A puddle of crimson liquid spread across the old, nicked cutting board. Veronika, sleeves of her cotton dress rolled up, separated sinews from springy muscle with almost surgical precision. The kitchen smelled of garlic, bay leaf, and homely comfort—the kind built up over years, brick by brick, like a fortress wall around her small, perfect world. The knife in her hand was an extension of her thought, rhythmically and confidently chopping the beef into even, appetizing cubes for Sunday goulash.
And then that idyllic rhythm was mercilessly torn apart. From the living room, through the half-closed double doors with diamond-patterned leaded glass, a sharp, insistent telephone ring burst in. Veronika froze for a moment, listening. Her husband’s footsteps—heavy, assured—crossed the room. The rattling click of the receiver being lifted.
“Hello?” Viktor’s voice, usually so deep and calm, sounded as it always did.
And then—nothing. Silence. Not the kind that precedes a conversation, but a thick, ringing, agonizing pause. It wasn’t a dropped line, not a network glitch—Veronika had the uncanny sense she could actually hear how, on the other end, someone’s voice was pouring into that silence, nonstop, hysterical, leaving no room for a single word. A cold needle of foreboding, sharp and fine, pricked her under the ribs.
Without wiping her hands, spattered with dark drops of animal blood, she moved into the hallway. For some reason her heart was pounding up in her throat. The living room was empty. Her gaze slid over the polished surface of the cabinet where the telephone with the rotary dial usually rested—it wasn’t there. It had vanished. The black coiled cord, like a frightened snake, trailed across the parquet, slithering into the half-dark beyond, toward the nursery’s half-open door.
The silence in the house turned menacing, thick as syrup. Even the boys—five-year-old Antoshka and three-year-old Styopka—who had been happily fussing on the rug with toy trucks, seemed to grow quiet, as if they had sensed their mother’s anxiety on some animal level. Veronika, sneaking like a thief in her own home, approached the bedroom. The door was open a finger’s width. From the crack came a muffled, heated whisper. The very sound that pinned her to the floor, knocked the breath out of her, and narrowed her world to that crack, to that voice.
Viktor’s voice. But she had never heard it like this. It was full of painful tenderness, panicked fear, and some sticky, shamefaced guilt. He was pleading, making unnatural pauses, as if short of breath:
“Galina… Galina, I’m begging you, calm down, pull yourself together. I understand, darling, I know how hard this is for you. But try to understand me, too! I have a family, children… I can’t just drop everything and rush over. Yes, I love you, Galina, I swear, I love you madly, more than life! But I can’t talk now—my wife… Veronika… she could walk in any second and everything will come out. I need time to prepare her, to steel myself, now isn’t the time for scenes… No. No, don’t cry. Tomorrow. Let’s do tomorrow. Go home, please. I really want to see you. You know you mustn’t call here at this hour… Never. Yes. And I love you too… very much…”
The world collapsed. Not with a crash, but with a quiet, nasty crack, as if a fragile little bone were snapping somewhere deep inside, at the very core of her being. Veronika felt as if a red-hot knitting needle had been driven straight into her solar plexus. Her heart began to pound in a hysterical, uneven rhythm, blood hammered in her temples like a heavy, hot mallet, and her lungs clenched into a tight, airless knot. It felt as if the needle’s tip had come out between her shoulder blades, and yet she was afraid to inhale—afraid to betray herself with a moan, a rasp, the sound of her own breaking.
Inside her, everything screamed and tore; every cell demanded action—to burst in, smash, shatter dishes, demand answers. But her legs, cottony and disobedient, carried her back on their own. As if in a dream, she turned and tiptoed away, sneaking like a criminal from the scene of her own betrayal, back to the kitchen.
She picked up the knife again. Her hand trembled. She jabbed the blade into a piece of meat but couldn’t cut it—she hadn’t the strength. She stabbed blindly, seeing nothing but his face, distorted by the whisper into the crack of the door. “I love you too, Galina, I love you very much.” Those words rang in her ears, crowding out everything else. At her feet the cat, Murka, brushed against her anxiously and affectionately, sensing her mistress’s strange tension. Veronika absentmindedly flicked a bit of meat onto the floor.
“I can’t—I have a family…”
She tried to grasp at those words like a drowning person reaching for a straw. So they mattered to him? So the fortress still stood? But immediately an icy wave surged over her: “I love you, Galina.” He loves her. Another woman. Who is she? When did it start? And who is Veronika now? An obligation? A duty? A convenient housemaid and mother of his children? Good God, everything between them had been perfect! Not with a glance, not with a gesture, not with a hint had Viktor shown that his love for her had died, evaporated, flowed into another woman!
She could not imagine life without him. He was not just the provider. He was the foundation, the firmament, the very ground under her feet. The one who solved every problem, who held the helm of their family skiff through any storm. For Veronika and the children he was that very unshakable stone wall behind which one could hide from any misfortune and feel protected, loved, needed. And now what? Her salary as a graphic artist wouldn’t even cover a rented hovel. Not even with alimony. How would the boys grow up without a father? Their dacha, their joint project, their dream of a garden—everything would collapse. But that wasn’t the main thing. The main thing was that she loved this man. She loved his smell, his laughter, his hands. And she didn’t want to—couldn’t—imagine all of that gone.
About fifteen minutes later Viktor walked into the kitchen. He blissfully sniffed the air, drawing in the aroma of frying onions and meat, and looked with pleasure at the pasta burbling in the pot. Veronika, without looking up, her face stone-still, was slicing vegetables for the salad.
“Mmm, that smells amazing! A feast! Dinner soon, commander?”
“In about forty minutes. I cut the meat smaller, it’ll cook faster… Who was that on the phone?”
“On the phone?” He put on a surprised look; he acted brilliantly, a born actor.
“Well yes, the phone.”
“Ahh…” he drawled lazily, slumping onto the stool. “From the plant. They asked me to come in tomorrow for half a day to accept a shipment of lumber.”
Veronika squeezed the knife handle so hard her knuckles went white. Her face froze into a mask, but luckily he hadn’t yet learned to see her face through the back of her head.
“That’s what receivers and warehouse clerks are for. They’ve been bothering you a bit too often on weekends. I don’t like it.”
“Summer, heat, everyone’s off on vacation,” he waved it off.
“Uh-huh…”
“Why so glum, Verunchik?” He peered at her, and his voice held what sounded to her like genuine concern. Or was it only virtuoso imitation? She could no longer tell.
“Oh, nothing…”
“What’s wrong? Come here,” he spread his arms, pulled her onto his lap, sat her down. Veronika stubbornly stared at the floor, feeling a traitorous tremor rising to her throat. “Tell me.”
“I’m just tired. I thought we’d spend the whole day together tomorrow, relax, drive out to the dacha.”
“Verusya…”
“Mmm?”
“Do you love me?”
“Of course I love you—what kind of silly question is that?” He laughed, and his laugh sounded so natural that the pain stabbed her again.
“It’s just… you haven’t said it in a while…”
“I love you, Verunchik, I do. And I adore our boys. You know family is everything to me. Tell you what—why don’t you go rest, lie down, and I’ll finish up here. Have you already added spices to the meat? Salt?”
“No…”
“I’ll do it. Go on,” he let her go, kissing her tenderly on the neck, just below the earlobe. And for the first time in all their years together, his kiss brought not warmth but a sharp, nauseating feeling of revulsion.
She lay on the sofa and watched her sons, those two sunbeams, tussle on the rug. Murka hopped onto her stomach and began to knead with her paws, unsheathing sharp claws—thanking her for the treat. Veronika grabbed the cat’s paws, flipped her on her back, and buried her face in the warm, fluffy belly. No. Their family had to be preserved. At any cost. Believe his words? But he had told that… Galina… of love too! And what if that was real love? The cards would be laid on the table, and he would leave. No. She couldn’t risk it. Then she had to remove the cause itself. Remove her in such a way as not to lose him. Tell him—and give him a choice. And she was afraid of that choice. So she had to deal with the woman. One-on-one. But first—find her.
In the morning Viktor, whistling, took the children to kindergarten, then set off “to work” right after. Veronika called her own factory and, in a voice laden with suffering, said she wasn’t feeling well, but she would definitely do the work at home—two posters and a birthday card; everything would be ready by Monday. Thank God they worked in different places! Realizing she had nothing suitable for a disguise, she knocked on the door of her neighbor, a house-painter, and, burning with shame, begged for a discarded, paint-reeking smock on the pretext of painting a wall at work.
“And a headscarf, Dusya, please—so the dust… My head already hurts…”
The surprised neighbor gave her a scarf too. In that ridiculous, shapeless get-up, her face half hidden by the kerchief, Veronika rushed to the kindergarten. A few minutes later Viktor walked out the gate. The humiliating tailing began.
He didn’t head to the plant but to the market. Veronika’s heart sank: could his mistress be some market vendor? But no, he bought a big, fat herring at the fish row, then a box of strawberries, and, satisfied, left the bustle of the market, turning into a quiet neighborhood of small houses. It became harder to follow him here. Hiding at corners, darting from one cover to another, Veronika nearly lost sight of him. He disappeared behind the peeling blue gates of one of the cottages. So—there.
She sat down on a bench at the end of the street, huddling into the borrowed smock. Two hours. Two endless hours during which monstrous scenes of what was happening beyond those blue gates devoured her mind. At last they came out. Together. Veronika flushed hot, then cold. Now she would see her! But the pair, noticing nothing around them, headed toward the little wood, to the river. Veronika made out only that the woman was tall, almost Viktor’s height, slender, with a luxurious blond braid. The blow was precise and painful.
That evening, while cooking dinner, she sniffed at her returning husband.
“You smell of herring, darling.”
“The guys at work treated me,” he lied without blinking.
“Uh-huh… I see,” she whispered, and something in her heart finally and irrevocably turned to crust.
A week later she managed a better look. The woman was waiting for him at the market exit, and he again carried a bundle with that accursed herring. A connoisseur. And a couple of days after that, luck smiled on Veronika completely: coming home from work, she saw this Galina chatting with her own best friend, Oksana! They stood talking for ten minutes, and when they began to part, Veronika stepped out of the shadows.
“Oksana! Hello! You’ve totally forgotten me—not a call, not a visit!”
“Oh, come on, it’s only been a week!”
“I was starting to think you’d made a new best friend and didn’t need me anymore,” Veronika took her arm and walked alongside her.
“Who are you talking about?”
“Well, the one you were just talking to. Such a pretty one.”
“That’s Galka? We’ve known each other since childhood—grew up on the same street.”
“And what’s this Galka like?” Veronika asked innocently, feeling goosebumps run down her back.
“Beautiful, but unlucky. She’s alone with a child, and the child is sickly—always in and out of hospitals. Heart problems.”
“And the husband?”
“Ran off to another woman. And now she has a new suitor—that’s what she was telling me about. Such passions! Says he’s ready to do anything for her, to leave his family!”
Veronika ground her teeth, but her face stretched into an even sweeter smile.
“Well? Tell me more!”
“What for? You’re not one for gossip.”
“I’m very interested! You’re my friend!” There was a note of hurt in Veronika’s voice.
“Well, friend…” Oksana capitulated under the pressure and spilled everything she knew.
The plan ripened over several days. Being a creative person, Veronika gave free rein to the darkest side of her imagination. The scheme was worked out to the last detail. Waiting for a short workday, she went to visit her rival. On the way she didn’t forget to buy a “treat”—that very herring.
Galina was in the vegetable garden, digging potatoes. As Veronika passed the gate, she pretended to feel faint and clutched the picket fence.
“Miss… excuse me… could I have a sip of water? The heat…”
Galina, whose kind, responsive face sparked a searing flash of pity in Veronika, immediately rushed to help. She led Veronika into the yard, seated her in the apple tree’s shade, and brought a mug of cool water. Veronika took a few small sips, held the mug, glanced at the bottom, and widened her eyes in alarm.
“Oh! Do you see that?”
“See what?” Galina grew wary.
“At the bottom… I see… signs. Your fate.”
“Oh, stop it, I don’t believe in that nonsense,” she snorted.
“You shouldn’t. I can tell you a great deal. Your heart is broken. Your husband left. Your child is ill…”
Galina paled. Veronika took her hand, traced the lines with a finger, and sprinkled secret details she’d gleaned from her friend: the scar on her leg, an old grievance, her fears. Galina’s face gradually shifted from skepticism to superstitious horror, then to hope.
“And the future? What about the future? And him?”
“Everything will be fine if you do the right thing. There is a man, but he’s not yours. He’s firmly bound to another; you can’t take him.”
“No! He’s mine! He promised! He’ll be with us! I’ll win him!” Galina’s eyes flared, a fanatic fire blazing in them.
“He will not be yours!”
“He will! I’ll break them up! I’ll do whatever it takes!”
“HE WILL NOT!”
“HE WILL! I WON’T BACK DOWN!”
Something snapped in Veronika. All the pretense, all the pain, all the fury broke loose.
“You wretch!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. “And you know what else I see? That you love herring! Here—take this! From me and from my husband!”
Before Galina could react, the bundle with the fish struck her on the head. The paper tore. A wild, frenzied, surreal brawl erupted. They grappled and crashed onto the potato bed. Veronika, beside herself, thrashed her rival with the slippery, foul-smelling fish—on the back, the shoulders.
“For my Viktor! You snake! Thought I’d stay blind forever?! He’s my husband! Find yourself a free man!”
“Get off! You’re crazy!”
The herring slipped free and lay in the dirt. Seizing the chance as Galina tried to wipe the soil from her face, Veronika snatched up the fish and, with savage determination, began rubbing it into Galina’s face and hair until the woman broke down sobbing from helplessness and disgust. Veronika stood up, brushing clods of earth from her knees, triumphant and terrifying.
“You’ll break it off with Viktor, nicely. Tell him you’ve stopped loving him. If you don’t… I’ll go to an old witch. I’ll curse you and your child. I’ll stop at nothing. Understood?”
Galina got to her feet. Tears ran down her filthy, fish-slimed face.
“I… I’ll report you to the police! Assault!”
“Go ahead. But if my husband finds out I was here… You won’t live. If you don’t care about yourself—think of your son.”
Veronika ran out to the street. She was shaking. This was unlike her—quiet, well-brought-up Veronika. Something ancient, feral, dark had awakened in her. She had defended what was hers, her fortress, her little world. Dirty, vile, herring-stinking—but defended.
Soon Viktor’s “urgent weekend shifts” stopped. Life slipped back into its old groove; they lived soul to soul, and her husband betrayed no disappointment or sadness. From Oksana, Veronika learned that Galina had broken things off with her suitor, but there were no details. That woman no longer interested her. Within a year they moved to another city altogether.
Their life flowed calmly and measuredly. Veronika was content. Only now and then she caught on her husband’s face a distant, sorrowful look, cast into nowhere. Perhaps he’d had other women over the years—she didn’t know and didn’t want to know. The most terrible and astonishing thing came decades later, when Viktor, already gray and frail, was fading in a hospital ward. He had only a few days left.
An elegant elderly woman came to say goodbye. Veronika, by old habit, froze behind the door, unable to step inside. They wept. He called her Galina. They spoke quietly, and in their voices there sounded such genuine, long-suffering pain, such an unfulfilled tenderness, that Veronika’s heart ached. When the woman came out, Veronika could barely recognize in her the once young, passionate rival. They pretended not to know each other.
Only when the door closed did Veronika rest her forehead against the cold wall. A dreadful, chilling thought pierced her: “What if that was the real love? What if all these years he quietly, in a man’s way, died inside, but endured for our sake—for the children, for that very fortress? Is there anything in this life without sacrifice?”
She looked out the window at the garden they had planted together. At the photos of their grown, successful sons. Yes, the price had been terrible. But their children had grown up in a complete family, behind the shelter of a stone wall that, though it cracked, never collapsed. They had seen an example—imperfect, perhaps, but sturdy. And now, as she bid farewell to her husband, she understood that she had chosen her path. And she was ready to bear responsibility for it to the end.