A bad egg   

Original idea by Boris Tatarintsev

    Yesterday, she was at the party. They drank port wine, then vodka, and then port wine again. Despite an old saying "Don’t mix crystal white with muddy brown," they, nevertheless, did mix it. They played guitar, their favorite "Once upon the vodka warehouse," all that usual stuff. Whose house they were in, she had no idea. After all, it didn’t matter to her. She couldn’t remember what time she had returned home, but it was long past twelve. 

    When Verka opened her eyes again, the sun was already up.  

    "Damn it. I’ve overslept again," she thought. She had no desire to get up. Her head still felt heavy after yesterday’s party.

    Awkwardly, Verka levered herself to her feet, shoveled her slippers out from under the bed. Shivering, she could hear radio loudly playing on the top of fridge: "Severe cold weather warning for Leningrad City and the surrounding region. Wind-chill factor minus 20 Celsius…"

    It took her a while, but, finally, she spotted her morning gown, bent on the floor.

    "What a lousy weather," she yawned. "I wish I could stay home."

    Still half-asleep, Verka strolled into the kitchen. A big mug was waiting for her on the kitchen table with some tea-brew in it. She checked the snub-nosed urchin of teapot. The water was already cooled-off, so what? She scooped out some homemade apricot jam from a jar and spread it on bread.

    "Hallo? Elena Nikolaevna?" Verka said after dialing the rotary disk on the phone. "Yes, this is Vera. I’d be late today... Second shift... Want to take a half-day off... Well, make it a vacation day. No, nothing happened… Just don’t feel well."

    "Last time. Yeah," she made a face to the phone and the invisible Elena Nikolaevna, "like she is doing me a favor… Old hag, mymra! Thinks I don’t know that the whole Bureau would be penalized with "13^th" if I come late."

    The "13^th" was a colloquial name for the bonus check every employee received at the end of the year. As a small addition to the wage supplement, it, though, was a touchy question for some people. Verka didn’t want to be the cause.

    She fumbled the pack of "Kosmos" in her pocket, lit a cigarette from the open-flame stove, and took a long drag. It made her feel a little better.

    Verka worked as a clerk-typist at a secret "oboronnyi Institute" where, thanks to her sister’s drag, she got hired right after the high school. Day after day she typed memos and letters on the typewriter, delivered them to the various departments, and came back to type again. The only fun she could have was to chat with the other girls during the lunch break and to get a cigarette or two in between.

    And then, there was college, her key to success. But classes were boring and she had hardly paid any attention to what the professors were saying. It was only thanks to the cheat-sheets that she managed to go on. When she graduates, "if I ever graduate," she could get an engineer position, high-wage salary, and some extra days toward vacation. And then… Then she would marry… 

    Verka went to the bathroom and, with the cigarette in her mouth, splashed her face with cold water. The butt got wet and weak, but remained lit.

    "My Gosh, I look dreadful," she used fingers to brush her long hair off her eyes. Men were saying she was pretty, but Verka never cared much about being called beautiful. As easily as she attracted men’s horny looks she also changed her boyfriends. She really had that magic in her.

    Now, without any make-up on, her cat-like round eyes lacked their bright appeal as they drowsily faced the world.

    "Something has to be done… A wake-up dread… Make-up will do it. Nah, I’ll do it later…"

    Rambling through the apartment and talking to herself she finally made her way back to the bed. Its warm and coziness was luring. 

    "Irka sells French high boots… Too big for her… 150 "rah" wants… Screw it, that’s too much… Mom and Dad would hang themselves for that money. Men… Those dudes can’t do better than look for a free drink themselves." She grinned wryly. "Men… My period is late, again… Why me?"

    They were the closest friends since childhood, Irka and she. Then, it was the best time in her life. She recalls them gossiping during the lectures at the school and riding the sleighs through the cold winter vacations.

    Irka loved rich men with their convertibles, and expensive dresses, and fancy restaurants. Unfortunately, all the men she knew were married, and there never was enough money for clothing.

    After the restaurants she had to make love with her manager, a bald, flabby man who pawed her with his hairy arms and then, exhausted, fell dead asleep. His loud snore was intolerable. Disgusted, Irka ran away to another part of the city. She lied to her mother, making up stories about late revisions at the warehouse and trying to keep her from worrying. Of course, her mother blindly believed her every word. She loved her "hard-working" daughter very much.       

     The clocks on the wall struck twelve. Now Verka was late even for the second shift.

    "For the time I get up… For the time the trolley comes…" she was glad she didn’t have to go anywhere today. "Mymra would yell at me, but I don’t give a hoot. She would find her reason anyway. You, Vera, are such an irresponsible person… Sod off, you bitch…"

    There was no chance she could slide unnoticed trough the security guard.

    Verka looked out the window. Over there, at a wasteland across from her house at the beer-stall in a long "ocheredi," people were waiting for their turn. Right at the counter, a labor man in tarpaulin slop and an "ushanka," a Russian-style shapka, was cussing a woman in a thick wool shawl and mutton coat who tried to cut in the line.

    Saucy and loudly, the woman cursed him, fighting back with an empty beer-mug.

    With a sudden jerk, the man swung his arm and struck the woman right in the chest.

    She gasped at the pain, lost her balance and tumbled backwards. Trying to level herself, she awkwardly kneeled. Her coat’s short hemline lifted up, exposing her naked fanny.

    The line exploded with laughter and the hapless woman slunk away.

    "No beer for you today, old toper," Verka shook her head. She spit out the window and let the curtain go. As she stepped back, she almost stumbled over the piano stool.

    "Maestro, please, do us an honor!" Cheered by this unexpected finding, Verka theatrically stretched her fingers and arms ready to play. A cat had been peacefully dozing on top of the piano.

    She struck the chords with two hands.

    "Too high," she realized in a second.

    Dumbfound, the cat jumped to the side, almost knocking down a vase of flowers.

    Verka swore at the cat but it didn’t help. The desire to play was already gone. She turned on the TV. There "Seventeen Instants of Spring," a signature WWII epic movie shown every year, was on.

    "For those who don’t know it by heart," Verka sneered and curled herself comfortably on the coach in front of TV. The cat came back, snuggled by her side, tenderly purring. 

    By the time her mother return from her job, Verka got hungry. The movie was over, and so was another one, and after that the news. She was sitting behind the table, sipping her tea off the saucer, when the front door opened. Her mother took off her shoes and, still in her winter coat and fur hat, dragged the heavy sacks of groceries into the kitchen.

    "Why are you home, my dear? Did you get sick?"

    "Yeah, I am shivering a little since morning." Verka was quick with her answer. "But I will be fine, don’t worry."

     That ’don’t worry’ seemed to satisfy her mother.

    "And why didn’t you do the dishes?" Pointing out to the stack of dirty plates in the sink, the mother asked now.

    "I didn’t have time. I am sick, remember?"

    "So why didn’t you eat anything? You have to eat. Look, how skinny you are."

    "And why, and why, and why…" The questions began getting on her nerves. Verka sighed loudly, stood up and went into her room, expressly slamming the door. She knew that if there were one more question, she would get into an argument with her mother over nothing in particular.

    She felt peaceful but lonely now. I would have to apologize, she thought, later. Verka left the door ajar. She grabbed a book from the bookshelf and return to her coach. It was a bestseller, a detective novel about a cuckold of man and his wife.

    At quarter past six, the front door bell rung. She could see it was her father. He took off his high-rank officer’s "ushanka" and put it on the top shelf, then carefully hung his overcoat and headed into the bathroom. Major Deehv’s movements were strict and thoroughly, just like of any other military man.

    "Why are you not in the college?" Her father scowled.

    "I have a sore throat. Don’t want to make it worse," she lied with easy habit.

    "Watch it, girl. They will throw you out of school." Without saying any more he closed the door behind him.

    Relieved, Verka sighed. After the long day at his office, her father was tired. It looked like she wouldn’t get any lectures today. Her father would go back to his everyday routine: look through the pages of "Krasnaya Zvezda," find out the latest news, latest perturbations and appointments in army and government in general, and would leave her alone.

    "Hey, there, Kohl’" she heard her mother calling him out the kitchen. "Leave the paper. Eat first. Schii are getting cold. There," she scooped the soup. "I put chunks of meat for you. You add some sour cream. Go on, taste it."

    Verka was craving for schii herself but didn’t dare to show out. Occasionally, she peeked out of her room to hear her parents’ conversation better, trying to stay unnoticed.

    Her father reached for the a piece of rye bread, drew the soup plate closer to the edge of the table, scooped out a half-full tablespoon of sour cream, carefully mixed it into the flavored riches schii, caught the thick, blew the heat out of it, and slowly sent the spoon in. 

    "Very good schiitchki you’ve made. Thank you," he smacked his lips, savoring the taste. Indeed, it was his favorite meal. "Why is Verka home?" The tone of his voice changed.

    "Here we go again," Verka thought.

    "She isn’t feeling well," her mother responded. No doubt, she was eager to end this unpleasant conversation, but Major Deehv wouldn’t calm down.

    "I don’t like it at all. I can see she is faking it. Sham illness, that’s what it is. When it’s time to party and hang around till midnight, she is on. When it’s time to go to school, she is ill. Others at her age already have family, kids, and career. Look at Irka Lebedeva. She had already graduated the institute and does auditing now."

    "Irka! She is a slut!" Her mother pounced on him. "She brags to Vera that her dudes drive her in "Jiguli" and take her to the restaurants. And where, let me ask you, does their money come from?"

    "Well, well, slow down, woman. Who knows what your own daughter is doing?" He pushed the soup plate away. "Did you see her hairy friends at the birthday party? How those sleeve-slickers drunk vodka? Did you see when they went to dance? Not a jot how to tango, not a hint how to do a foxtrot walk. Damned slackers! Paralytics! I bet they can’t even do more than three pull-ups! Take my word, they would sell the Motherland for the raggery without any second thought." He went on and on.

    "Remember," her father was saying, bursting with outrage, "when we came back from vacation, the kitchen was strewn with empty bottles? And how we had to winkle out cigarette butts from the flowerpots? And you know what? I found a condom in my dress-coat! Luckily, there was nobody around to see Major’s Deehv shame…"

    "Yes, he is right," Verka recalled. They’d had a great time then. And yes, she had to take care about those suckers. She had to be more careful.

    "Tell me," her father was saying, "what’s wrong with our daughter? She isn’t dummy, not a freak. Haven’t we taught her piano? Haven’t we hired the English-language tutor to her? All that in vain. Bad egg &45; that’s what she is."

    In the threatening silence that hung over the room Verka wanted to cry out.

     "I am not a dummy! Not a bad egg! I am just…" She couldn’t find the right word. After all, who would listen to her? Not her father.

    Verka turned over the book page she was reading. The hero’s wife was flirting with a bartender while her husband was watching her. It was written masterfully, felt almost real, and that was that counted to Verka now.