As she says, this broke her self-esteem. She was quiet, and next to her mischievous sister, who loved to laugh, she became absolutely invisible. “Why are you meddling? Why do you dress like that? You shouldn’t smile broadly ugly.” Mom often recalled this to her parents when talking about her youth. And friends and relatives always compared her and her aunt at every gathering. Clearly not in Mom’s favor.

Later, when their parents got sick more often and barely left the apartment, Mom abandoned her hobbies to spend more time with them. Returning home, she grumbled and cursed everything her fate and the unfair world. Her parents were happier receiving postcards from the youngest daughter once every six months than from the eldest, who helped cook soup and clean the apartment. Who would be proud of a servant?

I dug up a twenty-year-old photo of my aunt because she suddenly decided to visit to meet Mom after many years. I was curious. More than curious I had been waiting for her, secretly considering her my childhood idol.

But I was also dying to know: why does Mom still hate her so much? Childhood jealousy… fine. But over forty? I thought a man must be involved. Maybe Dad once had to choose between them? No joke, like a TV series.

I couldn’t resist and asked Dad on Saturday, the day before the sisters’ meeting:

“Dad, why is Mom so mad at Aunt Anya? “

Dad adjusted his glasses, put down the vacuum, and answered melancholically:

“Your mom had a first love. And that guy once dated her sister. She didn’t even know. Then Mom broke up with him. She grieved for a long time, almost until we met. That guy and Anya kept drifting apart and together. Then she forgot about hum. I think Mom is much happier now than in those young years. I’m sure if she had more free time, she’d have finished her studies. She’s smart, really. Your mother is a very kind and selfless person, but many people were unfair to her…“

“So did they break up in the end? Anya and that guy? “ I interrupted.

“Anya always had plenty of admirers. By the time rumors reached the family, she already had someone new. That guy is getting married soon, I heard. He’s over forty, but found his happiness. Let’s be happy for him. As for Anya herself… I don’t know. We’ll find out when Mom comes back from the meeting.“

In the evening, I searched for her on social media how did I not think of it earlier? And I found… oh God, she aged a lot. Where did all the energy go? In the photo no smile. Passive, quiet face, like a woman tired of life. I was shocked. And I felt sorry for her: how had life led her to this! Now Mom would surely feel victorious. That’s why she decided to meet her. No danger anymore. You could even feel sympathy and support for your own sister.

On Sunday, Anya’s daughter, named after her, Anya Junior, visited us again. Anya Two lived with her grandmother in the suburbs and came to us on weekends because she had late lectures in the city center preparing for university. Anya was a nerd in the sense of being pedantic, always trying to assert herself at others’ expense.

Being sociable and open, I decided to share my thoughts about her mother and showed her the old photograph a rare item she probably had never seen.

“Look, what a beauty she was! Not like you at all. Not like my mom either. Educated, bright, interesting. A woman like that must have stories to tell. “

“You don’t understand life if you think she’s more interesting than your mom, “ said Anya Junior. “ Judging by a photo?

“Why do I need a photo when I’ve spent my whole life hearing from people who know her personally? “

“Very smart. “

I got angry. How she annoys me! Always putting herself above others. Always! I gathered my emotions to hide weakness and said:

“How could such a beauty give birth to a fool? Where did it all go? Where are the genes?“

Anya Junior was about to leave for class, and I went out with her friends were waiting for me at the club that evening. I almost opened the door when I heard a familiar voice outside. It was Mom. She was talking to a loud woman.

I peeked carefully. It was Aunt Anya. Not like the last social media photo. Yes, age added some wrinkles, but the dimples on her cheeks were still there when she smiled, and she smiled often. Radiant, bright, fashionably dressed, still with the short haircut and bold curls at the neck only now lightened, looking noticeably younger. Also elegant accessories: earrings and rings. Probably the bad photos were for official documents or colleagues. Or maybe it really had been a difficult period.

“Oh, is that you, Zhenya? – she exclaimed seeing me, and I was happy she recognized me.“

“Sweetie, let me through. Aunt will stay with us, she has nowhere else to live, – said Mom.“

“Oh, how’s that? – I asked Anya, thinking life had brought her to a point where Mom finally had a sympathetic expression.“

“Don’t be so dramatic! “ Anya laughed. “ I came here for a wedding. My future husband and I will leave for our honeymoon right after. He works in Germany, and I decided to stay with you. Better with family than a fancy hotel, right? “

It turned out the difficult period for my aunt was long over. She had reunited with Mom’s first boyfriend two years ago. Soon they would have a wedding. Everyone thought it was now mature love. They had both grown up. Especially Aunt Anya.

She did stay with us for a few days. But she didn’t invite us to the celebration. At the last moment, due to visa issues, the wedding was moved to another country.

One late evening I overheard my parents in the kitchen. Aunt Anya wasn’t home then.

“I’m not surprised he’s happy to be with her even now, “ Mom said, stirring a dessert.

“I’m surprised. Everything should’ve been obvious. He’s forty-five, not a boy, “ Dad noted, putting away pots after drying.

“We’re all children when Anechka starts talking to us. She seems very independent. A bright personality, under whose rays men would do anything just to be in her shadow. But inside, it’s empty. She’s very dependent on others. If only people knew… It’s just a mirror reflecting what people want to see and value. You can’t build a close connection with this person. Never. After a month of interaction, she behaves coldly, fueling interest even more. And when you think you’re free from her, feeling all the injustice and thoroughly angry, she suddenly attacks with kind, tender words the ones you always wanted to hear. You feel ashamed for thinking badly about her and voilà. Then everything repeats. And you’re alone again. I’m sure all her men went through this. Not only men. Everyone is crazy about her. A magnet.“

God, she’s whining again. Her whole life complaints and envy. Poor woman my mother.

“I think you’re right, “ Dad agreed, placing washed fruit on the table. “ I’d run from such a person. But you can’t. She is your closest relative. I wish I could take you far from all this. Maybe to a resort? Turkey, Ephesus? Maybe we’d dig up something new there, huh?.. And I think we should spend more time with the girls. Especially Anya Junior. She’s going through a hard time before university, moving. Completely alone.“

Honestly, my father increasingly disappoints me. I stopped eavesdropping at that point.

All week I tried to talk to my aunt. Sometimes she returned early morning and then slept a long time. Sometimes she came at noon, but I was at classes, and Mom was at work. Evenings were useless: Mom came home with bags of groceries, clattering pots and pans, rustling bags, cooking, and washing dishes, making noise as if deliberately. The rest of the time, Aunt Anya sat on her phone. Maybe urgent work she is, after all, a doctor of sciences, important person.

I understood everything. My envious mom thought: “How is it? Someone lived for pleasure, enjoyed life, sang, danced, stayed in people’s hearts, changed boys, traveled the world, and even found true love. What an injustice! And I’m a dropout.”

A couple of times, grandparents came during the week. They were truly happy for the younger daughter. Grandma called friends and relatives, showing via video her smiling girl beside her.

To spend the last day with Anya at our place, I canceled all night outings, and we planned the evening together. I was sure the parents would organize a farewell dinner. Mom cooked every day, so this time she would prepare something special. Moreover, there was another reason: twenty years since their own wedding.

But in the morning, Dad made a boring breakfast as usual and announced that he and Mom would go to a restaurant to celebrate their anniversary. How audacious, how selfish! Aunt was leaving when would they see her again? Only Anya Junior was home. She was supposed to have a university meeting but canceled it. Anya The Second had passed all exams and enrolled. We found out the next day. Apparently, she didn’t want to steal the spotlight today.

Returning home, I saw an envelope in the hallway, scribbled in my cousin’s handwriting: “For Mommy.” Apparently prepared for the wedding day. I smirked and asked:

“Hey, Junior! Where’s Aunt Anya?

My cousin was clearly in a mood, grumbled something like, “Here’s your aunt,” and tossed the note on the table, then went into room, slamming the door. The note was crumpled, clearly handled more than once.

“My dears, my beloved, I decided that long goodbyes are tacky and called a taxi to the airport. So we’ll see each other another time. I’ll say now what I’ve long wanted to say… You are the best thing in my life. Kisses, my dears.”

So, Aunt had already left. I called Dad at work to warn him, and he said he knew he ordered the taxi online for Aunt Anya, as she had already exchanged all her rubles. Well… it’s a pity we didn’t talk heart to heart. “You are the best thing in my life” I never heard that from my Mom. “Beloved” maybe, but no more. And why did my cousin get so worked up? Fool.

I was bursting with curiosity about what was in little Anya’s envelope. Hardly money. Most likely a letter. Since it was just going to be thrown away anyway, why not read it first?

I opened the envelope and there was a photograph of my aunt with a baby. As I understood, it was right after the birth of her daughter. Aunt looked like a very gentle and loving mother, completely focused on her child: she gazed at her with eyes full of genuine love.

I wanted to give this crumpled letter to my cousin so she could keep it as a long-lasting memory, since she rarely sees her mother. I cracked open the door and heard quiet, bitter crying. Like a little child weeping softly, burying her face in a pillow, hoping someone would hear, come, and comfort her. But I even felt a little pleased to see her like that a kind of payback for all her snobbery. I wanted to go in and shout: “What are you sulking for?”

If I were in her place my mom would have definitely rushed over and started hugging me, even if I had been at fault. Well, that’s my mom not hers. My mother has absolutely no backbone. Boring. Uninteresting.

Stunning beauty and lucky guy

With a weary flick of his hand, Anton tore the cellophane off a fresh box of teabags. He opened it, took a quick sniff. Then he set the kettle on the stove. Sat down to wait. If he wandered off into the other room and missed the steam, he’d end up burning this kettle too. He really needed to buy one with a whistle.

His wandering gaze landed on the box of tea. On the inside of the lid there was a long inscription. Reluctantly, Anton picked it up and muttered:

“If I have to read one more line about a ‘rich and vibrant berry flavor’ or ‘exquisite notes of citrus,’ I’ll dump the bags into a jar and toss this box straight in the trash.”

For two years Anton had worked at an ad agency, crafting supposedly original slogans and product descriptions. They didn’t sell too well. “Win a romantic weekend for two in Paris…” he read on a sticker, sighing deeply. “What a cheap trick.”

Just then the kettle whistled and right on cue, the alarm clock joined in. The time between Sunday evening and Monday morning always seemed to vanish without a trace.

“Lada, would you be so kind as to take this coconut and pretend you’re drinking from it?”

“This one? But it doesn’t even have a hole… how am I supposed to drink?” the girl asked in a smooth, velvety voice and laughed.

The photographer exchanged a glance with his assistant: Another beautiful fool. But, to be fair, stunning.

The scene was unfolding in the photo studio of a modest advertising agency.

Anton briefly tore his eyes from the monitor, looked at the model you saw:: a tall brunette with a corseted waist, a slightly upturned nose, gray eyes, a small mouth, and full lips painted scarlet. Three million followers on social media. Twenty million in ad revenue.

“Alright, boys, wipe those dumb looks off your faces. I was joking,” admitted the model, noting with a twinge of pity the narrowness of thought that had just flickered across their expressions.

At that moment Anton walked into the studio, and while the photographers adjusted their equipment, Lada, without the slightest embarrassment, began to study him. She saw a young man of average height and build, his hair neatly parted to the side. A brunette, with eyes either gray or hazel – she couldn’t quite tell behind his glasses.

Apparently, not so long ago in his childhood, he had been a little chubby. One of those obedient boys who stick out their bellies, staring dreamily into space as if pondering some profound question; in his pudgy hand one could easily imagine a melting ice cream cone.

Now he had stretched out, slimmed down a bit, grown stronger yet the image he carried of himself from those old home videos still seemed to weigh heavily on him.

But Lada had no idea: Anton had long since made his peace with it. No, he wasn’t handsome. No, he wasn’t a Don Juan. But he knew his own worth, he knew life, and little could surprise him anymore. At times, he even grew bored.

Suddenly the director of the advertising agency stepped into the studio, and everyone startled out of their thoughts. Like the others, he addressed the model formally. He didn’t try to flirt or play the gentleman. Instead, he fawned over her while secretly despising her, as if there was some profit in it.

How disgusting, Anton thought. Grovels before this girl, but when my mother came in here, he called her “Anton’s mam.” My mother a seasoned teacher, an intelligent, modest, sincere woman, a true professional. And to him she was just “mam.”

After three hours of work, the long-awaited break finally arrived. Only two remained in the studio. Anton sat at the computer, while Lada, unsure what to do with her hands, dropped a tripod. He looked up: the stunning beauty had suddenly turned into a clumsy scatterbrain.

And why hasn’t she left yet? Doesn’t smoke good. Doesn’t eat either? Probably watching her figure.

Anton stood, walked over to the tripod, set it upright again and shot her a reproachful glance. Lada opened her mouth as if to explain herself and, unexpectedly, words tumbled out.

“I’ve never cared about physical strength in men, I work out myself… with dumbbells. But you… you’re surprisingly strong,” she said with natural astonishment, as if it were a thought spoken aloud by mistake.

What kind of game is this? Anton wondered, though he was used to being the butt of jokes.

“I mean, I wouldn’t guess just by looking at you… Oh, no, that’s not what I meant… I didn’t mean to say that. What was I trying to say? I… forgot.”

“No big deal,” Anton shrugged, then reluctantly added, “Would you like some tea?”

He nodded at the open box with the Eiffel Tower on the package.

“No, thanks, I’m on a diet,” Lada joked, though Anton took it literally. “Still… it’s nice. Someone’s going to Paris with their loved one,” she added softly.

At first he didn’t believe her fluster was genuine and turned back to the computer, but then he suddenly felt a manicured hand on his shoulder: Lada had stopped him.

“Do you have girlfriends?” she asked abruptly.

“Girl… friends? Why plural? Do I look like Casanova?”

“Do you know what Casanova’s name literally means?” the model asked, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

Anton shook his head, unsettled by the sudden tension between them.

“‘New house,’” Lada replied. “So simple, right?”

Looks like they give the models a drink before the shoot these days, Anton thought.

“Funny,” he said, and smiled.

“You’re a computer guy?”

“I’m in advertising. Sometimes web design,” he answered, without much pride.

“Oh, so you came up with that… coconut?” Lada nodded toward the set in front of the green screen, decorated with potted palms and a platter of exotic fruit on an elegant table.

“No.”

“Mmm. And do you know what I used to do?”

“Probably something completely unlike modeling, since you’re making me guess.”

“Exactly. I’m a historian by training. Couldn’t find a proper job, even though I was willing to work honestly. Ended up as a salesgirl in the perfume section. They sold well. Especially the men’s to men. Someone there suggested I start a social media page. And off it went… Eight hundred likes a minute. And I’m not even doing anything special. Look… see!”

Lada desperately wanted to add, “Look at the silliness,” as she snapped a photo of herself against the beige blinds at the window and then showed Anton the result. The number next to the little red heart under the photo climbed by the second.

Anton’s face was lit by the white glow of her smartphone screen. Then he lifted his gaze to her and thought:

All this attention… and for what? For the shell. How easy for some how unreachable for others to become famous and rich just like that. But has she found herself in it? How shallow do you have to be to be satisfied with pressing a button on a phone… Doesn’t she want to be known first and foremost as… well, as a historian, for example?

At the same time, Lada was looking at Anton and thinking:

Wow… I’ve always dreamed of falling for this type ever since childhood: a magical intellectual with beautiful brown eyes he isn’t proud of, hiding them behind glasses, yet utterly captivating. Confident and calm. I just know he’s kind. If I were different, maybe he’d… No. He mustn’t change. Not a bit. Seems he’s shy around me… and the way he looks at me, my God! Could he already be in love? I hope not like everyone else. If he turns out to be the kind, empathetic man I suspect, then… let him not fall for me. Let him just exist.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «Литрес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на Литрес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.