The neighbors from the third floor argued for a long time about what exactly thundered down the stairs on Saturday at half past ten in the morning. Grandma Zina insisted it was a sack of potatoes. Her grandson swore it was a washing machine.
Only two people knew the truth. One of them was sitting on the landing of the second floor, hugging a suitcase and completely baffled as to why the ceiling seemed to be drifting left.
But it all began with a ‘Bird’s Milk’ cake and a bouquet of fifteen burgundy roses.
***
Veronika came home from her shift around seven. The lock on the Volga near Uglich was working to the very last in October: barge after barge carrying gravel kept coming through, and by evening, her voice was hoarse from the walkie-talkie.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a heavy blond braid to her shoulder blades and freckles that never disappeared even in winter. Her palms were strong and callused from the railings. On the lock, they called her Veronika Batkovna, even though she wasn’t even thirty yet.
Stas was standing in the hallway. In a suit, with a tie, roses in one hand, and a cake in the other.
“Okay,” Veronika said, pulling off her jacket. “Did you hit someone with your car? Or did you lose the apartment gambling?”
“Nika, come on, what’s with the jokes!”
“What else could it be? My birthday is in May, yours is in March, Aliska’s is in August. Our wedding anniversary is in the summer. So, you must have done something.”
Stas smiled. His smile was practiced, full of all thirty-two teeth, just like a contest host. And that’s exactly what he was: he judged ballroom dance competitions, traveled across the regions with a scorecard, deciding who had the smoothest Viennese waltz.
Slender, agile, with a straight back and neatly slicked-back hair. His shoes always shined so much that you could see the chandelier reflected in them. He liked grand gestures and perfect pauses.
“Is Alisa sleeping?” he asked.
“Sleeping. Spit it out, Stasik, don’t drag it out. I’ve been up since six this morning.”
He set the roses on the dresser and placed the cake next to them. He straightened up, as if about to be handed a trophy.
“Nika, I’m leaving.”
“Where to? The store? We have bread.”
“I’m leaving you. I want to be honest. No more lying, sneaking around corners, or seeing someone behind your back. I don’t love you. It’s gone.”
Veronika sat down on the bench. She took off one shoe, then the other. She placed them neatly, toes against the wall.
“Say it again. Slowly.”
“I don’t love you. And I’m leaving. Today.”
“So what are the flowers for?”
“To do it nicely. Properly. At least I’m not sneaking out in the middle of the night like some people.”
***
Veronika owned her own apartment, inherited from her grandmother. A two-bedroom on the second floor of a five-story brick building, with a balcony overlooking the Volga and creaky parquet floors. Small, but hers.
Both of them had steady jobs. Stas wanted a child even more than she did: he would persuade her, tell stories about taking their daughter to dance classes. Alisa had just turned a year and two months.
“Wait,” Veronika raised her hand. “Let’s figure this out like adults. You proposed to me. Yourself. On the river embankment, in front of everyone, you got down on one knee.”
“I did.”
“I agreed. I thought it over, weighed everything, and said yes. You wanted a child. I gave birth. You wanted the bathroom redone. We did it. Where did I make a mistake?”
“You didn’t make a mistake. You’re good.”
“Then why?”
“Because the passion is gone. It happens. You don’t want to live with someone who doesn’t love you, do you?”
“I want to understand where it went in a year and a half. Did it just walk away on foot?”
Stas sighed and looked at her with pity. The kind of pity people have for a couple who lose their rhythm during the finals.
“Nika, I don’t have to explain my feelings.”
“Yes, you do. You’re an adult man. You made decisions, and I made decisions. We have a child, the one you asked for. Explain.”
“I have nothing to add.”
He went to the room, took a pre-packed bag from the closet. So he must have packed it earlier, while she was at the lock. He kissed the sleeping Alisa on the forehead and returned to the hallway.
He paused at the threshold, stepped back slightly, and bowed his head. He scraped his shoe on the doormat, like a gentleman after a dance.
“Be happy, Nika.”
The door closed. Veronika looked at the cake. Then at the roses. Then she went to the balcony, took the bouquet, and placed it in the box for old newspapers.
They ate the cake the next day at the lock. Petrovich, her coworker, said it was delicious.
***
Lyudmila Arkadyevna showed up two days later, at nine in the morning.
Petite and frail, with silver bobbed hair and glasses on a chain. She’d spent thirty years as a prompter in a drama theater and knew all of Ostrovsky by heart. She spoke quietly, but so everyone in the last row could hear her.
“May I come in, Veronika?”
“Come in, Lyudmila Arkadyevna.”
Her mother-in-law walked into the room and sat on the edge of the sofa. Alisa immediately reached out her arms to her.
“He told me everything,” Lyudmila Arkadyevna said as she settled her granddaughter on her lap. “He told me with pride. How nobly he acted.”
“I noticed the nobility. With the roses.”
“Let me tell you something, Veronika. Anyone can leave. I left his father once, and I don’t regret it. But when you leave, you should do it in a way that the door can be opened again. Honestly. Name your reasons, settle everything about the child, and talk things through like decent people.”
“He said the passion was gone.”
“Passion,” Lyudmila Arkadyevna grimaced. “In plays, that passion lasts maybe two acts, and then either they bury it, or marry it off. My son decided he’s in a play.”
She fell silent, rocking Alisa gently.
“Will you let me visit? I’ll stay with her while you’re on shift. I’m retired, I have nothing else to do with my days.”
“But you’re his mother.”
“I’m her grandmother. That was my choice, and no kind of passion will ever leave me.”
Veronika turned away and spent a long time wiping imaginary crumbs from the table.
***
Winter was harsh. The Volga froze early, navigation shut down, repairs started at the lock, and Veronika worked double shifts. The pay was good, and the money was needed.
Stas sent very little money and not regularly for their daughter. Each time, he signed: “Just as I promised.” Even though he’d never actually promised anything.
In January, Alisa fell sick. High fever, nearly 40°C, raspy breathing, the ambulance came at three in the morning. Veronika rode with her to the hospital, holding her tight and counting the streetlights, just to stop herself from thinking.
Lyudmila Arkadyevna arrived at the hospital at six in the morning. She brought a thermos, a spare sweater for Veronika, and a fluffy teddy bear missing one ear.
“Go home and get some sleep. I’ll stay.”
“I can’t leave.”
“Yes, you can. I need you alive, not collapsing in the hallway. I coached actors for thirty years when they forgot their lines. Now I’m telling you: go home, sleep, and come back at lunchtime.”
Veronika left. She got four hours of sleep and came back by lunchtime. Alisa was already sitting in her crib, demanding porridge.
In the evening, they sat together on the couch in the hospital corridor. Lyudmila Arkadyevna was silent for a long time before finally speaking, without turning her head:
“Do you know why I visit you, Veronika? It’s not just for my granddaughter.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid. I’m sixty-three. My only son—he knows how to bow gracefully, but he doesn’t know how to stay. I’ve realized that if I’m not here with you, one day I’ll wake up and there will be no one beside me. Just the TV and Ostrovsky on the shelf.”
“Lyudmila Arkadyevna…”
“Don’t pity me. I’m telling you this so you know: I’m not a saint. I’m just holding onto something for myself, too.”
“That makes it easier for me,” Veronika said. “When a person honestly says why they’re here, it’s easier to trust them.”
***
In the spring, Veronika found out the truth. She found out by accident—and it wasn’t pretty.
In May, at the start of the boating season, a tour boat pulled up to the lock. From the deck, Gleb, an old friend of Stas, waved. Stocky, red-haired, always in a striped shirt, though he had nothing to do with sailing—he ran a nursery for thujas and junipers near Uglich.
He came ashore while the boat waited for the lock, and walked over to the booth.
“Veronika! Long time no see. How’s Stas?”
“I don’t know. He left in October.”
Gleb froze. Then he let out a long whistle and sat down on the concrete parapet.
“Well, Stasik. Such an actor. He actually went through with it.”
“What did he do?”
“You don’t know? Listen, it would have been better if someone else told you.”
“Gleb, my boat is waiting, there’s a barge approaching and eight minutes until the lock opens. Just tell me.”
Gleb scratched the back of his red head.
“Ksyuha, my wife, used to be his girlfriend. I took her from him—I’ll admit it, it wasn’t nice. He never forgave me for that. Then Ksyuha and I started fighting. He thought we were going to split up.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“We were all at Petya’s birthday together back then. Remember? I danced with you. Twice. Stas decided I had my eye on you. That I’d divorce Ksyuha and marry you. So he jumped in first. Proposed to you a month later.”
Veronika stared at him without blinking.
“So he married me just so you wouldn’t?”
“He really did fall in love, don’t get me wrong. He told me he lost his head over you. But it all started with me. He wanted to beat me, just once.”
“And did you divorce Ksyuha?”
“No, we made up. We have two kids now.”
Veronika laughed. Petrovich stuck his head out of the neighboring booth and asked if everything was okay.
“Everything’s fine,” Veronika replied. “I just found out I got married as the result of a sports competition. Second place, Petrovich. No bronze awarded.”
***
Stas, meanwhile, was riding high—literally. The judges’ stand at the regional cup stood on a platform.
He wore a new suit and a fresh haircut. He’d been invited as chief judge for the regional tournament. That evening at the restaurant, he told his colleagues the story of how he left his family.
“I acted like a real man,” he said, swirling his wine glass. “I came home, told the truth, and left. No cheating, no lying. As clean as a good quickstep.”
“And the child?” asked a judge from Yaroslavl, an older lady with a brooch.
“The child is with her mother. I’m paying. All fair and square.”
“Honestly,” the woman repeated, pushing her plate away from him.
Stas didn’t notice. He felt satisfied, like someone who has finally overtaken a rival on a tight curve.
***
Three winters passed.
Alisa grew up, learned to chatter non-stop, and started calling Lyudmila Arkadyevna “Grandma Mila.” Veronika became the senior lock dispatcher. Every captain from Tver to Rybinsk knew her at the dock.
There was one captain she knew better than the rest.
Miron captained the tugboat “Yorsh.” Short, stocky, with a dark short beard and calm gray eyes. He didn’t talk much, but always got to the point. His voice on the radio was so steady that even the most anxious barge skippers calmed down.
They met during that first tough spring, when “Yorsh” got stuck by the lower lock gate because of an ice floe. Veronika directed over the radio for three hours, Miron followed her instructions for three hours. Then he came up to her booth and said just one word:
“Thanks.”
A week later, he brought Alisa a wooden boat with a real sail.
He courted her slowly, like a river—no sudden moves, always with room to maneuver. He brought smoked bream from the market. Fixed Veronika’s faucet. Lifted Alisa like she was made of glass.
“Miron,” Veronika said one day, as they sat by the riverbank and Alisa fed the ducks, “Why are you doing this? Who wants a woman with baggage?”
“Baggage is for trucks,” Miron replied. “You have a daughter. A good daughter. Loud, too.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m serious, too. I’m not in a rush. You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
***
Stas came back on a Saturday in early October.
Veronika opened the door in her robe, hair still wet. There he was on the doorstep: in a coat, wheeled suitcase in hand, with the look of a man who’s come to save the world.
He’d lost weight; there was more gray at his temples. His shoes still shined.
“Nika,” he said, pausing just long enough for effect. “I’ve realized everything.”
“Hello, Stas. Realized what, exactly?”
“Everything. I did a lot of thinking. I didn’t drink, I didn’t party, I swear. I lived alone and thought about things. And then I understood that you’re an amazing woman. That I was blind. I can’t believe I ever left you.”
“I couldn’t believe it either. Eventually, I got over it.”
“Nika, I want to come back. To you, to Alisa. I’m ready.”
Veronika leaned her shoulder against the doorway.
“Explain something to me, like I’m an adult woman: the word ‘realized.’ You were already an adult—thirty-two—when you proposed to me. You weighed your options. You made your decisions. You wanted a child. Then you reconsidered and left. Now this is your third time reconsidering. How many times are you going to weigh my life?”
“I made a mistake.”
“No, Stas. A mistake is when you mix up left and right. You didn’t make a mistake—you made choices. Every time. And you always made them with style.”
“But I was honest with you!”
“You were half honest. You never told me about Gleb.”
Stas flinched, as if a cold draft had hit him.
“How did you…”
“From Gleb. By the way, he didn’t divorce Ksenia. They have two kids. You were in a hurry for nothing.”
“That doesn’t matter! I loved you back then!”
“For a year and a half. Then the passion walked out on foot. Now it’s back—by taxi, with a suitcase.”
“Nika, I’m ready to get down on my knees…”
He started to kneel down, right onto the mat, just like he did back on the embankment. But Veronika quickly stepped towards him, grabbed his shoulders, and turned him to face the stairs. Stan didn’t even have time to be surprised.
And then she gave him a good, strong kick. The kind of solid kick you use on a stuck fender when docking a boat.
Stan tumbled down the staircase along with his suitcase. The suitcase actually passed him on the third step.
“That’s one sturdy suitcase you’ve got,” Veronika called down from upstairs. “The wheels are still intact.”
“You… you’re insane!” Stan shouted from the landing. “I came to you with an open heart!”
“If your heart is so open, go see your mother. She’ll explain everything to you.”
She closed the door. Alisa peeked out from her room.
“Mom, who just fell?”
“Just a sack of potatoes,” Veronika answered. “The neighbor’s. Go get dressed, Grandma Mila will be here soon.”
***
That evening, Lyudmila Arkadyevna was sitting on her couch, listening.
“You kicked him,” she stated, not really asking.
“I did.”
“On purpose?”
“On purpose, Lyudmila Arkadyevna. If I had cried and begged him to leave, he would’ve kept coming around. A guilty man can linger for years—bringing toys, standing outside your windows, calling in the middle of the night. But an angry man doesn’t come back. Angry men have pride.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It’s honest. He’s the one who taught me to be honest.”
Lyudmila Arkadyevna took off her glasses and spent a long time wiping them with the edge of her sweater.
“You know, Veronika, in ‘Without a Dowry,’ Larisa wanted nothing more than for someone to honestly feel sorry for her. But you felt sorry for yourself. That’s better.”
“I forgave him,” Veronika said quietly. “Back in the spring, after I talked with Gleb. I forgave and let go. But forgiving and letting someone back into your home are two different doors.”
***
Stan went to see his mother the next day. He sat on a stool in the hallway, rubbing his bruised side.
“Can you believe it? She kicked me down the stairs. With her foot! I came to her with my soul in my hands, totally ready to make amends, and she…”
“I can believe it,” said Lyudmila Arkadyevna. “She told me all about it.”
“She told you? You two talk?”
“Every day. I pick up Alisa from preschool.”
Stan stared at his mother.
“Why am I so unlucky with women? Ksyusha left with someone else. Nika was fine at first, then grew cold. And now this. Maybe I’m cursed?”
“You’re not cursed, Stasik. You just keep dancing solo and think you’re in a duet. Anyone can see it.”
“Mom, can’t you at least feel sorry for me?”
“No, I won’t. You’re an adult. And before you waste your energy: you’re not moving in here. Find your own place.”
“I have nowhere to go! I moved out of my old apartment thinking I’d come back to Nika!”
“Well, that was a bad plan. Another thing: next week, I won’t be here. Veronika, Alisa and I are going to the Volga Dawns resort for two weeks. The tickets are already bought.”
“You? With her? What about me?”
“You, son, are not part of this family anymore. You crossed yourself out—very elegantly, with a bow. I remember.”
Stan sat on the stool and looked at his shiny shoes. For the first time in his life, he had nothing to praise himself for.
***
He kept falling for a long time, and not just down the stairs.
At a dance tournament in Kostroma, it came out that Stan had been giving inflated scores for several years to a pair where his friend’s daughter competed. The scandal was ugly. He lost his judging credentials, and the invitations stopped coming.
He rented a room in an old house near the train station. He got a job teaching ballroom dance classes at the community center for retirees. The ladies loved him, but often confused him with their previous instructor.
He called Ksenia. Ksenia was silent on the line for a long time, then finally said she was busy—the youngest had a school performance. He called Gleb. Gleb offered him work at a thuja nursery, hauling bags of soil. Stas turned it down.
In the evenings, he sat in his room watching old videos of tournaments. In them, he was young, stylish, and confident. The man on the screen seemed to look down at him from above.
***
“Volzhskie Zori” stood high on a bank among the pines. The buildings were made of light brick, with a wooden pier and a long staircase leading down to the water. This autumn was golden and dry: the maples were blazing, rowan trees were heavy with berries, and in the mornings, mist rose over the Volga.
Alisa ran around the paths chasing squirrels. Lyudmila Arkadyevna sat on a bench reading Chekhov, pretending not to keep an eye on her granddaughter, but actually watching her every move.
On the fifth day, the tugboat ‘Yorsh’ docked by the pier.
Miron stepped onto the shore wearing a clean sweater, holding a bunch of rowan branches instead of flowers. He had once told Veronika that roses were for judges, but rowan was for your own people.
“Who is that?” Lyudmila Arkadyevna asked, lowering her book.
“Miron,” Veronika answered. “I’ve told you about him.”
“Not much. Introduce us.”
Miron walked over, greeted his mother-in-law with a handshake, and crouched down in front of Alisa.
“Captain Alisa, permission to report. The tugboat has arrived, the crew is ready.”
“Permission granted!” Alisa shouted. “Can I go up on deck?”
“You can. But first, there’s something I need to do.”
He straightened up and looked at Veronika. For a long moment, calmly, just like he looked at the water before entering the lock chamber.
“Nika. You told me you’d let me know when it was OK. I waited three winters. I’m not asking for permission anymore. I’m simply asking: will you marry me?”
Veronika stood there, clutching the rowan branches, unable to say a word. The wind tugged at her braid.
“I have a daughter,” she finally said.
“I know. I’m asking both of you.”
“What if I make another mistake?”
“You’re not making a mistake. You’re making a choice. You explained the difference to me yourself.”
Lyudmila Arkadyevna quietly closed her book of Chekhov.
“Veronika,” she said, “in the theater at moments like this, the prompter stays silent. The actor has to remember their line on their own.”
Veronika laughed through her tears.
“Yes. Yes, Miron. Yes!”
Alisa shrieked so loudly that a flock of jackdaws scattered from the pine. She jumped along the pier, clapping and shouting across the whole Volga:
“I’m going to have a captain! A real captain with a beard!”
***
That evening, Lyudmila Arkadyevna’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen and sighed.
“Mom,” Stas’s voice was hoarse and rushed. “Gleb told me. Is it true? She’s getting married? To some boatman?”
“To a tugboat captain. Yes, it’s true.”
“Mom, do something! That’s my family! My daughter! I’m her father! I’ll come, I’ll talk to them, I’ll explain everything!”
“Don’t come, Stasik. The staircase here is long, all the way down to the water. If you try to roll down it, you’ll get tired.”
“Mom! You don’t understand! I… I’ve come back!”
“You’ve come back, son. Only now, nobody was waiting for you. You taught them not to wait.”
She hung up the phone. Stas kept yelling incoherently into the empty receiver for a long time, then dialed the number over and over again, but his mother never answered.
Down by the pier under the streetlamp, Miron was teaching Alisa how to tie a sailor’s knot. Veronika stood nearby, wrapped snugly in his jacket. Lyudmila Arkadyevna watched them from the bench, thinking to herself that, as it turns out, old age can be quite crowded.
“Mom,” Alisa said as she tightened the knot, “will Grandma Mila be at the wedding?”
“Of course she will,” Veronika replied. “She’ll be in the front row.”
“In the second row,” Lyudmila Arkadyevna corrected. “I’ll be in the front row so I can prompt you with your lines. Just in case.”
Above the Volga, the first stars were lighting up. The “Yorsh” gently rocked by the pier, as if it too was waiting to set sail. Ahead lay a long, peaceful navigation.