1
Katya Petrovna
The first time I met Vitali Konstantinov, he broke a man’s hand for groping me on the bus.
That single act of chivalry began the story of how he derailed my whole life, but that was later.
My attacker’s screams caused a panic, and someone pulled the emergency stop. By the time things settled, my savior was gone. A real Cinderella story, but instead of a slipper, he left behind four shattered fingers and a man who would never high-five again.
How was I supposed to use that?‘Here, see if your fingers fit the fractures, oh fair prince?’
It was by God’s own intervention that we both ended up at a small party thrown by Elena’s distant cousin a month later.
The two-bedroom apartment on the Left Bank was on the ninth floor of a Communist-era housing complex. It was not big enough to fit five people comfortably, much less twenty or thirty that ended up there—drunk and overdressed for the occasion. We didn’t get there until later, and by that time, the music wasblaring and the rooms were filled with cigarette smoke and a pleasantly sour aroma of living beer. The guests laughed, and they yelled. A man’s voice always had to be threatening to smash another’s face in, or it wasn’t a party. They probably traded who was on duty for the smashing while the others grabbed their drinks.
My heart clenched when I sawhim. My first thought was that he wore a turtleneck sweater in a 32°C apartment, my second that I couldn’t believe he was there. Of course, I had no plans to talk to him because Katya Petrovna is a coward. He looked like he wasn’t having fun anyway.
I snuck glances in his direction as my glass filled with courage, but managed to stay on the other side of the room until I emptied it. He remained mostly by the boom box (there was something metaphoric about it crushing the record player underneath), but I never saw him switch the music.
Women came by but did not stick around and I began to think I must have missed a wedding ring, or maybe he wasn’t interested in meeting anyone. Either way, I was at risk of getting my feelings hurt.
My hero had dark, sandy hair and a slightly large nose, which perfectly complemented his features. The image I held of him in my memory was exactly that: steely, unbothered, yet clearly authoritative. I could see how he would intimidate some people because his mouth thinned in a permanent all-business expression that, in some lighting, could even be called a scowl. If I were sober, I wouldn’t be an exception. But I was far from sober.
I drifted over under the guise of meeting people I’ve definitely met before—the Elena fashion—and leaned against nothing, trying to take on a casual air of‘I didn’t even notice youthere.’
It’s not that I was normally so overeager, but it had been a long time since anyone in Elena’s social circles paid attention to me in that way. Something changed in the past year or so and completely killed off my ability to get dates. Could be that I was getting too old to date, and my mama was right.
Men still looked… just didn’t talk to me. It could have been my fault and I just needed to get out there, which was why it became imperative that I meet him. I had enough will in me to strike up exactly one conversation with a man, and he was destined to be my lucky winner. I glanced over out of the corner of my eye.
Maybe it was that I wanted to thank him for standing up for me, maybe it was the gin (it was the gin) but my mouth opened before I even knew how to begin the conversation I tried to rehearse up to that point.
“I remember you from the bus,” I said, and he tilted his head to face me, neither surprised nor showing recognition. “I wanted to thank you, but you got off too soon.”
He slowly nodded and kept looking at me, a raised brow turning his indifference to interest. His finger tapped-tapped on the glass of something clear held loosely in his hands.
“It was the 12A–between City Center and…” I stammered, and my embarrassment threatened to catch up to my drunk. He didn’t remember me, and now I was just some idiot waving a drink around and talking about public transportation. “…the railway station.”
He said nothing, but his gaze unhurriedly eased up my body, taking in everything from my shoes to my collarbones, and then finally my face. I had never been so unabashedly evaluated, and it was almost enough to make me walk away. No wonder no women approached him. Someone that good-looking wasbound to be a pig.
“Ey, Vitya, come on and deal, I’m not going to sit around all night,” a guy with bony shoulders called out. He eased himself through the narrow opening between people gathered around the large couch which took up most of the room. He was thumbing through a deck of old, well-used cards that had seen their share of shuffling and dirty fingers.
Nodding toward the table set against the wall, he looked to the object of my embarrassment, then spotted me.
“Ah, okay. What’s your name,solnishko?”
“Katya Petrovna,” I said, extending a hand and giving him the most genuine smile my nerves could muster.
“You want to play cards, Katya?” he asked, giving me a limp shake. “Poker.”
Vitali got up and reached for the bony-shouldered man’s cards. He raised a brow at me, then gestured to the table where a man with a shaved head lounged in a cloud of tobacco-flavored smoke.
“You play?” His voice was deep, deeper than I thought it would be. Like someone turned up the bass on a lit cigarette.
“Yes,” I lied confidently, but the second the words were out, my stomach dropped at the realization that I’d have to prove it in a moment.Bad liar Katya.There wasn’t even a reason to be there still.
Pig or not, Vitali pulled out a chair for me, the only other one besides the one already occupied, then brought over a step stool for himself—right beside me.
“Vitali,” he said, sitting back with his legs spread and shoulders relaxed in a way that said he would take up as much room as he pleased, even in such a confined space. “Konstantinov.”
