Past imperfect

Upon hearing Lera's confused objections, Marat threatened to ensure her compliance by force if necessary. Specifically, by immobilizing her with swaddling. He vowed to bring immediately his entire brood of brothers to protect his beloved colleague, one brother for guarding each of Lera’s limbs. At this point, Lera babbled even more desperate. When Marat, stern faced, reached for the phone to call for help, Lera realized it was pointless to resist. She gave in with a sigh. Marat smiled with satisfaction looking at Lera with his hazel eyes and put the phone down.

Ten minutes later, Lera realized that walking home with a tall, broad-shouldered, athletic guy supporting her gallantly on the icy sidewalk was much more enjoyable, calmer, and safer than hobbling home alone. Marat smiled and joked, but his bright tiger-coloured eyes carefully scanned the street from under his hair that fell on his forehead. Looking at him, Lera felt cheerful, and smiled. She hadn't realised until that evening how much she had been putting her head down and hurrying to and from work.

The evening passed much more calmly for Lera than usual. Now the girl looked at the two packages of pills on the table in the hallway with hatred, and then still shoved them in her bag, along with the prescriptions.

Strong sedatives. Those that needed to be taken daily and those that were only needed in cases of breakdowns. She hated the sight, taste and smell of them. Lera shuddered each time at the clicking of the foil as she removed the pills.

Only half an hour ago, she had coped with nervous nausea that came every time she took these damned pills. Her therapist said that it happened to her because she had not yet accepted her illness, or come to terms with the fact that taking the drugs was a continual and strict necessity

Yes, she had not come to terms with it. She still did not accept it! Lera still didn’t believe that she was ill, even though everyone tried to convince her that she was mad. She was tired of proving her point to everyone and would just look like a monster when someone tried to have a heart-to-heart talk with her.

It felt like she was drowning in fear but still didn't fully believe in her disease. She still didn’t, although no one else seemed to notice the things she told her mother and doctor about. No one listened to her. Sometimes she was tormented by doubt and had a pathetic tantrum. Especially after her periodic visits to the therapist, a kindly fellow looking like Santa who, with warmth in his voice, urged her to devote herself fully to the treatment.

In a few days everything would pass and she would find her inner strength again. Despite that, she took the pills because they helped her cope with persistent anxiety and fears. Lera was alone. Surrounded by all these therapists and relatives, these liars with caring faces, she was still alone. Alone, resisting them all and resisting her fear. Face to face with her terror.

Every time she felt nervous, they dragged her to the doctor again, and Lera had learned to hide her emotions behind a stone mask. She had learned to control her breathing, to calm the trembling in her hands by sheer willpower. This had worked. Visits to the doctor had been reduced to a minimum. However, it was all a lie, because the things that scared her had not disappeared.

Lera shook her head and said, "Don't think about it!" No thoughts of illness today! She was going to Rome and wanted to enjoy her vacation. Oh, beautiful Rome! With these thoughts Lera spun around in the hallway, almost tripping over a suitcase that was lying by the door.

Almost packed, it had stood in the most prominent spot for a week, with its wide mouth agape as if with anticipation, it seemed to be waiting for Lera. All this time Lera had been seized by the very mood that appears when the tickets are playfully sticking out of the passport, and the vacation date is getting closer. In a fit of fashion excitement, she packed her suitcase several times, she put clothes in it and then picked at and reviewed everything inside, selecting carefully what to wear for the trip.

Just think! A vacation! A real vacation with travel, and not for work. No more meetings that made her brain burn and required long stretches of sleep to recover. No more business trips where she has to talk so much that she is silent for days afterwards.

She will relax and enjoy walks around the ancient city, exploring monuments and eating real pizza. On Lera's left shoulder, the devil danced and provocatively tugged her earlobe, urging her to perform mischief.

In her excess of emotions, she danced toward the piano and played Rachmaninoff's Italian Polka fluently, missed the key in the second phrase, giggled and tapped on the keys, "So fate knocks at the door."

The upcoming trip was even more pleasant because it was, honestly, personally paid for with money that Lera had honestly earned. Here you are, all of you who discouraged me from going on a linguistic university, she thought! You can earn money on "chat," as her relatives disparagingly called her profession! For renting a great apartment where Lera is dancing now, and for the vacation.

The coveted ticket didn't want to fit entirely into the tiny purse, showing Lera its tongue, forcing the girl to smile more widely. Lera winks back at it. In the last few minutes before leaving, she went through a list of things she might need during the trip.

However, it's a stupid idea! Lera knew that as soon as she drove far enough away, it would be too late to return, she would definitely remember something absolutely essential, especially left in the most visible place and forgotten in her apartment.

A loud bell rang in Lera's ear and the girl almost lost her balance while dancing. Looking through the peephole, she recognized Kostya, Irina Konstantinovna's driver. Kostya, who was always gloomy and serious, stood on the stairwell, with his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor. Lera quickly clicked the lock and smiled at the guy joyfully. Nothing could upset her that morning. Except for the damn pills.

At the sight of Lera, who seemed radiant, Kostya even smiled a little, but quickly returned to his usual cloudy expression. Glancing around the hallway, he reached for Lera’s suitcase.

"Valeria Sergeevna, I’ll help. Are you ready?" he asked softly.

Lera suddenly realized that she had never heard his voice before, and it sounded as if Kostya himself could hardly remember how to use it.

“Of course! And just call me Lera, okay?” Lera picked up her down jacket and purse and gave Kostya a bright smile again.

“Okay” Kostya muttered a little more softly and, with one hand, easily picked up the suitcase that Lera was pushing into the hallway with considerable effort.

Lera flew down the stairs as if on wings. Everything seemed beautiful to her. Kostya was not disgustingly gloomy, but mysteriously stern. It was not beasty cold outside, but Pushkin's creaking frost. And they were not going to get stuck in traffic on their way to the airport, but beginning a magical journey. Overall, Lera felt as though she was barely touching the ground with her stiletto boots.

“Lera, get in. I'll put your suitcase in the boot.”

Lera nodded, so that her red curls flew up and whipped her face. She laughed happily and galloped to Irina Konstantinovna's expensive SUV's passenger door, but hesitated. It was difficult for her to climb such a height without outside help. Kostya was forced to push her up with a light laugh. The SUV drove smoothly, and Lera pressed her nose against the window.

As Kostia promised, they spent a long time suffering in traffic jams stretching far south of Moscow. But it didn't bother Lera at all. The car was incredibly comfortable and the driver finally gave up under a hail of Lera’s questions and joined the conversation.

At the airport, Lera removed her warm jacket with great pleasure and put on a lighter coat. In Rome, it was a pleasant autumn temperature of fifty-four degrees. An ice apocalypse for the aborigines and a trifle for a native Muscovite.

After annoying checks, removal of shoes, numerous metal detector frames, and passport control, the girl was finally allowed onto the plane. Lera had flown a lot for work, in particular to Rome, but she had never done so for her own pleasure before. Admittedly, this greatly brightened the more than five-hour flight and added flavour to the disgusting airline food and no less disgusting tea.

Five hours later, the city finally appeared through the porthole. The small brownish-beige houses arranged in almost regular rows along the valley for some reason reminded Lera of diced fudge sold in a shop near her home. The standard announcement came from the speaker:

"Signori e signori, per favore prendete i vostri posti e allaccate le cinture. Arriviamo all'aeroporto di Fiumicino – Leonardo Da Vinci. Grazie."

Lera looked impatiently at the seaside town over which the plane was circling. After successfully overcoming all those usual "Buona Sera! Qual è lo scopo della sua visita in Italia?" she, with her huge suitcase, finally boarded the Leonardo da Vinci Express, which would take her to the centre of Rome in half an hour.

Everything seemed unreal to Lera. The people around her were chatting loudly in Italian, smiling unusually frequently and gesturing a lot. This relaxed, cheerful crowd, so different from the gloomy Muscovites, finally made Lera feel like she was far from home. All the surroundings were a bit unfamiliar. Everyone was new. Absolutely nothing reminded her of her usual life. It was relaxing.

It was like Lera was escaping from something and had finally managed to break free. With each new mile, some invisible tension left the girl and a faint smile appeared on her face. She didn't even realise how she straightened her back and stood up straighter.

Getting to Testaccio, where Lera had booked a room, was not difficult. However, during the journey, Lera said goodbye several times to her life, while a taxi driver, who was crazy like all Roman drivers, rushed her through the streets of an ancient city with screaming tyres and illegal U-turns.

Most of all, Lera was worried about the fact that, for most of the way, the taxi driver was sitting facing her, constantly waving his right hand and lisping "Che bella ragazza!" in all possible variants at her. So, Lera herself was the only person in the car looking at the road.

Only when Lera's eyes became ideally round with horror, did the driver reluctantly turn right ahead to jerk the steering wheel, wave his hand through the open window, and yell, "Chi ti ha insegnato a guidare?!". Then everything repeated. Lera was more than ever glad Rome was half the size of Moscow. Her nerves could not handle a longer trip.

Rome welcomed her with warmth. Lera giggled at local dwellers wrapped in down jackets. A light coat was enough for herself. Passers-by looked on at her in disbelief, like saying, these turisti were completely mad if they could walk around naked in such frosty weather.

Lera entered the hotel with a serious face of russa turista, but as soon as the girl tipped the porter and closed the door, all assumed seriousness flew off her. Lera ran forward with a girlish squeal and jumped into bed to bury herself in pillows and blankets, stifling laughter. Tired of freaking out, she went to the window and opened it wide. She leaned over the broad sill and inhaled fresh air of freedom with all her chest.

The room overlooked the Tiber technically, but the view was obscured by trees that grew thickly along the embankment. The river burned with fiery flashes in the setting sun's rays, sending fervent sunbeams through the leafless crowns.

Lera, without undressing, rushed back into the hallway to jump into high-heeled boots and run outside. The muddy Tiber, clad in stone, was slowly rolling south towards the sea, where Lera's plane had landed. The girl leaned against the stone parapet and looked at the river for a long time. That night, she slept peacefully, like in her childhood. Everything was fine.

The next morning, Lera got up nearly before sunrise and hurried out. Yesterday, during her extreme taxi ride, the girl realised that the ten days she had left were too short to see everything. So she would have to rush.

Even the damned morning ritual of taking pills did not cause her usual desire to turn her stomach inside out this time. This time, Lera put on comfortable sneakers and went out in search of new experiences.

It was the thirty-first of December. This was almost an ordinary day in Italy. The Christmas holidays were over, but the city was not in a hurry to get rid of the festive decorations. Decorated Christmas trees were everywhere, and tipsy tourists wearing cheap Santa hats walked the streets.

At first glance, it seemed unclear whether they had crawled out of their hiding places and started having fun or whether they hadn't yet managed to return home to their hibernation spots to get themselves sober. It was a peaceful sight! Lera enjoyed this festive atmosphere, breathing it in, drinking it up.

By the end of the day, Lera had trampled Capitol Hill and wanted to rest her aching legs and pamper yourself in honour of the upcoming New Year holiday. At random she went to the first restaurant in Sant'Angelo she spotted hoping for nothing – the very centre of Rome on New Year's Eve.

Imagine Lera's surprise when il cameriere pointed out a tiny empty table in the corner. That table was large enough only for a glass and a little saucer to place it on, but Lera didn't need more.

It was warm in the restaurant and there were delicious smells of a food from the kitchen and pine needles from wreaths hanging on the walls. Lera squinted like a cat who got warm and lazily watched passers-by hurrying home for the holiday outside the window.

She ordered a spumante and a cake with a huge cap of air cream. On top of the cream was a tiny hemisphere of reddish jelly – the pulp of the prickly pear fruit, frico d'India. A dessert spoon glittered on a beautifully folded napkin, and, looking at it, Lera felt a devil jumping on her left shoulder. The imp tugged at her ear demandingly and smiled toothily.

Lera looked around furtively, made sure no one was watching her, bent down and took the fruit pulp with her lips with inexpressible pleasure. Her face was smeared with cream, which had to be licked off for a long time with giggles. After making sure no one paid attention to her hooliganism, she drank half a glass of wine in one go.

The bubbles instantly hit her nose, and a minute later they passed through an absolutely empty stomach and reached her very heart, warming it. The imp on her left shoulder straightened up, swayed drunkenly, looked around and rubbed his hands in anticipation.

Lera looked after him. Instantly got tipsy, she was eager to continue her hooliganism. Looking around the small room, she saw a beautiful polished minion standing in the corner. She stretched her fingers to check if they were warm enough and, with confidence fuelled by the spumante flowing through her veins, began to make her way towards the instrument.

****

Marco was sitting in a restaurant, slowly sipping wine from a glass. He didn't feel like eating or going home. The only thing waiting for him at home was a mess made by Marco himself that no one would clean up during the Christmas weekend.

He and Paola separated almost two months ago and for some reason, the loneliness was especially acute today. He didn’t want to see Paola, their relationship had outlived its usefulness and ended surprisingly quietly. When they broke up, they both felt nothing but relief. Marco didn’t actually know what he wanted.

The couples and groups around him were annoying. Everyone was wearing red for the New Year, they were celebrating, laughing and taking pictures. Marco sat alone, twirling his glass with his fingertips. Not even the wonderful smells from the kitchen tempted him.

All Marco's muscles were aching frantically – today Giorgio had tormented him with special frenzy. At the end of training, Marco cursed the author who had invented the fighting scenes in the book, the screenwriters who had brought these scenes to the forefront, and himself for getting involved in this adventure.

The director was delighted with Marco's acting, but his fighting skills were not up to scratch. Well, Marco had never fought! He preferred noble ways to sort things out, and he loved team sports rather than this scuffle.

Unfortunately, it was very obvious on the screen. Marco confessed that his attempts to hit the face of an imaginary opponent were pathetic. However, Marco Guerriero did not shy away from difficulties! And for six months, Giorgio the mixed fight trainer had been bullying him at the gym.

Today, the trainer was particularly merciless. He seemed to be trying to inflict bruises on Marco for the future so that he would have enough for the weekend. Marco's ass, which was beaten off the floor, ached disgustingly, and Marco himself whined in unison with it. Both of them, Marco and his ass, hid their pain behind a mask of severe tension, like real men.

Tomorrow was supposed to be a day off, but Marco couldn't let go of the feeling that no one would let him relax. And it was even more infuriating. On New Year's Eve, Marco was supposed to celebrate and have fun, but he was in no mood at all.

The door of the restaurant opened and a girl fluttered into the hall. She was a tall, curly–haired redhead wearing a light coat. However, the coat quickly explained itself – the girl spoke to the waiter and Marco heard an interesting accent. A northern tourist. "I hate tourists!" thought Marco and starred at his drink. The girl went to a table in the corner, opposite Marco, and began looking around with her big eyes.

Marco wasn't sure why he was staring at her. Perhaps it was because she was alone on New Year's Eve as well. The waiter brought the girl a huge tart with cream and a glass of wine. The red-haired girl carefully looked at the tart and then furtively looked around.

"Well, now, he's going to steal a spoon as a keepsake!" Marco thought wearily, but the girl did something absolutely different. She gently opened her lips and delicately held the tip of her pink tongue. Marco swallowed. His field of vision narrowed instantly to a tiny spot in the centre of which was the flushed face of the red-haired beast.

With an expression of lust, the girl bent over the tart, carefully wrapping her lips around the reddish flesh of the finico d’India and sucking it into her mouth with visible pleasure. At this movement, her cheeks slightly retreated. The girl tilted her head back slightly and closed her eyes, savouring the sweetness on her tongue. There were faint traces of white cream on her lips.

Marco's blood instantly boiled. He gripped the stem of his glass tightly. The man leaned further into the shadows so no one would notice him staring at the girl. Involuntarily, he parted his lips, watching the girl tastefully roll the pulp of fruit on her tongue before licking the remnants of cream from her lips with a giggle.

Marco cursed inwardly, feeling an unwelcome heaviness in his groin, and suddenly became angry. He was angry with Paola because his pride prevented him from calling her and inviting her to spent an evening to relieve tension. With Giorgio for aching legs and arms. With all of the couples at the tables for being so cheerful and laughing loudly. And finally, at the girl for not being able to use a spoon or a napkin.

Marco turned away abruptly, noticing how the girl had gulped half a glass of wine as if it were plain water. A drunk! A minute later, this witch was already stomping across the hall. Marco realized from her flushed face that the wine had reached its goal and was directing her actions more than her brain. The girl definitely couldn’t drink! Marco snorted contemptuously turned away keeping watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Meanwhile, the girl reached the piano in the corner, hesitated in confusion for a second, then finally fell down on the banquette and began playing some Christmas melody. Marco involuntarily turned around and looked at the girl. Her graceful fingers were fluttering over the keyboard, and her slender feet were stomping on the pedals. He wondered what those feet would look like without shoes.

The little red fox was swaying to the beat of the music, a slight smile playing on her lips. She clearly enjoyed what she was doing. Marco cursed again, tossed a few bills onto the table, and left the restaurant before he could properly put on his coat

He was waving his arms as he pushed them into his sleeves, accidentally hitting a homeless man who had been looking through the restaurant window. Without much remorse, Marco threw out a "Mi scusa" and kept walking, cursing under his breath about the December cold and all tourists in general.

He barely noticed the angry, hateful gaze of the homeless man he had accidentally kicked.