The "Fish" Store

I met a colleague from a neighboring district at the regional conference for subject teachers. Her name was Fatima Mukhtarbekovna, and her last name was the most ordinary Russian one—Kuznetsova or Smirnova, I don't even remember anymore.

then we also exchanged mobile numbers, saying she would check with the computer science teacher and send me an SMS.

Sorry for the nostalgia, it's been almost a quarter of a century since those gates with the red star slammed shut behind me forever, but the number of colorful characters I encountered in those 2 years is almost greater than in all the years since my discharge.

Let's get back to Fatima. So, thoughts are thoughts, but I already know her, and it would simply be impolite not to stop, not to ask who she's waiting for and how I can help? So that's what I do. She replies that she knows where the bus stop is, it's not her first time coming to the regional Education Department, but she's waiting for her husband to pick her up by car.

— Ah, okay then, I'll be on my way, since there are no problems and your husband will be here any minute.

— He won't be here any minute, he just left, it'll take him an hour to get here at best.

— Then why are you standing outside? — the weather was one of those kinds where if the sun comes out it gets hot, but if a sharp wind blows it chills you to the bone, not the most comfortable, in a word. — Go sit in the lobby, watch some TV.

— He said, wait where I dropped you off this morning. So I'm waiting. I tried to say, let me wait at the bus stop, why stand here alone surprising passersby as if I showed up for a date, he answered, wait where I dropped you off in the morning, I'm not going to look for any bus stops, and hung up. So, I'm waiting.

— I won't leave you alone. If you don't want to watch soap operas with the concierge, let's go to the cafe across the street, have a decent coffee, because I'm still disgusted by that swill.

The cafe isn't strictly opposite, but slightly diagonally across the sidewalk on the other side, I point with my hand and assure her that even if her husband arrives earlier, we'll see his car from the window, and she'll be at the appointed place at the right time, no problems.

The cafe is cozy and quiet, dimly lit with pleasant music playing softly. The daytime patrons are gone, the evening ones haven't arrived yet, the coffee is strong, the juice is natural, the pastries are delicious, so Fatima, blushing, asks to order a couple more, even while typically complaining in a feminine way that she needs to lose weight and give up sweets, especially at night.

She doesn't look fat, though she's quite far from being a skeleton in a skirt. Pleasant curves are all in place, she's a bit shorter than me, hair black as coal cascades down her shoulders and beyond, held back by a headband with glitter above her forehead so it doesn't fall in her face (later Fatima told me this was a substitute for a headscarf—a mandatory sign of a married woman), large black eyes, sometimes unrestrainedly mischievous, sometimes sadly mournful, nose... well, obviously not snub-nosed, but not a caricature schnoz, beautifully defined eyebrows and eyelashes, makeup in moderation, gold jewelry glimmers on her neck, fingers, and ears, but all in moderation and harmoniously, not the multi-carat jewels of oligarchs' wives nor the cheap costume jewelry of girls from the suburbs.

I tell her this, that she's not at all fat and two tiny pastries you can hold between your thumb and middle finger won't do any harm. She nods somewhat in agreement, but still says:

— Well, yes, that's why I allow myself, though I gained a lot of weight after the third one.

I express my surprise. And I lay it out point by point, that is, I mention the three-year maternity leaves, and university, and work, and national peculiarities, expressing surprise along the way about the Russian surname. Fatima laughs, and starts explaining to me point by point too.

She got married early, at 18, had a child while a student, lost only a year on academic leave because her mother, her husband's mother, and numerous relatives helped. Right after university, pregnant with her second child, her husband got her a job somewhere where she didn't work a single day, and she even vaguely understands what that office did, the point was that for a reasonable kickback to the management she got a fairly large sum of maternity benefits, and without actually starting work, she got pregnant and had her third child a year and a half after the second was born, and formally they pulled the same scheme, supposedly worked a few days, got the right to leave, and again there was siphoning of the state budget at the grassroots level. So, yes, she's 27, and a month ago her second school year began.

She explained the Russian surname with another scheme of her husband's, who found his father's fellow soldier in another city—a war veteran, provided him with a decent old age and medical care, for which the man adopted his wife and gave her an apartment, after which he left this mortal coil. In general, it became clear what kind of fruit Fatima's husband was, especially when she said that some ill-wishers wouldn't let him live and work peacefully in Russia, and in his immediate plans—moving for permanent residence to a Western European country with an extensive coastline facing the Atlantic Ocean.

But if her husband's business qualities impressed Fatima, who saw nothing wrong with deceiving the state and appropriating what was lying around poorly, then something in his cunning nature she didn't like to the point that she even considered the possibility of divorce, despite three children and a laughably small teacher's salary. I suggested that probably he cheats on her with various women, not constrained by financial means or his wife's jealousy, and possessing, undoubtedly, a certain intellect to not just stupidly buy whores but also seduce decent ones.

Fatima snorted dismissively and made a brushing-away gesture with her fingers:

— Oh please… That hardly bothers me. Neither whores nor so-called decent women, — she emphasized the plural ending with her voice, — concern me one bit. I know he's not a womanizer with lots of women, if he had something, it was just in passing, after drinking sprees and parties, after treating friends and reciprocal hospitality, so different women don't worry me. But if he has a Woman…

She had a suspicion, I don't know if supported by something or just speculative, that her husband has not just a mistress, but a Woman, a second wife with children born to him, effectively a second family, which might ultimately turn out to be closer and more beloved to him than the first.

Hard to understand, but it's not for nothing they say: "another's soul is darkness," especially when that soul belongs to representatives of another nation and another class. I tried to clarify how she felt about her husband's infidelities in general:

— I don't care, — she shrugged, — that's his business.

— What if he infects you with something?

— Again, his business. He'll be the one dragging me to doctors and paying for treatment. He'll be the one disgraced. And he understands that much, so he'd never allow it.

— What if he leaves you and openly lives with another woman, in another family?

— I'll kill him! — her eyes flared with black fire. — And then myself!

— Wait-wait, no need to kill anyone, that's what divorce is for, haven't you thought about the children? And the reverse situation, when the husband's wife has a lover?

— That's impossible!

— Why?

— The husband will find out and kill her.

— And an unmarried woman? Divorced or a widow?

— Also impossible! The relatives will find out and kill her.

— What if they don't find out? Just think, there's an option "they won't find out," after all, ordinary people aren't under round-the-clock surveillance.

— Then it's fine, — she shrugs. — Do you think we're made of wood and don't know how to love?

— So personally for yourself, listen carefully, personally for yourself, not from the point of view of morality, religion, customs, public opinion, if it's known in advance that no one will ever find out anything, if both of them want it, then it's okay?

Fatima thinks for a while, apparently trying to discard many restrictions and imagine a series of "ifs" as feasible, then confidently answers:

— Well yes, of course! If no one finds out, if it's good, why not? — and, seeing my very interested smile, but taking it as irony and disbelief, with a sly glint in her eyes innocently asks: — Am I not right? Do you think differently?

Oh, how interesting! Take a risk? The wife of a criminal figure and a modest teacher from a remote district? He finds out—he'll tear my balls off. But how will he find out if she herself doesn't tell? And will I even attract her? She's spoiled materially, and a good dozen years younger. If only she's not a log in bed, though she boasted she's not made of wood. porn stories They say southern women are very passionate in love. But also very jealous. What if she falls in love with me, demands I marry her if that international con artist of hers leaves her, marries that second one and goes abroad. I may not be the most faithful husband, but I wouldn't leave my wife, and I wouldn't want scandals in any case.

— No, no, Fatima, you're right, I agree with your thoughts. But remember, there was a recent interview with a famous TV hostess, originally from your region. She also expressed a lot of free-thinking to the surprised journalist, but regarding marriage she admitted she couldn't imagine family life with anyone except a representative of her own nationality, even apologized several times so people wouldn't be offended or consider her a nationalist, but that was her firm personal conviction.

— Oh, come on, that's a different thing! — Fatima smiles tenderly, as if about to explain elementary concepts to a slow student. And incidentally touches my palm with her finger, lightly stroking it. Interesting, is this a sign she's giving, in addition to her words, or did it happen by chance? — A husband, I agree with her, must definitely be one of ours. Otherwise it's not a marriage, it's a joke. If I end up divorced, even if I live alone for a hundred years, I would never marry a Russian or a Spaniard, an Arab or a Turk. I won't have foreign speech in my home, a foreigner won't be an example for my sons. But to love, — she automatically stroked my palm with her finger again and removed it, — you understand, that's a completely different matter.

Her mobile rang. Apparently, the question "Where are you?" was asked, to which she answered, I assume, "waiting for you near the entrance to the Education Department," because they spoke not in Russian, then, putting the phone in her purse and glancing out the window, she turned to me:

— He's already pulling up, I have to run! Thanks for the treat. You won't forget to call, I'll give you the email address? Bye!

… We exchanged materials, called each other a couple more times. The thread stretched, then suddenly snapped, the situation was a classic "I want to, but I'm scared," and for a certain time the fear was stronger than the desire.

Our meeting at the conference, of course, can be considered a matter of chance, but not too improbable. Who knows who meets whom, who knows how relationships develop, and if one of the pair strives for greater closeness, and the other doesn't particularly resist, then it can't be considered a coincidence anymore.

But the real coincidence, which became the most active catalyst for our sex, happened about a month later. It went like this.

Halfway from my district center to the regional one, on the way out of a small village, there's a store called "Fish," built back in Soviet times, and surprisingly to everyone, it hasn't lost its main profile. Moreover, it's famous for good, fresh, and inexpensive fish, and some related products, so even residents of that district center, under whose jurisdiction this village falls, preferred to buy fish not in their own town but in this village when possible, and even launched a minibus on the route "Market — Fish." A couple of times, returning from the regional center home, I myself used the services of this store known in the area.

But that day I was going, on the contrary, there, the "Fish" store was of no use to me, and the ringing mobile phone accidentally caught me a few dozen meters short of this building. Seeing it was Fatima calling, and most likely the conversation wouldn't be short, slowing down, I drove past the facade of "Fish," and turning slightly, stopped in front of the side entrance to the store, so I could talk to her calmly without being distracted by the road.

And essentially I understood that she agreed. Something not very pleasant happened in her relationship with her husband, like he hinted that maybe he would go alone for permanent residence first, and then send for her when he got settled. And her sister-in-law later said this in the family circle as something decided. It's been three days since he left for Moscow to sort things out at the embassy, and only called her once, and when she called he rudely cut her off, saying, don't interfere in things that aren't your business, when I need to, I'll tell you what to do. In short, she convinced herself that her husband had left her and she was needed by no one.

Of course, I began to fervently assure her that wasn't the case. That, firstly, maybe everything would work out, he's getting visas for everyone, and they'll leave together. That, secondly, even if he leaves alone, he'll definitely take the family later. That, thirdly, such an attractive and educated woman can't be needed by no one, and I as a man confirm her attractiveness and desirability. And I'd be happy to distract her from sad thoughts, bringing pleasant

variety into her life.

— Listen, where are you now? — Fatima asks in a businesslike tone.

— I'm parked near "Fish," just on my way to the region.

— Near… our "Fish"? — she asks with disbelief.

— Yeah, near yours, there aren't and never were other such stores on the highway.

— Wow! — she laughs boisterously, with some hysterical notes. — That's a sign!

— What's up? — I'm surprised. — Don't tell me you're here too, inside the store or something?

— Not yet. But there's a minibus in front of me with the sign "Market-Fish," and I thought, I'll call you back, and then go to "Fish," buy something, cook something tasty.

— Well then don't dawdle, get in before it leaves.

— Will you wait for me?

__P