Ninety-One

Time moves on. In the staff room, teachers whisper that “the regime will change soon”; in the cafeteria, sugar has vanished — now there’s only honey from the school apiary; kids pass around Nautilus cassettes, and the teachers pretend not to notice. The performance happens on January 22. Real, alive, screaming that it refuses to be “demolished.” The auditorium smells of paint and children’s sweat. Maria Genrikhovna sits in the very back row, as if ashamed of being there at all. On stage, it’s not The Seagull — but something strange: Chekhov filtered through teenage rebellion. Nina Zarechnaya in a leather jacket, Treplev with a guitar. And Tanya — not as a director, but as a living part of this chaos. Her voice rings with both fury and tenderness. Maria suddenly realizes she’s forgotten how to breathe. When the curtain falls, she doesn’t clap — just sits there, gripping her old velvet purse, the one her mother gave her, the one she carries like a talisman. Backstage, the kids are children again, and Tanya is just Tanya — but her gaze is different. Resigned. Or perhaps the calm before the storm. The students scatter, grabbing lollipops Tanya pulled through “connections.” Maria waits until the hall is completely empty. Tanya is wiping off her makeup when she sees her. “You… came.” Her voice wavers — not with mockery, but with something else. Maria stands in the wings, as if afraid to cross an invisible line. For the first time in three years, she sees Tanya’s hands without their usual rings, the skin beneath the stage makeup — pale, almost translucent. “You were…” Maria searches for a word, but only one keeps circling in her mind: beautiful. “Brilliant.” An awkward silence hangs between them. Tanya doesn’t joke. Doesn’t hide behind a mask. Just looks and Maria suddenly sees not the brash upstart, but a woman with frayed nerves and shadows under her eyes. Just as exhausted. “Thank you,” the girl whispers, and it sounds less like gratitude and more like “Help me.” Maria doesn’t think. She simply steps forward and brushes her fingertips against Tanya’s wrist — right where the pulse beats too fast. Lighter than a snowflake. But Tanya’s eyes flare as if burned. “Tomorrow. After classes.” Maria leaves without explaining what “tomorrow” means. Without daring to look back. By January 25, Kaluga is cracking at the seams — just like the rest of the country. Bread lines stretch for blocks. Store shelves are empty — only cans labeled “Beef. 1989” remain. On TV, it’s Gorbachev, then Yeltsin, then static. The radio repeats the same phrase: “The country is experiencing temporary difficulties…” A rally gathers outside the regional Party committee — someone shouts about “democracy,” someone else about “order.” Not far off, a fight erupts. A drunk man bellows, “ALL THESE DEMOCRATS AGAINST THE WALL!” Maria Genrikhovna watches it all from the school window. Tanya stands too close — closer than propriety allows. Maria feels her breath on her neck — warm, laced with cheap coffee. “Do you feel it too? How everything’s falling apart?” Tanya asks suddenly. “I don’t…” Maria’s finger catches on the edge of Tanya’s sweater — for just a second, as if by accident. “You’re lying.” And Tanya walks away, leaving nothing behind but the scent of cheap perfume, cigarettes, and suffocating silence. On the fateful morning of February 1, the order arrives at school: “In order to optimize expenditures, funding for extracurricular clubs not aligned with the academic curriculum is hereby terminated.” The headmaster goes pale, gasping for air. “It’s over. Parents will riot…” Maria interrupts. “What if we refuse?” Andrey Mikhaylovich is speechless. Maria herself doesn’t understand why she said it. “Excuse me?” “We can’t. The children…” “What children?!” the headmaster slams his palm on the desk. “Have you seen what’s going on in the streets? We’re lucky if we don’t disappear ourselves!” On the evening of February 5, in the empty school, the vice-principal and the drama teacher meet in the auditorium. Maria hadn’t planned to go there — but her feet carried her anyway. Tanya is alone, rehearsing Nina Zarechnaya’s monologue. Her voice breaks — not from nerves, but from despair. She knows: tomorrow, the club shuts down. Tomorrow, it all ends. “I’m a seagull… No, wait…” she croaks, as if she’s been crying — or chain-smoking. Maybe both. But at the sound of heels clicking on the floor, she whips around. Her eyes don’t show surprise — only something like Finally. Their gazes lock. “You came.” “Yes.” Maria’s steps are dull, as if walking along the edge of a cliff. “Why?” Tanya doesn’t move, but her hands tremble. Maria doesn’t answer — just stares, unflinching. And Tanya snaps first. She crashes her lips against Maria’s. The kiss isn’t tender, isn’t romantic. It’s raw. Starving. She clings to Maria like a drowning woman grasping at a straw. Her lips are chapped, tasting of cigarettes and cheap lip balm. Her hands dig into Maria’s shoulders, nails biting through the fabric of her jacket. She doesn’t pull away — not until she feels a response. Instead, she pushes harder, desperate. Maria doesn’t kiss back — but she doesn’t push her away either. One second. Two. Then — rupture. Maria’s body jerks as if electrocuted. She shoves Tanya away, stumbles back a few steps, knocking over an innocent chair. “What… what was that?!” Her voice is hoarse, nearly a whisper. Tanya doesn’t apologize. She stands there, breathing heavily. Her eyes burn. “The truth.” “What truth?” “You wanted it.” Maria goes so pale she could blend into the chalk dust on the blackboard. “This… this is filth.” Tanya laughs — sharp, rough. “Yes. Filth. Like everything else around us.” The older woman’s frightened look slowly hardens. Unable to say a word, she turns and nearly flees the hall on her heels — the very place that will now haunt her nightmares. Tanya remains alone, staring out the dark window, smoking, thinking. Maria lies in bed, wide awake. Tanya’s shadow plays behind her eyelids — her lips, her hands, her voice. She wants to erase it. Arayik enters the bedroom. Drunk — not falling-down drunk, but enough that she can smell it from three meters away. He drops his robe on the floor and sits heavily on the bed. “Well, Mary, the party’s over. Time to come to your senses.” He doesn’t ask. Just places a heavy hand on her thigh. His fingers dig into her skin — not caressing, but claiming. Maria doesn’t resist. Arayik doesn’t undress her fully — just yanks down her underwear and hikes her nightgown up to her chest. His belly is sagging, sweaty, sticking to her hip. Fine. Let him do it. Let him beat her out of me. She squeezes her eyes shut as he collapses on top of her, crushing her ribs, stealing her breath. His knee forces her legs apart — too wide, too rough. Sex is rare now — always harsh, always quick, never with foreplay. Arayik doesn’t kiss her. Just breathes heavily, wetly into her neck, reeking of cognac and sweat. His thrusts are fast, dry. Maria lies motionless on her back — a sack of bones. Only her fists are clenched. The blanket has slipped to the floor; she doesn’t bother to pull it up. Inside, she’s dry, aching — but she doesn’t ask him to stop. Yes. Harder. Make me forget… But the deeper he goes, the clearer Tanya appears in her mind: her thin, nervous fingers gripping her; her chapped but warm lips; that scent — cigarettes, cheap cologne, something Arayik never had and never would. No. This is filth. This is sin. Yet her body betrays her. At one point, she arches involuntarily — not for him, but for the memory. Arayik notices. He stops, lifts himself slightly, and looks at her with a smirk. “Did you fall in love or something?” “What do you mean?” “I don’t know — you’ve been so dreamy lately. Last night in your sleep, you said… a name.” Maria feels an icy chill flood her limbs. “What name?” “Couldn’t make it out. But you moaned… differently.” He laughs, but his eyes are sharp — like an interrogator’s. Then he continues, even rougher, as if punishing her. After he comes, he flops onto the bed, lights a cigarette, and stubs it out in the ashtray. “Well, Mary — how was it?” he rasps, turning away. Maria feels like trash. A raw, burning ache inside — like sandpaper scraping her insides. Sticky semen coats her inner thighs — he didn’t even wipe her. A metallic taste fills her mouth; she’s bitten her cheek bloody without noticing. She doesn’t answer. Just gets up, feeling warmth trickle down her leg. She goes to the bathroom. Washes her hands — over and over, until they’re red. Washes off his semen — water icy, but she doesn’t adjust the tap. Scrubs her lips — as if trying to erase both him and her. In the mirror — just an empty face. But when she closes her eyes, she sees it. Tanya. The one smeared with her own lipstick, lashes trembling. Damn it… When she returns to the bedroom, Arayik is already snoring. A wet stain darkens the sheet. She lies down on the very edge of the bed, careful not to touch him. Outside the window — silence. As if nothing had happened. On February 10, Tanya leaves a note in Maria’s journal: “Today. 7 p.m. Auditorium. If you don’t come — I’ll understand.” The vice-principal burns it in the ashtray. Her lips begin to tremble. Her fingers drift unconsciously to her mouth. She remembers the kiss — demanding, desperate. The sensations she missed that night, buried under fear. And suddenly, she wants… to feel them again.