Right before lunch, her boss, Valery Andreyevich, called her into his office.
“There’s a little matter, Varvara Sergeyevna,” he said. “I’d like to ask you to handle a delicate assignment. We need to congratulate a client on behalf of our company—make him a surprise. For certain reasons I can’t do it myself—I’m busy this evening—and we can’t entrust it to the youngsters either; it’s not that kind of occasion. And you, on all counts, are the perfect fit: elegant, beautiful, charming!”
“Oh, really now,” the woman said, embarrassed. “Better send Lenochka—our beauty. That client would be pleased!”
“Varvara Sergeyevna! When will you ever stop arguing with management?” Valery Andreyevich remarked, pretending to be stern. “The situation is such that no one but you will do. You don’t know all the nuances, but I do! So—here’s how it will be. Pick up the gift from Lenochka, then go home—rest, spruce up, as you say. In the evening you must be in full dress; you’ll be the face of our company, so do your best: dress, earrings, brooches—top class. Coordinate your hair and makeup with Lenochka—she’ll arrange for you to be taken today at ‘Beauty Empire.’ All at the company’s expense, of course. At exactly eight a car will pick you up, take you to the restaurant, wait as long as needed, and bring you back. You’ll present the gift, offer congratulations, and if you wish, sit at the table for a bit and then leave. Consider this my personal request!”
Varvara Sergeyevna left the director’s office with mixed feelings. What kind of client was this? She knew all their serious partners—everyone worthy of such congratulations—she’d been with the company for years and not in some low-level position. But then again, why worry? The errand wasn’t difficult, and a beauty salon on the company dime wasn’t exactly a hardship. She wasn’t afraid of a trap: she knew her director too well; too much connected them; they had eaten too much salt together.
All right—let’s shake off the dust of old times today! Though, honestly, what “old times”? She was only fifty… and a half. Half a year ago, she hadn’t wanted a jubilee at all—refused flatly. The children even took offense, and her friends too—everyone wanted to gather, come, celebrate. She wouldn’t let them, forbade it.
“What kind of date is fifty? Thirty is a date! The birthday girl is young and beautiful! Seventy is a date too—no one looks at beauty then; you sum things up, and anyway, thank God you lived that long!”
Meanwhile Lenochka, the pretty young secretary, was calling the beauty salon, confirming the time, looking at Varvara Sergeyevna as if to ask: does it work for you? She handed her a neatly wrapped flat box—more like a folder—sealed in plastic: the gift. And she chirped:
“When you arrive, ask for the banquet manager right away—he’ll explain everything, everything to you, take you where you need to go, show you!”
At exactly eight, Varvara Sergeyevna was ready. She looked at herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize herself. What had her boss said? “Elegant, beautiful, charming.” Well—he wasn’t wrong! The stylists at the salon had created a marvelous hairstyle: строгая and yet airy at the same time—carelessly elegant, simple to the point of refined perfection.
They applied light, almost weightless makeup, defined her eyes and lips. They did her manicure—subtle, yet emphasizing her graceful fingers. She put on her very best dress, and gold earrings with diamonds—a keepsake from the happy time when Vadim had still been alive.
Well then—she wouldn’t embarrass herself. She would represent her company with dignity, wouldn’t let Valery Andreyevich down! Her phone began to purr. The driver was letting her know the car was ready. Varvara Sergeyevna stepped into the courtyard, where a black Mercedes waited—predatory, crouched on wide tires, the chrome grille grinning like bared teeth. The smiling driver opened the back door for her, took his seat, and they rolled out of the yard, parting the stunned silence of the grandmothers on the bench and the neighbors at the playground.
“Surely Valera signed a contract with some ministry, and today he’s honoring the minister himself. But if that’s the case, shouldn’t he have personally congratulated such an important person?” Still, she didn’t feel like guessing—she felt too good for that. The car glided smoothly, yet confidently. Inside lingered a discreet scent of natural leather; very soft, tender music played.
Soon they arrived. The driver got out again, opened the back door, helped Varvara Sergeyevna out.
“I’ll be waiting in the parking lot. When you want to go home, just tell the banquet manager—he’ll let me know.”
Varvara Sergeyevna entered the lobby, and at once an elegant woman in a строгий suit appeared beside her.
“Are you Varvara Sergeyevna Zvantseva?” she smiled. “I’m Marina, the event coordinator. Please, come with me—they’re waiting for you.”
They climbed a short staircase, walked down a corridor, turned right, and found themselves in some room. Marina smiled.
“Now I’ll turn off the lights, and we’ll go into the hall. Don’t worry—I’ll be right next to you. And when the lights come on, you’ll see everything yourself!”
“But what am I supposed to do? Who do I give the gift to, what do I say? I don’t even know this jubilarian…”
“You do!” Marina smiled broadly. “You know him very well—you just don’t realize it yet. Don’t worry about anything. Everything will be fine!”
The girl brought her phone to her ear and asked, “Are you ready? Then we’re coming in!” She took Varvara Sergeyevna by the hand, opened the door, and they stepped into a large room—clearly a banquet hall. Marina somehow imperceptibly let go of her hand and dissolved into the dimness. The light in the hall came up gradually—very convenient; her eyes adjusted little by little: half-dark, then muted light, and finally the fixtures flared with rich, crystalline brightness.
Varvara Sergeyevna found herself on a carpet runner in the center of the hall, facing a table where many well-dressed people sat. They had stopped eating and drinking and were looking at her. She searched for the celebrant but couldn’t find him. For some reason, the faces around the table seemed familiar—almost dear.
Everyone stood up; applause burst out; the orchestra struck up a fanfare. Varvara Sergeyevna couldn’t understand anything: there was Galka with Andrey, there was Tanya, and there… could that be Oleg? It was! Why were her son and her best friend at this banquet—did they know the celebrant? And her daughter Olya was here too! What kind of delusion was this?
At that moment the music fell silent, and the host—a slim, gray-haired, imposing man—stepped up beside her and took the microphone.
“Dear Varvara Sergeyevna! We have gathered here today to celebrate your jubilee among your family and loved ones!”
“What jubilee? Why mine?” she was stunned.
Her daughter and son rushed up to her, led her to the table, seated her, poured—knowing her preferences—a little glass of cognac, and began piling appetizers onto her plate.
“So what is going on here, in the end?” the woman couldn’t help blurting out.
“Mommy, don’t worry,” Olya twittered. “We decided to surprise you, because you wouldn’t have let us do anything—you wouldn’t have prepared, you wouldn’t have come at all!”
“In this folder you’re holding,” Oleg smiled, “is a trip to Croatia for two. Take whoever you want with you. It’s from us.”
“Good Lord, children—have you lost your minds? What trip, what jubilee, why spend so much, and I have work…”
“Your paid vacation has already been approved for the dates of the trip!” her son beamed like a gold coin.
“Approved by whom?” Varvara Sergeyevna still couldn’t come to her senses.
“By your director, Valery Andreyevich. We reached him through mutual acquaintances, arranged it—he promised to take care of everything, and he did!” Her daughter was glowing with joy too.
“But I категорически forbade any jubilee celebrations!” Varvara Sergeyevna was beginning to recover.
“Mom, don’t twist things,” Oleg smiled gently, wagging a finger at the same time. “Remember what you said? ‘I hate all these round dates—don’t you dare throw me a fiftieth birthday!’”
“Yes, I did say that! So what is all this?”
“We threw… we threw you a completely not-round jubilee—square, no—triangular!” Olya, who had already crossed the thirty-year mark, was laughing like a little girl. She waved at the host; the lights dimmed again, and from the ceiling a fiery, shining circle began to descend, with bright, glowing numbers: 50 + 1/2.
She hugged her beloved children, cried tears of joy, said something in a voice that kept breaking.
And around her everything continued as usual, along the familiar track. The host was telling something, waitresses slipped among the guests, leaning in; the pianist, utterly absorbed, teased fragments of popular melodies from the piano. The jubilee went on according to the established order, gathering momentum—despite such a strange, unusual, not-quite-round date