He was terrified he wouldn’t recognize her. Fifteen years is no joke. It’s a whole life squeezed into the gap between yesterday and today. The last time Artyom had seen Lika they were both fifteen—two angular, half-childish creatures trembling with unspoken feelings and hormones. Now they were thirty. He was a successful co-owner of a chain of restaurants in Moscow, with a faint weariness in his eyes and an expensive watch on his wrist. She… what could have become of her in this godforsaken provincial town where time seemed to congeal into sweet, viscous bog jelly?
“Most likely she’s got three little brats, floors that are forever unwashed, and a drunk for a husband who stares blankly at the TV,” Artyom thought with a biting anger he didn’t even understand himself. “A tired, dulled look. Veiny hands, red from icy water.”
Why was he angry at her, of all people? It was utterly irrational, childish anger. He was the one who had run, cravenly bowing to his parents’ pressure. He was the one who cut every thread, stopped answering her timid letters in stamped envelopes that smelled of her perfume—cheap, with the scent of wildflowers. He was the one who tried to forget, drowning her memory in the alcohol of London pubs and in the arms of random girls. And yet deep down he was angry at her—for letting him go, for not shouting, not clinging to him, just watching him leave with those huge gray eyes brimming with tears in which his conscience sank.
They greeted him at his old school like a Hollywood star. They clapped him on the shoulder, shouted “Artyomka!”, poked him in the ribs, demanded he tell them about the “decadent West” and Moscow party life. He felt genuinely embarrassed by this showy, smothering enthusiasm. He searched the crowd for one face—and didn’t find it. And he thought with relief: “To hell with her. What stupid nostalgia for a mothball-scented past. As if I need that Lika, that provincial shut-in with her inevitably shabby fate.”
And then he saw her.
She stood in the doorway of the assembly hall, a little late, glancing around with the same uncertainty as fifteen years ago. And everything inside Artyom flipped over and collapsed into the void.
Lika still had those unbelievably slender, almost fragile hands, with delicate blue lacework veins at the wrists. The same sharp, foxlike face where her eyes seemed unnaturally large. And fair, downy hair that was no longer a short dandelion cap but drawn back into a careless ponytail, a few silky strands trailing along her neck. She wore a simple calico dress, but it fit her as if a top couturier had tailored it just for her. She didn’t look like a woman ground down by life with three kids. She was… the exact, grown copy of the girl he remembered.
A scene flashed up in his memory, bright as yesterday. They were standing by the school window while the first snow was swirling outside. He looked at her profile, at how the flakes melted in her hair, and, without meaning to, breathed out:
— How beautiful Lika is…
His friend Pashka Gubanov, a big lug with a perpetual smirk, snorted and slapped him on the back:
— Get outta here! Beautiful, huh! Now Arzhanova—that’s beauty! Look at those braids down to her waist, and skin like a peach, with a rosy glow. Your Lida is pale and spotty, a shabby little moth.
Lika did indeed have a scatter of tiny golden freckles on her cheeks and a couple of pimples that to Artyom seemed like sweet badges of youth. But under his buddy’s mocking gaze he lost his nerve, hunched his shoulders, and muttered:
— Well, yeah, I guess you’re right…
How was he supposed to go up to her? What could he say? At fifteen, the world split into two warring camps—boys and girls. Any careless word, any glance could spark endless teasing and gossip. That same Arzhanova, the school’s reigning beauty, would have instantly started shrieking about “the bride and groom.”
The saving idea, as often happened, came from Pashka, who invited half the class to his birthday. The Gubanovs’ apartment was small, which created exactly the kind of cheerful, stuffy chaos teenagers loved. Pashka’s mom played charades with them, and then the whole gang tore into the brand-new Transformers. The biggest one—the leader of the Autobots—was Artyom’s gift.
— Mom, — he ambushed his mother the day before. — Can I invite the whole class?
— The whole class? — her eyes rounded. — Artyom, where would we put them? That’s forty people!
— Aww, mo-om, please! At least some of them will come!
— They won’t all show up anyway, — came his father’s calm voice from the study. — Set up a buffet, let them eat whatever they want and run wherever they want. No need to seat them at a table with serious faces.
— And our relatives? Aunt Tanya and Uncle Vasya? They’ll be offended!
— We’ll host the relatives the next day, — his dad suggested peaceably. — And then, sure, we’ll do it properly—with a real spread, borscht and Chicken Kiev…
And that’s how they settled it. Artyom shook with fear that Lika would refuse. He knew she wouldn’t have money for a present. Everyone knew. She came from a large family; her mother was a librarian, her father a perennial detox ward patient. Sweets appeared in their house only on major holidays, and Lika wore hand-me-down jackets and jeans from her older sisters. So, going up to her desk, Artyom blurted in a rush, blushing to his roots:
— Listen, Lika, I’ve got a favor to ask. Could you… as a birthday present… redraw something for me? For a record sleeve.
Lika looked at him with a silent question. He started explaining, stumbling and mixing things up: the dog had torn his favorite Beatles sleeve, the replacement was just plain white and boring, and it made listening no fun at all.
— Don’t you have a tape recorder? — she asked skeptically. The whole town knew Artyom’s father owned a restaurant and that their house had all the latest gadgets.
— We do, — Artyom waved it off. — But I… I love vinyl. The crackle of the needle, you know… it’s atmospheric. So—will you draw it?
Lika always had top marks in art. Her work hung not only at school exhibitions but all over the district. She thought a bit and nodded:
— All right. I’ll draw it.
At the birthday itself, while half the guests were hammering each other in Mortal Kombat on the console and the other half were squealing over Pulp Fiction on the VCR, Artyom led Lika, Mishka, and a couple of other girls into his room. He proudly showed off his record player—not an ordinary one, but old, tube-powered, German, inherited from his grandfather. The speakers were hidden in the corners to create total immersion.
At first Lika was bored: a record player, some records—so what. But when the needle touched the vinyl and the room filled with the opening notes of “Yesterday,” she froze. She sat bolt upright, folded her hands on her knees, and stared at one point as if in a trance. She wasn’t just listening—she was absorbing the sound with every cell of her body. Mishka got bored quickly and ran off to game; the girls decided to start an impromptu dance party. Other guests crammed into the room, jerking along to the beat, yelling and laughing. But Lika sat on the edge of his bed, motionless, carried far, far away by music four lads from Liverpool had once written.
A few days after the party she came up to him at recess.
— Artyom, could I… listen to that record again? I’ll be very careful—scout’s honor! — there was such pleading in her eyes that he almost grabbed her hand and led her home on the spot.
— They’re my dad’s, — he lied suddenly. — He doesn’t let anyone touch them. But… you can come over. Listen whenever you like.
— It’s kind of awkward, — she murmured, lowering her eyes.
— What’s awkward is putting your pants on over your head, — he parried, mimicking his father. — Coming over is not awkward. So come. And that’s that.
And so their strange, quiet friendship began. At first its foundation was music. They could sit for hours in his room listening to album after album, arguing about the best song and the best record. Then the music became merely the soundtrack to their conversations—about books, films, how the universe works, and why people are so lonely. She didn’t speak much, but when she did it was pithy, and Artyom discovered with amazement that this “mouse” had a keen, piercing mind and a subtle sense of humor.
— Artyom, tell me honestly, — his mother asked once, eyeing his new friend with suspicion. — What do you see in her? She’s practically mute. Sits there, staring at you with those big eyes, nodding. I understand that flatters a man’s ego, but this is too much. What could you possibly have in common? She’s from a completely different circle! Slava, tell him—you have to form the right circle early! I always said we should transfer him to the lyceum!
— Mom, I don’t want to travel to the other end of the city, — Artyom whined. — I’m fine here. The teachers are good. You heard what my English tutor said about my pronunciation.
As usual, his father took it philosophically:
— Oh, leave the boy alone. Let him make the girl’s head spin—it’s the age for it.
— I’m not making anyone’s head spin! — Artyom protested, feeling his ears burn.
That conversation bought him nearly a year of relative freedom. His mother rolled her eyes when Lika came over, but she stopped talking about the lyceum. And in ninth grade everything collapsed in an instant. His mother walked into the room without knocking—at the very moment when Artyom, absorbed in studying the geography of Lika’s freckles, had moved on to the practical exploration of the contours of her figure.
At first he thought he’d gotten away with it. Lika, red as a boiled lobster, bolted home. His mother said nothing. His father came back that evening—silence. Three days later his father summoned him to the study.
— Rejoice, son. We’re packing our bags. We’re moving to Moscow.
— What do you mean, to Moscow? — Artyom was speechless.
— Just that. I’m expanding the business, opening a new restaurant. And you’ll be applying to university soon. You need to get ready—the competition is brutal. I’ve already arranged the lyceum and found tutors.
— I’m not going, — Artyom declared defiantly.
— And where are you going to go? — his father asked calmly.
There was nowhere to go. When Lika found out, she cried in silence, without hysterics, and that made his soul ache all the more. He swore he’d finish school and come back for her, take her away into a brilliant Moscow life. She looked at him with oddly old, tired eyes and sighed quietly, like a grown-up:
— You won’t come. Never.
For goodbye he gave her that very record—“All You Need Is Love,” the one she had once drawn a new sleeve for and to which they had, awkward and hungry, shared their first kiss.
He knew this whole Moscow venture was his mother’s doing. He was furious with her to the point his knees shook. And with his father, for his silent consent. So when, in tenth grade, his new Moscow friend planned to study in London, Artyom went to his father and announced:
— I want to go to London too.
His mother wept, wrung her hands, cried that he’d perish there alone. Artyom knew he’d had an older brother who died in infancy of a heart defect, and that his mother feared losing him as well. But at that moment he watched her fear with a kind of dark, poisonous satisfaction.
He liked London. He hit all the Beatles sites, started smoking Camel, switched his haircut to a rebellious Mohawk, and changed girlfriends as often as his socks. He was desperately trying to forget that wildflower scent and the girl with the huge eyes. He chose girls of the opposite type—bright, loud, uninhibited. But they all quickly bored him with their artificiality.
That vicious pattern continued when he returned to Russia and became his father’s right hand in the business. He’d had two more or less long romances: with a Greek she-devil who clung to him with a death grip, and with a pale, fluffy Englishwoman named Jane who uncannily reminded him of the one he was trying to erase from his heart.
Hardly had he come back when his mother resumed parading “suitable brides” from families “of his circle.” Artyom responded by moving into the apartment his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday, in the center of Moscow, and stopped visiting his parents’ house. His mother was offended, called—he ignored it. His father urged him to soften, to which Artyom replied with icy politeness:
— She wanted me to be successful? I am. But she won’t marry me off to whomever she pleases. She can carve that into her memory once and for all.
When a message came from Mishka, at first Artyom didn’t know who it was. The avatar—a balding, mustachioed man in glasses—didn’t match the scrawny kid he remembered. But once they figured it out, Artyom was unexpectedly glad. And to the invitation to come to the class reunion—though he couldn’t stand events like that—he said yes.
And here he was. She looked at him with a gentle, meek smile. There was not a drop of anger or reproach in her gaze. Only a slight sadness. And that infuriated him even more.
— Hi, — he managed, his voice coming out hoarse. — You… haven’t changed at all.
It was the plain truth. The same thinness, the same freckles, the same blue veins on her slender wrists. Only her hair, pulled into a ponytail, was long.
From that moment he stopped noticing anyone else. They talked. Cautiously at first, then faster and faster, stumbling, interrupting each other. She had indeed been married, but had been divorced for five years. She had only one child—a ten-year-old son. Igor.
Hearing his own name, Artyom blushed to the roots, but couldn’t deny it flattered him madly.
— Come with me, — he blurted suddenly, fully aware how stupid and arrogant it sounded. — Bring your son and come. In Moscow… the opportunities are different. Schools, clubs. I’ll arrange everything.
— You’re still the same dreamer, — she smiled sadly, and in her smile lived all the inescapable sorrow of that backwater town.
— Am I right that that’s a “no”? — he asked, an old wound aching in his chest.
Lika didn’t answer. She just looked at him once more, took her battered leather bag, and began saying her goodbyes. And he couldn’t find the strength, couldn’t find the words to stop her, to persuade her. He just watched her slender figure dissolve into the crowd of former classmates driving off to their little boxes and their lives that hadn’t come to be.
— Well, I’ll go with you, — a sweet, playful voice chimed beside him. Arzhanova was hovering nearby—still as flashy, brazen, and seductive as ever. — What hotel are you in, prince?
— The Central, — he answered automatically.
— Let me walk you, — she purred, running a hand down his sleeve.
He didn’t care. At all. He called a taxi; they got in and left. He didn’t even ask where to take her.
The knock at the room door came when he had already taken off his jacket and was about to shower. “Housekeeping? Bad timing,” he thought irritably. Or maybe it was the wrong room.
He opened the door—and froze.
Lika was on the threshold. In the same calico dress. Her hair was tousled, her nostrils flaring with anger, and lightning flashed in her gray eyes.
— And where is she? — she exhaled, her voice trembling.
— Who? — Artyom didn’t understand.
— That Arzhanova! First she stole my husband, the sneaky little viper, and now she’s after you? Still not satisfied?
At first Artyom was taken aback, then he laughed—loudly, genuinely, for the first time that evening.
— There’s no Arzhanova here! Want to search the whole room? — He stepped aside to let her in.
Lika swept into the room and looked around. Convinced he was alone, she calmed a little and sank onto the edge of a chair, as if the fury had drained out of her all at once.
— Yulka called me… said you left together.
— I put her in a taxi and sent her home. Like a gentleman. That’s where it ended.
— You didn’t even kiss? — there was a note of childish grievance in her voice.
He lifted his hands in a comic gesture of surrender.
— Innocent! I swear on my vinyl collection!
— Why so? — she persisted. — She’s got those pumped-up lips, and her chest… all that.
— I didn’t come here for that, — he said quietly but very clearly.
— Then why? To see me? To remember your silly promise after fifteen years? — there were tears in her voice again.
— Did you… wait? — he dared to ask.
— As if! I forgot you the very next day! — she shot back, looking away.
— Excellent! — he parried. — I didn’t pine for you either.
— Then I’ll go…
— Go. Only… — he took a step toward her. — Maybe first… we listen to a record?
Lika narrowed her eyes, and in her look flashed that same mischievous spark he knew by heart.
— So you forgot me the next day, but dragged your turntable across half the world? Makes sense.
— Looks like it, — he grinned.
She silently took her battered bag, rummaged inside, and pulled out a large square sleeve. Carefully, almost reverently, she held it out to Artyom.
It was that very record. The very one with the homemade cover where her hand had traced the familiar letters—THE BEATLES. The one he’d given her as a parting gift.
Artyom took it, and his fingers trembled. He slid the vinyl out of the sleeve. Not a single scratch. Perfectly preserved. Wordlessly, he went to the turntable, set the disc, lowered the needle. The room filled with the characteristic hiss, and then—with sounds recognizable from the very first chords.
Love, love, love…
Without a word they moved toward each other. He slipped an arm around her slender, almost weightless waist; she twined her arms around his neck. They spun in a slow, delirious dance in the middle of a standard hotel room with blue carpets and faceless furniture. They danced the very graduation waltz they had never had.
A flush burned on her pale cheeks. His heart hammered as if after a sprint. Time no longer mattered. Why he had forgotten his promise, why she had said she wouldn’t go with him—none of it mattered anymore. All they needed was love. It poured from the speakers, thudded in their temples, pulsed in time with their hearts which, it seemed, had stopped fifteen years earlier and were waiting for this moment to start beating again.
All you need is love… — sang Paul McCartney.
And they both knew it was the purest truth.