When I followed Dr. Smirnov into the dining room, Father was already sitting at the table with Arthur. The way their heads were inclined toward each other made it seem like they were talking, but so quietly that even straining my ears I couldn't catch a single word. From the center of the massive oval wooden table, plates of fresh vegetable slices and bunches of greens, cubes of fragrant cheese, and thinly cut strips of roast pork and smoked meats were spread out in a checkerboard pattern.
"Dear guests," Vladimir began, "on the table you will find vegetables and appetizers for every taste. We don't keep servants in the house, so please help yourselves to the main course and side dishes. Today's menu features spicy chicken thighs with a golden crust and halibut fillet in crispy breadcrumbs. For sides, in the tall pot we have boiled potatoes with butter, green onions, and parsley, and in the steamer by the wall — rice with sun-dried tomatoes and green peas. Please, feel at home!"
After his short introduction, Vladimir gave me another broad smile, then grabbed a silver thermos and a tall flute-like glass from the main dishes table and sat at the head of the table.
"Feel at home" — that sounded comical to me. What kind of home offers you several main dishes to choose from? Even on holidays like New Year's, when Grandma and Mom were expecting guests, the hostesses had to toil all day in the kitchen, chopping ingredients for favorite salads and appetizers. To serve two main courses on top of that — there'd be neither the strength nor the space for preparations. Vladimir clearly had no idea about such hardships. And Dr. Smirnov didn't seem like the kind of man who could organize dinner for two families in just half an hour either. Still, considering how large the Smirnov family was, perhaps two extra guests didn't make much of a difference.
Standing at the serving table, I inhaled the aroma of herbs and quickly decided my favorite would be a golden-brown chicken thigh. Out of curiosity, I took a knife from the wicker holder of gleaming silverware and tapped the edge against the crust. The thin, crispy skin cracked, sending a wave of appetite through me. I fished out the piece I wanted with tongs and began pondering the side dish. The longer I debated, the harder it was to decide what would suit the chicken best.
"Better take the potatoes. The cook my father orders from always overcooks the rice to this weird sticky consistency," Stas whispered confidentially, approaching the table and scooping up a piece of fish with the tongs.
"Maybe I like rice that way."
Stas smirked and reached across me for the serving spatula. He scooped a generous portion of small baby potatoes glistening with butter under the light. Thin wisps of steam curled above them. They looked so appetizing my mouth watered, and I instantly regretted my comment three hundred times over. But no matter how hard I tried to hide it, the traitorous rumble from deep in my stomach was beyond my control.
Stas's hand froze mid-air with a new portion of potatoes, then changed direction toward my plate.
"That sticky rice didn't get such a strong reaction. Take some before the others grab it all. In a big family, you don't waste time — you grab what you can."
"I could've served myself."
"Why do you always react so sharply? Whatever I do, you always push back, even though no one's trying to hurt you."
"Maybe you're not trying to. But you don't respect my boundaries either. When I say I can take care of myself, Stas, you always rush to help, even when I didn't ask for it."
"So I shouldn't have sent Diana with you to Father, or told Arthur to mess with the girls' memories?"
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean? Sounds like double standards to me: when I help at school, you don't even say thank you — but you don't complain either. But the moment I put a couple of potatoes on your plate, it's suddenly a tragedy."
"Stas, why are you doing this? You're comparing completely different things. At school, I was out of it and disoriented. What decisions could I make when I didn't even remember how I lunged at Arthur, let alone started hitting him? Lately, I barely understand what's happening to me, as if someone else — dark and alien — is controlling my body. If anyone's making a drama out of nothing, it's you, instead of simply stepping back."
"I'm making a drama?" Stas roared, and I could feel everyone straining to catch what was going on at the serving table. "You just scolded me for an act of care like I'm some fifth grader!"
"Because that's not care! You selfishly do everything the way you think is right from your favorite high perch as the coolest guy in school. Classmates are speechless when they see you, and even the richest boys copy your haircut and style. You've gotten so used to having every move admired that it's ingrained in you. You don't even care what other people want — you just assume you know what's best. But best for who, Stas? For them? For me?"
Stas's fingers dug into the edges of the plate he was holding. He was glaring at me so intensely I could almost feel it burn, and by the way his lips pressed into a thin line, I guessed he was holding back for fear of saying something he'd regret — but more than anything, I wanted him to just say it. To finally be honest and explain why the hell he was always hovering around me.
"And besides, you have a girlfriend. Take care of Tatyana, not me. At the very least, it looks strange from the outside, you know."
"What are you implying?"
"Ask your girlfriend," I snapped, remembering every jab from Tatyana. "If you weren't constantly hanging around me, she and I could've been friends long ago."
"She told you that?" Stas ground out through his teeth.
"Not recently, but still. She doesn't have to say anything — it's written all over her face every time you all came into the hospital room together instead of going on a cozy café date or to the movies. And why are you even following me around in the first place?"
The plate cracked in half with a crunch. Each of Stas's hands was left holding one piece. The fish, along with the side dish, tumbled to the floor. Smooth potatoes, as if in slow motion, bounced down like hailstones. The moment they touched the surface, they split apart, revealing a fluffy center — and even in that state, they still looked appetizing.
"I've had enough," he said, turning his gaze away from me. Pivoting on his heels, he started toward the door, when his father called after him.
"I'm not hungry anymore. May I go?"
"Unfortunately not, son. I need all of you to stay here and hear what I have to say. What's happening with Asya concerns all of us. Please, come back to the table. Keep us company."
Stanislav hesitated for a moment, shooting me another sharp glance. Diana stared wide-eyed at what was happening, her silent horror suggesting that disobeying their father in this house was not only unacceptable but dangerous — like stumbling upon a swarm of furious bees. Stas swallowed hard and slowly returned to the table, taking a seat across from his father. Vladimir smiled with satisfaction and, without looking at me, urged me to quickly take my place and get on with dinner.
Even though I was angry at Stas, for some reason I felt a faint echo of guilt — I shouldn't have started this conversation in front of his family. Still, I couldn't imagine when else I'd get the chance to speak openly with Stanislav; every free moment he had, Tanya was right there at his side. The delicate psyche of a girl in love would hardly survive such a quarrel.
I felt like a victor in the arena who had just defended the borders of their territory from a lion, and at the same time, I was haunted by the bitter taste of defeat and the loss of something important. Something I had almost held in my hands, but failed to keep.