Ninety-One

On December 31, Maria Genrikhovna spent the day buried in the tedious grading of notebooks and drafting the schedule for the new quarter. Her red pen left marks on the pages like bruises — as if with every correction, she carved a piece out of herself. Outside the window, snowflakes clumped into wet lumps. Arayik sat in the living room with his brother, drinking Armenian cognac; their voices boomed through the wall: “How’s your ‘Iron Lady’ holding up? Hasn’t cracked yet?” Her husband laughed. Maria jabbed her pen into the notebook, piercing the paper. She suddenly pictured Sirina — surely drinking champagne with her theater vagabonds right now, laughing with her head thrown back… And for some reason, it stirred in her not anger, but a dull, gnawing envy. From the kitchen came the smell of baked potatoes with chicken drumsticks — no Olivier salad this year; there hadn’t been enough sausage. Maria had snapped then, raising the perfectly reasonable question of why such a “successful” husband couldn’t just walk to the nearest store. Her mother-in-law, however, stepped in with unmistakable passive aggression, taking all holiday preparations onto her own shoulders. At midnight, Maria didn’t even go out to watch the TV broadcast. She lay in bed, fists clenched under the blanket. “Why am I here?” she asked the ceiling. The ceiling said nothing. But from the kitchen, her mother-in-law’s voice carried: “Ungrateful Mariam. My son brings her gold, and she can’t even set a proper table.” The radio played Goluboy Ogonyok, but cheerful songs were punctuated by anxious bulletins: “…a state of emergency has been declared in Lithuania…” Maria switched it off. She wasn’t in the mood for politics—but later, her husband tossed into conversation with his brother, “Our guys’ll sort it out over there.” She didn’t ask who “our guys” were. Maria closed her eyes. Childhood photos floated into her mind — Anton in his Pioneer scarf, Liza holding her first perfect grade… Now those memories smelled of Moscow, of Krasnaya Moskva perfume — the very kind she’d once bought them. “Tickets are expensive,” they’d said. Maria knew the truth: they were ashamed of this house. Ashamed of her. Tatyana Viktorovna rang in the New Year with her ex-husband and his new girlfriend. “So it wouldn’t be boring,” she explained, pouring herself a third shot. Yegor wrapped an arm around the girl’s waist, and Tanya pretended not to notice. She shouted “Hooray!” louder than anyone, kissed them both on the cheeks — then suddenly went quiet, staring into her glass of sparkling champagne. “What’s wrong?” Yegor patted her shoulder. “Oh, nothing… Just remembered how we used to sit in the dorm kitchen, drinking vodka from tumblers…” “So?” “So nothing. It’s just — now you have everything. And I have… this.” She waved her hand around: cheap party poppers, half-eaten salad, someone else’s laughter. Closer to morning, she left, leaving her glass unfinished. Outside, it was silent — only the snow crunched underfoot. Tanya suddenly imagined Maria Genrikhovna sitting in her perfect house with her perfect family… And again, it sparked not anger, but that same dull, aching envy. A notice hung at the neighborhood store: “Sugar — by ration coupons only.” Tanya snorted, lighting a cigarette on the porch. “At least they haven’t banned vodka yet.” Beside her, a man dead drunk muttered into his coat: “It’s all over…” She flicked her cigarette butt at his feet. “Happy New Year, compatriot.” On January 9, the children returned to school buzzing — with someone’s new winter boots bought “under the counter,” with stories about how “everything’s so expensive in Moscow.” Maria Genrikhovna was stricter than usual: she scolded girls for mascara, made an eighth-grader throw away his Stimorol gum — “What bourgeois habits are these!?” — forced a fifth-grader to mop the hallway after himself, and even snapped at the janitor for “failing to maintain order.” Tanya, meanwhile, hadn’t changed at all: she handed out candies “to celebrate the New Year.” “Vitya, why so glum?” Tanya offered the boy a lollipop. “My dad came home yesterday. Said they haven’t paid salaries in six months. The factory’s shut down…” Tanya squeezed his shoulder, but her eyes drifted to the window, where Maria Genrikhovna was checking attendance logs. Please, just don’t let them close the school, flashed through her mind. She hopped onto the windowsill and called down the corridor: “Hey, folks! Who’s up for a snowball fight?” Maria saw it from her office window — but didn’t go out to reprimand her. The headmaster looks too pale today, Maria noted, signing the payroll sheet. Andrey Mikhaylovich was whispering with the facilities manager: “They say the district’s slashing funding…” The vice-principal dropped her papers sharply. If the school closes—what then? Her husband would say, “Stay home.” But Tanya… Where would Tanya go? On January 13, Maria stayed late into the evening. The report to the district office could wait until tomorrow — but she didn’t want to go home. She passed the pioneer fresco in the hallway — only tattered scraps remained. Someone had scratched into the wall: “USSR — corpse.” She quickly looked away, but the phrase burrowed into her mind. As she walked past the auditorium, she heard a quiet sound — not music, not laughter, but something like muffled sobs. She stepped inside. Tanya sat on the edge of the stage, hunched over like a beaten dog. In her hands, a crumpled script. “Final performance,” the girl thought, staring at the playbill she’d drawn all last night. Her hand trembled. What if this really is the last one? She abruptly crumpled the draft. No. She wouldn’t let this collapsing world take everything from her. A thin streak glistened on her cheek — but she wiped it quickly with her sleeve when she saw the vice-principal. “What are you doing here?” Maria asked, her voice lacking its usual sharpness. It sounded strange — almost gentle. “Rehearsing.” Tanya’s voice was hoarse. She forced a smile at once, but her eyes stayed wet. “And you? Spying?” Maria doesn’t leave. She suddenly realizes she’s seeing Tanya’s vulnerability for the first time —and it frightens her more than all their past arguments. “Do you… need something?” she asks cautiously, as if afraid to crush a fragile truce. “You got what you wanted.” Tanya’s voice is low, strained. “Yesterday at the faculty meeting, the headmaster said he’s raising the issue of closure. In February.” She grips the paper so hard her knuckles turn white. Maria says nothing. “What do you care?” Tanya suddenly stands up. “You don’t care at all! You’ve spent three years…”— she pauses —“…dreaming of this!” “I didn’t know it meant so much to you…” “So much?” A nervous laugh escapes her. “The only thing I have left? Please. You’ve always hated everything I do.” Silence. Maria unexpectedly sits down on a chair right by the stage. “I did ballet. Until I was seventeen.” Tanya freezes. “My father thought it was foolishness. He married me off — my husband said a ‘dancing wife’ brought him shame.” Outside, snow was falling — white, pure, but already tinged with gray. Like a shroud cast over the city. “I don’t hate your club.” Maria speaks so quietly that Tanya has to lean in to hear. “I…” A door slams loudly in the corridor. Both women flinch. Tanya is the first to look away. “I have to go.” She walks toward the exit on stiff legs, then turns at the last moment. “Thank you. For telling me that.” She leaves, leaving the crumpled script on the floor. Maria doesn’t answer. She just clenches her hands on her knees, feeling her palms grow damp. When the door clicks shut, she suddenly realizes: over these three years of hatred, she’s memorized every one of Tanya’s habits — the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when nervous, how she bites her lower lip to hold back laughter, the scent of her cheap cologne — laced with tobacco and something spicy, like cinnamon. “Damn it.” Maria stands abruptly, as if trying to shake off the thoughts. But when she picks up the crumpled script, her fingers instinctively drift to the spot where Tanya’s hand had rested. From the next day on, Tanya stops joking around Maria, and the vice-principal stops making discipline remarks during rehearsals. The kids whisper to each other, genuinely puzzled by the sudden shift. On January 20, Maria finds an envelope in her desk drawer: “The Seagull. Final Performance. For One Spectator.” The envelope feels warm — as if someone had held it in their hands for a long time. Without thinking, Maria brings it to her nose. It smells of printer’s ink… and that same cologne. She closes her eyes. Why does this matter so much? Why did she even remember that scent? She stares at the words for a long time, then slowly — almost fearfully — runs a finger along the edge of the envelope. In her mind, she hears Tanya’s voice: “You’ve always hated everything I do.” And then Maria understands: more than anything in the world, she’s afraid of this performance. Because after it, their war might truly be over. No more foolish arguments, no more sideways glances… No more her. She slips the envelope into her bag. I should see what they’ve come up with, she thinks. But inside, something tightens — the same way it did in childhood, right before stepping onto the stage. Her chest gives a little lurch at the thought of Tanya walking into the spotlight… and looking straight at her from the stage.