After dropping his mistress from the car, Buchin tenderly said goodbye to her and drove home. He paused by the entrance for a moment, mentally weighing everything he would say to his wife. Then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door.
“Hi,” Buchin said. “Vera, are you home?”
“Home,” his wife replied in a phlegmatic tone. “Hi. So, are we going to fry some escalope?”
Buchin resolved to act immediately—confidently, sharply, like a real man! To put an end to his double life before his mistress’s kisses cooled on his lips and before he was sucked back into the mire of ordinary life.
“Vera,” Buchin cleared his throat. “I’m here to tell you… that we need to break up.”
Vera received the news with remarkable calm. It was generally difficult for Buchin to unsettle Vera. Once, Buchin had even teased her by calling her “Cold Vera.”
“So what?” Vera asked at the kitchen doorway. “Does that mean I won’t fry the escalope?”
“It’s up to you,” Buchin said. “Fry it if you want to, don’t if you don’t. I’m leaving for another woman.”
After such a declaration, most wives would pounce on their husbands with a frying pan in hand or put on a furious scene. But Vera was not like most.
“Well, what a load of nonsense,” she said. “Did you bring my boots from the repair shop?”
“No,” Buchin stammered. “If it matters so much to you, I’ll go to the workshop right now and get them!”
“Oh-ho-ho…” Vera grumbled. “That’s just like you, Buchin. Send a fool for boots—and he brings the old ones.”
Buchin was offended. It seemed to him that his explanation for ending their marriage was going awry. It lacked emotion, passion, angry denunciations! Though what else could one expect from his wooden wife, nicknamed Cold Vera?
“I feel like, Vera, you’re not listening to me!” said Buchin. “I’m officially declaring that I’m leaving for another woman—I’m abandoning you, and you’re talking about some boots!”
“Right,” said Vera. “Unlike you, I can leave anywhere. Your boots aren’t in the repair shop. Why not just wear them?”
They had lived together for a long time, yet Buchin still couldn’t tell when his wife was being ironic and when she was serious. He had fallen for Vera because of her even temperament, her non-confrontational nature, and her brevity. Plus, Vera’s resourcefulness and her firm, attractive curves had played a significant role.
Vera was reliable, loyal, and as cool as a thirty-ton ship’s anchor. But now, Buchin loved another. He loved her passionately, sinfully, and sweetly! Therefore, he needed to dot the i’s and cross the t’s and pack up his fishing rods for a new life.
“And so, Vera,” Buchin said with a note of solemnity, sorrow, and regret, “I am grateful to you for everything, but I’m leaving because I love another woman. And I don’t love you.”
“Unbelievable,” said Vera. “He doesn’t love me, you half-wit! For instance, my mother loved the neighbor, and my father loved dominoes and vodka. And look at me—how wonderful I turned out.”
Buchin knew that arguing with Vera was extremely difficult. Every word from her carried weight. All his initial fervor had evaporated; he no longer felt like putting on a scandal.
“Vera, you really are wonderful,” Buchin said sardonically. “But I love another. I love her passionately, sinfully, and sweetly. And I intend to leave for her, you understand?”
“Another? Who might that be?” his wife asked. “Natashka Krapivina, perhaps?”
Buchin recoiled. A year ago, he indeed had a secret affair with Krapivina, but he hadn’t even considered that Vera might know her!
“And how did you come by her?” he began, then hesitated. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. No, Vera, I’m not talking about Krapivina.”
Vera yawned.
“Then perhaps Svetlana Burbulyovskaya? Is that who you’re thinking of?”
A chill ran down Buchin’s spine. Burbulyovskaya had also been his mistress, but that was in the past. And if Vera knew, why had she kept silent? Oh yes, she was as hard as stone; you couldn’t get a word out of her.
“You didn’t guess correctly,” Buchin said. “Not Burbulyovskaya, and not Krapivina. It’s someone completely different—a delightful woman, the pinnacle of my dreams. I cannot live without her, and I intend to leave for her. And don’t try to dissuade me!”
“That most likely must be Maika,” his wife said. “Oh, Buchin-Buchin… you really are a cracked-out organic creature. You’re a complete open secret to me. The pinnacle of your dreams is Maya Valentinovna Gusyayeva. Thirty-five years old, one child, two abortions… Right?”
Buchin grabbed his head. The remark hit the mark! He was indeed having an affair with Maya Gusyayeva.
“But how?” stuttered Buchin. “Who spilled the beans? Were you spying on me or something?”
“Elementary, Buchin,” said Vera. “My dear, I am an experienced gynecologist. I examined all the women in this damn city while you were just a small part of them. I only had to take a quick look in the right place to understand that you were there, you pea-brained fool!”
Buchin clenched his fist. “Suppose you guessed correctly!” he said matter-of-factly. “Even if it’s Gusyayeva, it doesn’t change anything—I’m leaving for her.”
“You silly, Buchin,” said Vera. “At least out of curiosity, you should have asked me! By the way, nothing remarkable has been noticed in Gusyayeva; she’s like all the other women, as I, a doctor, can tell you. And have you seen the medical history of your pinnacle of dreams?”
“N-no…” he admitted.
“Exactly! First, go take a shower immediately. Second, tomorrow I’ll call Semyonych so he can get you into the dispensary without delay,” said Vera. “And then we’ll talk. It’s a disgrace: the husband of a gynecologist can’t even find himself a healthy woman!”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Buchin asked plaintively.
“I’m off to fry escalope,” said Vera. “You go wash up and do whatever you want. If you want the pinnacle of dreams without any health issues—just let me know, and I’ll give you a recommendation…”