“Vera, we’re having guests on Saturday.”
I put the frying pan on the stove and turned around. Oleg was sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone, and he didn’t even look up.
“What guests?”
“Aunt Shura. Birthday. I said we’d celebrate at our place. About twelve people will come.”
Aunt Shura was a friend of his mother’s. I had seen her maybe four times in my life. But Oleg had already decided. The way he always decided. For both of us. For me.
We have been married for twenty-six years. And for the first eighteen, I didn’t even notice how it worked. Oleg invited people — I cooked. Oleg promised something — I carried it out. Everything happened automatically, out of habit. I teach at a college, manage three groups, and check term papers until midnight. And on weekends I stand at the stove because Oleg promised someone a celebration.
Eight years ago, it became a system.
On Saturday I got up at six in the morning. Aunt Shura likes aspic — Oleg had warned me the day before. And also tongue salad, chicken pie, two hot dishes, and stuffed pancakes. Tongue takes three hours to boil, aspic takes four. I put both pots on the stove and started making dough for the chicken pie.
Oleg woke up at ten. He looked into the kitchen and sniffed the air.
“Oh, smells good. Managing all right?”
“Oleg, at least slice the bread.”
“I’ll go get the cake. Which one should I buy?”
“Any.”
He left for an hour and a half. He came back with a cake and a bottle of wine. He put them on the table and went off to watch television. Meanwhile, I was peeling the tongue, assembling the chicken pie, and cutting salads. Six hours without a break. My back was aching, my legs were swollen from standing in one place.
At the table, Aunt Shura raised her glass.
“Oleg, thank you. What a table!”
Oleg nodded. Modestly, with dignity.
“We tried,” he said.
Aunt Shura turned to me.
“Vera, did you help?”
I almost dropped the plate. Helped. Six hours at the stove — “helped.”
“Oleg, tell them how you marinated the meat for three hours,” I said.
He looked at me. Turned red. Aunt Shura shifted her gaze from him to me and back again.
“Well, we did it together,” Oleg said, and quickly changed the subject.
After dinner I washed dishes for more than an hour. Twelve plates, glasses, pots, a baking tray. Oleg watched football in the room.
“We had a good time,” he shouted. “Everyone’s pleased.”
I wiped the last plate and hung up the towel. Pleased — that was true. Everyone except me. But Oleg didn’t notice that. Or didn’t want to notice.
A week later Oleg leaned back in his chair and announced that we would celebrate March 8 at home too.
“Mom will come. And Lyoshka with his wife. And Uncle Gena.”
“Oleg, maybe we should go to a café? I’m tired.”
He looked at me as if I had said something strange.
“Why waste money? You cook wonderfully.”
I do cook wonderfully. That’s true. But that doesn’t mean I want to spend my own holiday at the sink.
A list appeared on the refrigerator. Oleg wrote it by hand on a sheet from a notepad: “March 8. Menu.” Ten items. Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, jellied tongue, French-style meat, stuffed peppers, cabbage pies, pancakes with red fish, vinaigrette, Napoleon cake, cold cuts.
Ten dishes. For twelve people. I calculated: groceries would cost fourteen thousand. Two days of cooking, six hours each. Twelve hours of my time in total. My day off. My holiday.
I went up to Oleg.
“Could you at least marinate the meat? There’s nothing complicated. Mustard, salt, pepper.”
“Vera, you know I can’t.”
“You’ve never tried.”
“I’ll ruin it. Then you’ll be angry anyway.”
He spread his hands. Those big hands of his that were always spreading apart — as if to say, what can I do? And did nothing.
I cooked for two days. On March 6, I came home from the college at four, dropped my bag with notebooks, and went straight to the stove. Dough for pies, broth for aspic, tongue into the pot. Oleg came home at six, had dinner, and lay down on the sofa.
“Vera, maybe I should help you?”
“Marinate the meat. I showed you.”
“I’ll still do it wrong. You’ll end up redoing it.”
He said it so calmly, as if it were normal to refuse to help because you didn’t want to learn. I said nothing and marinated the meat myself.
On the seventh — salads, hot dishes, cake. Six layers for the Napoleon. Each layer had to be rolled out, baked, cooled. The cream had to be cooked separately. I finished spreading cream between the layers at one in the morning. My hands were shaking from exhaustion, and in the morning there were still six more hours of work left.
On the eighth, I set the table by two. Tablecloth, dishes, glasses. Oleg bought flowers. Tulips. Not for me — for his mother.
Nelli Borisovna arrived first. She came in and inspected the table. Ran her finger along the edge of a plate.
“Beautiful,” she said. “Oleg, well done.”
Oleg. Well done.
I stood beside them in an apron, flour on my sleeve, dark circles under my eyes from a sleepless night. Nelli Borisovna handed me a bag of mandarins.
“This is for you and Oleg. Happy holiday.”
A bag of mandarins. For March 8. A bag for me, and “well done” for Oleg.
At the table, Uncle Gena raised his shot glass.
“To the master of the house! Oleg, you know how to host guests!”
“We try,” Oleg smiled.
Again, that “we try.” I gripped my fork so tightly my knuckles turned white. And then I couldn’t hold back.
“Oleg, tell the guests what you cooked,” I said. “Out of ten dishes. Name at least one.”
Silence. Uncle Gena lowered his glass. Nelli Borisovna looked at her son.
“Well, I organized everything,” Oleg said, twisting the fork in his fingers. “I bought the cake.”
“The cake,” I repeated. “Out of ten dishes, you bought the cake.”
Oleg poured himself some water. Lyoshka, his brother, coughed and quickly said something about the weather. The subject was smoothed over. But I saw how Nelli Borisovna pursed her lips.
After the guests left, I washed dishes for an hour and a half. Oleg was lying on the sofa.
“Vera, the holiday was a success. Mom was happy.”
I hung the apron on the hook. Looked at my hands — red from hot water, with short-trimmed nails. A college teacher, forty-four term papers on the table, and I had spent my own March 8 at the stove.
“Oleg.”
“Hm?”
“Next time, let’s go to a restaurant.”
“We’ll see,” he said, and changed the channel.
With Oleg, “we’ll see” meant “no.”
In April, Oleg came into the kitchen while I was checking tests. He leaned back in the chair and drummed his fingers on the table. I knew that manner of his — an announcement was coming.
“Vera, Mom has an anniversary in June. Seventy-five.”
I raised my head.
“A milestone date. We need to celebrate properly,” he said with the air of someone who had already thought everything through. “About twenty people. At our place. As usual.”
“Oleg, twenty people is not ‘as usual.’ Let’s book a restaurant. Beryozka has a good menu.”
“Do you have any idea how much that costs? For twenty people?”
“And how much do groceries for twenty people cost?”
“Well, that’s different. Groceries are cheaper.”
“Cheaper because I’m free.”
He frowned. He didn’t understand. Or pretended not to.
“Vera, this is Mom. Once in a lifetime. Seventy-five.”
I wanted to say that for eight years, every holiday at our place had been “once in a lifetime.” But I stayed silent. Because Oleg had already got up and gone to call the relatives.
Three days later, a new list appeared on the refrigerator. Twelve dishes. I read it from top to bottom. Baked pork. Caesar salad. Mackerel roll. Country-style potatoes. Honey cake. And seven more items in small handwriting, with an exclamation mark after “Aspic!!!”
Twelve. Not ten, like on March 8. Twelve. For twenty people. Oleg had added two items without asking whether I wanted to cook them. He hadn’t asked whether I wanted to cook anything at all.
I took out the calculator. Flour, meat, fish, vegetables, sour cream, butter, eggs — eighteen thousand. At least three days of cooking. Two of those days I could have spent tutoring — five hundred rubles an hour, six hours a day. Thirty thousand in lost earnings.
In the evening, Nelli Borisovna called.
“Verochka, Oleg said the banquet will be at your place? Like in a restaurant? I’m so happy! I’ve already told Zoya, and Tamara, and Shurochka too.”
She had told them. Everyone. Twenty people. I hadn’t said a word yet, but the banquet had already been announced.
“Nelli Borisovna, we’re still discussing the format.”
“Oh, Oleg said everything is decided. I trust him. He’s responsible.”
“He didn’t ask me,” I said.
A pause. Nelli Borisovna seemed not to have heard.
“Verochka, you’re such a clever girl. Your cooking is finger-licking good. Everyone always praises it.”
I hung up. Adjusted my glasses. My hands were trembling. Everyone praises it. Only they don’t praise me — they praise Oleg.
That evening I went up to my husband with the calculator.
“Eighteen thousand for groceries. Three days of work. If we count my tutoring hours at five hundred rubles, that’s another thirty thousand in lost earnings. Total: forty-eight thousand. A banquet at Beryozka for twenty people costs forty-five thousand.”
Oleg looked at the calculator. Then at me.
“Are you counting money when it comes to my mother?”
“I’m counting my money. And my time.”
“Vera, enough. You cook better than any restaurant. Mom will be happy.”
He got up and left the kitchen.
I was left standing there with the calculator in my hand. Eight years. Five or six holidays a year. Each time ten to twelve hours. If added together — more than four hundred hours at the stove. And not a single “thank you, Vera.” Only “Oleg, well done.”
The next day Sveta, my colleague from the college, called.
“Vera, there’s a new film at October on Saturday. Want to go?”
“Which Saturday?”
“This one. The twenty-first.”
June twenty-first. The day of Nelli Borisovna’s anniversary.
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
And I thought about it.
The morning of the twenty-first. Saturday. I woke up at seven. Oleg was already up, walking around the apartment in a good mood. He had shaved and put on a shirt.
At eight, he looked into the kitchen.
“Vera, when will you start? Guests arrive at three.”
I was sitting at the table with a cup of tea. The list of twelve dishes was hanging on the refrigerator. I hadn’t bought any groceries.
“Oleg, where are the groceries?” He opened the refrigerator. Milk, eggs, butter. The usual set.
“I didn’t buy groceries.”
“What do you mean, you didn’t buy them?”
He turned around. His hands were already spread apart — the familiar gesture.
“Vera, the guests arrive in seven hours!”
“I know.”
“Who is going to cook?”
I took a sip of tea. Put the cup down.
“You are. You suggested celebrating at our place. You wrote the menu. You invited twenty people. You promised your mother a banquet. So you cook.”
Oleg went pale. Then red. He sat down on a chair.
“You’re joking.”
“No.”
“Vera, it’s an anniversary! My mother’s! Seventy-five years!”
“I suggested a restaurant. Twice. You said it was expensive. You said, ‘You’ll manage.’ Except I never signed up for it.”
“But you always cooked!”
“Eight years, Oleg. Every holiday. And every time the guests thanked you.”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“What am I supposed to do?”
I got up. Took the list of twelve dishes off the refrigerator and placed it on the table in front of him.
“Here’s the menu. You made it — you figure it out.”
Then I went into the room. Put on a dress. Took my bag. Checked whether the movie ticket was there — Sveta had bought it online yesterday.
Oleg was standing in the kitchen doorway.
“Where are you going?”
“To the cinema.”
“What cinema?! We have twenty people coming in six hours!”
“You do, Oleg. You have twenty people coming.”
I buckled my sandals. Adjusted my glasses. My hands were not shaking. For the first time in eight years.
“Vera!”
I closed the door behind me.
It was sunny outside. June twenty-first, the longest day of the year. I walked toward the bus stop and felt my back straighten with every step. For eight years I had hunched over cutting boards, pots, baking trays. For eight years I had smelled of onions and dill on Saturdays. But today I smelled of perfume.
At the cinema, Sveta looked at me and smirked.
“You’re glowing.”
“Mm-hm,” I said. “Today is not my day at the stove.”
We bought popcorn. The film was average, but I watched every minute. Two hours of silence. No smell of broth. No oven timer. No Oleg peeking into the kitchen asking, “Is it ready soon?”
I didn’t turn off my phone. But I put it on silent. Oleg called four times. Then he sent a message: “Ordered from the deli. 12,000. Happy now?”
I read it. Put the phone away. And finished watching the film.
I came home at nine in the evening. The apartment smelled of ready-made deli food — a different smell, not homemade. Plastic containers stood on the table, salads transferred from them into my plates. One plate of Olivier salad was chipped.
Oleg was sitting in the kitchen. Alone. His shirt was wrinkled. His face was heavy.
“Mom was upset,” he said. “She asked where you were.”
“What did you answer?”
“That you had things to do.”
“Things to do,” I repeated. “For the first time in eight years, I had things to do on a Saturday. And that surprised you.”
He was silent. I walked past him into the room, took off my sandals, and changed clothes.
For some reason, the chipped plate on the table hurt more than anything else. My plate, from the set we had bought for our tenth anniversary. Oleg hadn’t even noticed that he had chipped it.
Three weeks passed. Oleg did not apologize. Nelli Borisovna called once — her voice was dry and distinct.
“Verochka, Oleg said you were busy. But Lena told me you went to the cinema.”
I didn’t try to justify myself.
“Yes, Nelli Borisovna. I was at the cinema.”
A short silence. Then she hung up.
Oleg goes to his mother’s on Sundays now. Alone. He comes back, sits in the kitchen, and says nothing. Sometimes I catch his eye — not angry, more confused. Like a person who was used to chairs moving by themselves, and then suddenly they stopped.
There are no more lists on the refrigerator. It is empty. I took down the magnet that said “To the Best Housewife” and put it in a drawer.
Now I cook only for two. On weekdays, after work. No baked pork, no aspic, no six-layer honey cake.
And the anniversary, they say, went fine. Oleg managed. Deli food, paper cups, a cake from a bakery. Nelli Borisovna blew out the candles. Everyone took pictures.
In the photo my sister-in-law sent me, I saw the table. Plastic containers covered with napkins. Nelli Borisovna smiling. Oleg standing beside her with a strained face.
I was not in the photo.
Twenty guests, twelve dishes on the list, and not once in eight years did he peel even a single potato. Should I have endured it one last time for the sake of the anniversary, or was I right to leave?