She had bought the Franzuskaya Bolonka from a breeder for Helge’s retirement. She had hoped the little dog would provide him companionship and give him a reason to leave the apartment. Helge needed exercise as much as the dog. His body had deteriorated, but if she pointed out his need for exercise he bristled and returned the criticism. “Who do I have to look good for?”
She stepped into their living room. The arched, floor-to-ceiling windows provided a gorgeous view of the fading light reflecting off the domes of the surrounding churches and sparkling on the gray waters of the Moskva River. Helge sat, as always, in his white-cushioned chair facing the television, another football match. Within his reach on the side table stood a tall glass of vodka. Most nights he passed out in the chair and Maria helped him to bed.
Helge could never move beyond his unsuccessful attempt to make the Olympic football team, a failure that had quashed his spirit. Maria had helped him secure a job with the City of Moscow’s parks department so he had something to do. He remained employed for thirty-five years, rejecting one promotion after another because the job would entail longer hours and greater responsibility. He used to come home from work and drink vodka and watch football.
“Ty segodnya Stanislava ne vyvodil?” Did you not get Stanislav out today? She smelled urine and found a puddle in the corner.
“U menya net vremeni gulyat’ s etoy proklyatoy tselymi dnyami.” I don’t have time to be taking the damn dog for a walk all day.
“If you don’t get him out, he piddles on the wood.”
“You bought him. You clean up after him.” He picked up his glass, taking a long drink.
She set Stanislav down and stepped to the back of Helge’s chair, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I bought him for you, Helge. To keep you company in your retirement.”
Helge ignored the hand. “Yes. At least the dog is home once in a while.”
She sighed and went to the kitchen to grab paper towels, then opened a cabinet and removed a glass vase. She filled the vase with tap water. “You know my job requires long hours, Helge. It is a sacrifice for both of us, but it provides us this apartment, and other things.”
“I am fully aware that you secured the apartment, as well as the other things.” He threw a glance in her direction, which she ignored.
She arranged the flowers in the vase. In the living room she pulled open a balcony door to place the flowers on the small table there. Like the check mark on the bus stop, the flowers signified her desire to meet her handler.
When she turned, Helge watched her. “You have not bought flowers in months. What is the occasion? Or were those bought for you?”
She stepped past him, knelt, and cleaned up Stanislav’s urine. “I felt like flowers to cheer me up.”
“Are you depressed? Welcome to the club.”
She fought the urge to fight. “I was hoping we could have a nice evening.” She wasn’t. She had hoped to find him passed out in his chair, so she could slip away. His failure to take Stanislav on a walk, however, had solved that dilemma for her.
“A nice evening . . . I don’t recall one. Did we once share nice evenings?”
“Never mind,” she said. “Watch your football. I will take Stanislav for his walk.”
She went into the kitchen and deposited the paper towels in the garbage, which overflowed. She pulled out the liner and tied the top in a knot. As she did, she heard the phone ring in the living room. This would be in response to the check mark, the flowers, or both. She stepped into the living room but not quickly enough. Helge had moved to answer the call, smiling at her as he did. She turned back toward the kitchen but listened intently.
“Allo.” Silence before Helge spoke. “Nyet. Zdes’ takih net. Vy oshiblis’ nomerom.” No. There is no one here by that name. You have the wrong number.
Maria tried to appear disinterested and busy.
“Da.” She heard Helge hang up the phone.
“A wrong number again?” she said. “I will speak to the phone company. Perhaps our line is crossed with someone else’s, or we have their telephone number.”
“Perhaps.” Helge leaned against the wall leading from the dining room to the kitchen. “Except he never asks for the same person.”
“Who did he ask for this time?”
“Anna.”
“Anna?”
“Last time it was Tatiana. The time before that it was Sasha.”
“Odd,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Odd.”