When her husband came home in the evenings, he always smelled strange. Not unpleasant, no: it was the scent of lavender and smoky wood. As if it were some kind of perfume. Lena had tried every lavender fragrance in every store, but she still had not found anything like it.
“Do you have a mistress or something?” she would ask her husband jokingly, though she was in no mood to joke: inside, everything froze over with a January crust of ice whenever she thought that Yura might leave her.
“What nonsense, little bird!” he would laugh. “You know perfectly well that with my job and my family, it is hard to find time for anything else!”
He would wrap his arms around her waist, spin her around the room, settle her into the green velvet armchair, and make her coffee, pouring it into a tiny porcelain cup. If the girls were still awake, he would go read them a book and say:
“Don’t touch the dishes, I’ll wash them myself.”
Yura was the perfect husband, everyone said so, even his dry, strict mother, who seemed to know only how to criticize, not praise.
Once, after having too many homemade liqueurs at a bar, Yura admitted, hiding his wet face in the pillow, that his childhood had been so hard that at thirteen he had even thought about ending it all. His mother had been a model prison guard and a model bloodhound, and her interrogations resembled the ones Yura had seen in brutal films shown after midnight. She beat him, and to this day saw nothing wrong with it.
That was why Lena tried so hard to be completely different—soft, gentle, unfamiliar with control and suspicion. And Yura, it seemed, gave her no reason to doubt him. If not for that smell and those late returns home.
He accounted for every step he took.
“I’m going to the gym. I’ll be there forty-five minutes, then a shower. I’ll call you in an hour.”
“I stopped by my mother’s. I’m going to hang her curtains now, have some tea, then head home.”
Yura’s family was entirely female; apart from him, there were no men left in it. He barely remembered his father at all. The man had been much older than Yura’s mother and was hit by a car while crossing the street. He had dropped his glasses and, because of that, did not see the approaching vehicle. His father’s brother had been ill for a long time and died after Lena had already come into the family. She remembered that strange funeral where everyone stayed silent, while the skinny widow clung to Yura’s hand so she would not fall. Her name was Inga, his uncle’s wife, as Yura called her.
“So, your aunt,” Lena concluded when they met.
“Well, yes,” Yura agreed. “But she’s not actually related to me.”
That woman and her daughter really looked nothing like Yura and his mother, who were tall, broad-shouldered, and fiery red-haired. Inga and her daughter Valentina were tiny, dark-haired, and looked Italian. Lena was sure they had Italian blood, because every autumn Inga went to Italy and brought back gifts for the girls, for Yura, and for Lena—mostly perfume and sweets. She brought things for Valentina too, but asked Yura to pass them on. As far as Lena knew, Valentina had quarreled with her mother and left home at fifteen, so Yura had been looking after his cousin for years: slipping her money, doing all the household jobs that usually needed a man because she still had never married, comforting her when she fought with friends or lost a job. Lena honestly tried to befriend her, though she did not like Valentina. Whenever Valentina came over, she would go on at length about all her sorrows, forever complaining about everyone and everything, and Lena could not stand that—she believed that one should look for the positive in everything. Lately Valentina had been coming by often: she would sit in the kitchen and start in on her complaints.
“Where does your husband keep wandering off to all the time?” she asked once.
“He’s at the gym right now,” Lena replied, trying to keep herself under control. “Then he’ll stop by his mother’s and come home.”
“I see…” Valentina drawled meaningfully. “Well, of course, what else would he tell you…”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Lena understood that Valentina was hinting that Yura had someone else. She herself thought so too: his hair smelled of lavender, and his gaze sometimes drifted as if getting lost in the clouds. And there seemed to be nothing concrete to complain about—he was caring and tender, brought her flowers for no reason, arranged little surprises. But there was one shameful thing Lena would never have spoken of out loud: in the evenings he almost always fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Back in autumn everything had been fine, but in winter, if anything happened between them, it was only a couple of times, and by spring not once at all. It was awkward to bring it up with him; Lena was not used to talking about such things. But it did support her suspicions.
“Do you love me?” she would ask.
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t you say it yourself? ………continued in the first comment.
When her husband came home in the evenings, he always smelled strange. Not unpleasant, no: it was the scent of lavender and smoky wood. Like some kind of perfume. Lena had searched every shop for every lavender fragrance she could find, but never discovered anything like it.
“Do you have a mistress or something?” she would ask her husband jokingly, though she was in no mood for jokes at all. Inside, everything froze over with a crust of January ice whenever she thought that Yura might leave her.
“What nonsense, little bird!” he would laugh. “You know with my job and my family, it’s hard to find time for anything else!”
He would wrap his arms around her waist, spin her around the room, seat her in the green velvet armchair, and make her coffee, pouring it into a tiny porcelain cup. If the girls were still awake, he would go read them a book and say:
“Don’t touch the dishes, I’ll wash them myself.”
Yura was the perfect husband, everyone said so, even his dry, stern mother, who seemed capable only of scolding, never praising.
Once, after knocking back too many homemade liqueurs in a shot bar, Yura confessed, hiding his wet face in a pillow, that he had had such a difficult childhood that at thirteen he had even thought about ending it all. His mother had been a model prison guard and a model bloodhound, and her interrogations resembled the ones Yura had seen in brutal films shown after midnight. She beat him, and to this day saw nothing wrong with it.
That was exactly why Lena tried so hard to be the opposite: soft, gentle, someone who knew nothing of control and suspicion. And Yura, it seemed, gave her no reason to doubt him. If not for that smell and those late returns.
He accounted for every step he took.
“I’m going to the gym. I’ll be there forty-five minutes, then a shower. I’ll call in an hour.”
“I stopped by Mom’s. I’m going to hang her curtains, have some tea, and then head home.”
Yura’s family was almost entirely female. Besides him, there were no men left in it. He barely remembered his father, who had been much older than his mother and was hit by a car while crossing the street because he dropped his glasses and didn’t see the vehicle coming. His father’s brother had been ill for a long time and died while Lena already knew the family. She remembered that strange funeral, where everyone stayed silent and the gaunt widow clung to Yura’s hand so she wouldn’t fall. Her name was Inga, his uncle’s wife, as Yura called her.
“So she’s your aunt,” Lena concluded when they first met.
“Well, yes,” Yura agreed. “But she’s not actually related to me.”
That aunt and her daughter really looked nothing like Yura and his mother, who were tall, broad-shouldered, and fiery red-haired. Inga and her daughter Valentina were tiny, dark-haired, almost Italian-looking. Lena was sure they had Italian blood, because every autumn Inga went to Italy and brought back gifts for the girls, for Yura, and for Lena, mostly perfume and sweets. She brought gifts for Valentina too, but asked Yura to pass them along. As far as Lena knew, Valentina had quarreled with her mother and left home at fifteen, so for many years Yura had taken care of his cousin: giving her money, doing all the men’s work around the house since she still had not married, comforting her when she fought with her friends or lost a job. Lena had honestly tried to befriend her, though she did not like Valentina. Whenever Valentina came to visit, she would go on and on about all her troubles, forever complaining about everyone and everything, and Lena could not stand that. She believed one should look for the positive in everything. Lately Valentina had started coming over often. She would sit in the kitchen and launch into her complaints.
“Where does your husband keep disappearing to all the time?” she asked once.
“He’s at the gym right now,” Lena answered, trying to keep herself composed. “Then he’s stopping by his mother’s and coming home.”
“I see…” Valentina drawled meaningfully. “Well, of course, what else would he tell you…”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Lena understood that Valentina was hinting that Yura had someone else. She herself thought so too. His hair smelled of lavender, and his gaze sometimes wandered as if lost in the clouds. And there was really nothing concrete to accuse him of. He was caring and tender, brought her flowers for no reason, arranged surprises. But there was one shameful thing Lena would never have said aloud: in the evenings he almost always fell asleep the moment his head touched the pillow. Back in autumn everything had been fine, but in winter, if anything happened between them at all, it was only a couple of times, and in spring not once. It was awkward to talk to him about it; Lena was not used to speaking of such things. But it did seem to support her suspicions.
“Do you love me?” she would ask.
“Of course I love you.”
“Then why don’t you say it on your own?”
“I love you.”
“All right…”
For her birthday, Lena wanted a puppy. She had dreamed of having a dog for a long time, and the girls wanted one too. Lena dropped hints to Yura and even showed him photos from listings. She thought he understood. But on her birthday she woke up and saw flowers, balloons, and a small box that a puppy definitely could not fit into. Inside was an iPhone, and Lena forced herself to look happy, though in truth she wanted to cry.
“What’s wrong, little bird? Because of the puppy? Where would we even put one in an apartment? If we had our own house like Inga’s, then yes. But dogs are cramped in an apartment.”
“Then let’s buy a house!”
“Easy to say, let’s buy one, baby. I’m trying, you know that, but I have to help Mom, and Valentina too.”
“Valentina has a mother. Let her help her.”
“Well, no. In our family, men are responsible for that, understand? You and the girls will never want for anything. You’ll have your house. I’ll figure something out.”
That evening guests came over: Lena’s friends, her sister, and of course Yura’s relatives, his mother, his aunt, and Valentina. His mother sat through the whole celebration with her lips tightly pressed together, his aunt fussed over the girls, and Valentina, as usual, whined. When Yura’s mother presented her gift, a travel certificate, Valentina said:
“I want to go to the sea too!”
Valentina had no money and glared angrily at her mother. But Inga said:
“I’ll give you some money. And I’ll watch the girls. You young people go on holiday.”
The aunt was the only normal woman in that family. Lena did not want to go on vacation with Valentina, but if they left the children behind, it could still turn into a romantic trip where maybe her husband would not be so tired. Her mother-in-law would never watch the girls, that was certain. She had said so the moment Lena gave birth to their eldest daughter:
“I’m not going to help you, keep that in mind. You gave birth for yourselves, not for me. I never asked for grandchildren.”
Not once in five years had she taken her granddaughters even for an hour.
The vacation was wonderful. On the very first day Valentina started a resort romance and did not interfere with them at all, and Yura did not fall asleep so early. It was not quite like a honeymoon, but it was decent enough. Lena felt almost happy, though she missed her daughters terribly.
On the last day of the vacation she got lucky: her husband went into the shower and left his phone unlocked. Lena had never touched his phone before, but this time she decided to take it. She checked everything: calls, messages, email, even his banking app. And she found nothing she could accuse him of. His chats with colleagues were exclusively with men, there were occasional calls with his mother and aunt, transfers to Valentina, and deposits to his card from Aunt Inga. Apparently, even though she had quarreled with her daughter, Inga was supporting her financially through Yura. Lena had been wrong to resent her husband for helping his cousin so much.
Reassured, Lena put the phone back on the nightstand and decided she would not be jealous anymore.
Three years later, Aunt Inga died. Burned out in two months. Yura, turned into a parchment mummy, drove her to doctors, found expensive medications, cried. That was probably why she left her house to him instead of Valentina. Or maybe she was afraid her daughter would sell the house and blow all the money. That was what Lena thought until they moved into that house.
Yura was quiet and distant. But he gave Lena a puppy, just as he had promised. She enjoyed the gift only until evening, when she found a shower gel in the bathroom cabinet. She opened the bottle and inhaled. It smelled of lavender. And smoky wood. It smelled like Yura when he came home in the evenings. In one desperate hope, Lena began searching for that shower gel on online marketplaces, hoping it might turn out to be popular, something anyone could buy, for example the sports club her husband went to.
Lena found only a few links. In Russia, that shower gel was not sold. It could be bought in Italy, the country Yura’s aunt traveled to every autumn…