Читать книгу The bride of the silver dragon - Dmitry Nazarov - Страница 6

Shea brings me to a small steakhouse a couple of blocks below the orphanage. We come here about a couple of times a month, so as not to attract attention or get too familiar. It was my condition not to go to the same places more than once a week, and Shea never misses an opportunity to make a good-natured joke about my spy games. Although in the beginning he seemed to like my desire not to force things, lately he’s been talking more and more about the future of our relationship. Tonight would be no exception.

We take a table on the veranda, where there are garlands of light bulbs hanging under the awning.

I sat down in the round rattan chair with the soft striped cushion, wrapped myself in the plaid almost up to my nose, and I couldn’t help noticing that Sh’ereen didn’t seem to be freezing at all, even though he was wearing only a T-shirt. Thank him for that, because now, with a nice dinner, I’ll have a couple of hours of pleasure from contemplating his pumped up arms. Thank goodness he takes care of himself, goes to the gym, but he’s not one of those fanatics who turns into a mountain of muscle with no horizon in sight behind him.

When the waitress appears in front of us, Shea orders himself.

– Stripline medium rare, two pear salads – one with camembert, one with tofu, and a bottle of sparkling sweet.

He’s a vegetarian.

And this is just one of those “rather nots,” because while it may seem strange, I can’t really enjoy eating juicy veal and blood next to someone who loudly protests against eating meat. He also fights for animal rights and the destruction of fur farms. By the way, we met at an exhibition of one of his vegetarian friends, who had nothing better to do than to show the meat-eaters bloody pictures of slaughtered animals. I remember Sch’Irene saying that meat was the product of the suffering of innocent creatures, and I replied that in that case the vegetable salad was a veritable medieval quartering of cucumbers and tomatoes.

After that, he said his name and never left my side again.

– How’d it go? – Shea doesn’t let the waiter pour the wine – he always does it himself.

– Didn’t you see today’s news report? – I take a small sip and smile blissfully. Good company, good wine, and the anticipation of a delicious dinner is the best way to end this evening.

– Sorry. – Shea scrapes the back of his head guiltily. – I just got out of office bondage an hour ago. I came straight to you. I hope you took some videos on your phone for me. Or at least some selfies?

– I left some cupcakes, but I forgot them at home. – I didn’t leave any cupcakes, of course. But we like to banter with each other so we don’t turn communication into dull exchanges of fait accompli.

– Can I at least count on a first-hand account?

It’s a must and a pleasure. Because, like anyone passionate about an idea, I can talk for hours about what I’m passionate about. And these kids for me are not just fifty orphans, whom I vowed to put in the most loving families. This is my life. One in which I probably won’t have children of my own.

Not because my body is somehow unsuited to it. On the contrary, I’m as healthy as a horse, God forbid! And I’m not a convinced chaldfree, though I can perfectly understand those who deliberately refuse to be parents. It’s better anyway than throwing a little life away in a garbage bag later.

It’s just that in my mind, having a baby is firmly tied to an ideal relationship with the ideal man. Handsome, smart, strong, with a backbone and such a wide back that even I would feel safe behind.

Giving birth for myself was not an option for me.

And, it’s time to admit it, my Ideal Hero doesn’t exist in my habitat.

While I enjoy eating juicy meat and recounting all the funny and not-so-funny mishaps of today’s fair, Shea listens intently and doesn’t forget to pour the wine. He almost never interrupts, and that’s just the kind of “maybe, right?” Where else do you meet a young, handsome man who is passionate about your life, not recounting his meetings with his buddies or admiringly describing the specs of some sports car?

Only when I’m done with my steak do I mention in passing the visit of Mr. Koryaga’s lawyer. Sh’Irene frowns slightly as she listens to this brief sketch, too.

– He wanted to deceive me, – I say at the end and quickly wash down the unpleasant aftertaste with a portion of sweet alcohol. – These moonshiners…

Shea cleared his throat delicately so I could slow down. A couple of times I got carried away, and I managed to say things that made things tense and awkward between us for a while. Now, if I start to forget myself again, he’s always on my guard. Another “maybe, huh?”

– Didn’t you think Shad’Far really wanted to find a peaceful compromise? In the face of two not-so-good scandals, he obviously doesn’t want a third.

– I think if he didn’t want a scandal, he’d just leave us alone. It’s not the last backyard in the world, and the moon children would be more comfortable in a well-appointed central neighborhood than in our hollows.

– Perhaps, – Shea pensively and without appetite, picking at the lettuce leaves, – he’s just not used to losing? If he loses to you, his rivals in the race will see it as a weakness and act more aggressively? I mean, what I’m saying is.

– … it’s a matter of principle? – I finish for him, and the wine suddenly becomes bitter. – You sound like you know him so well.

– I don’t,” he chuckles softly. – We’ve just bumped into each other a few times. I just assumed.

– It’s a pity,” I try to play the sly fox. – Because then I could have used you as a secret weapon and a spy behind enemy lines.

– Really? – Shea suddenly gets too serious. – Would you… would you do that?

– Jesus, moonbat! – I’m stealing a tomato slice from his plate. – I hope that all these strange thoughts in your head were not born because you watch women’s melodramas on Russia-1?

The most important “rather, no” – I do not want to spoil his life with my cynicism and pragmatism. Even if it’s forced.

Shea again scratches the back of his head and guiltily wrinkles his nose, very quickly pouring me champagne, although my glass is not even close to empty.

– I’m sorry, Margot, I just talk nonsense sometimes. Don’t take it personally.

If I took every stupid thing personally, I’d be someone other than Margarita Sheremetyeva. And I’m not a fan of throwing tantrums over nothing at all. Whoever it was, Shea certainly wouldn’t be looking for a reason to fight, which means that everything is fine. Which once again confirms my theory that the main “interested” party in a couple must be the man. If he’s willing and on fire, everything will happen, even if the woman is in a “think and wait” mood.

The rest of the evening we chat about nonsense. Shea talks about her office business, studiously avoiding anything about the moonshiners’ business and everyday life. He smooths over the rough edges, and the nice thing about all this is that I didn’t even have to ask him to do it-he somehow has a good sense of where the fine line is, and almost always knows how not to cross it.

So when he drove me to our rendezvous point, where I ran to him like a punished schoolgirl on a date, I didn’t even protest the kiss.

And I expect that at least this time something will switch in my pragmatic head – and we will be able to complement our pleasant pastime with a pleasant intimacy. That’s how we’ve been dating for almost two months now, and for all that time I’ve kept him at “kissing” distance. It is only my unwillingness to offend this nice guy that stops me from making Guinness Book of World Records jokes.

Shea always smells pleasantly of some fresh cologne and something else a little sweet. Probably cherry gum, though I’ve never seen him smack. His lips are hard and insistent, and he definitely knows how to kiss.

But to me, it’s just… sweet. Something that can be tolerated so as not to offend anyone.

Maybe next time? After all, even before him, I hadn’t had men with whom I could get butterflies in my stomach. On the other hand-who needs butterflies in their stomachs when they have a good dinner and delicious wine?

– I have to go, – I politely but insistently wrestle out of his grasp, and Shea groans sadly, leaning her head back on the back of the seat.

– You’re like a ghost, Margot – slipping through my fingers. – In his attempt to smooth over his disappointment with a joke, there is undisguised chagrin. But just when I decide to suggest a pause in our communication, he pulls me to him again, deliberately so that I have nothing to hold on to – and I am forced to lie down on his chest. – I’ll get movie tickets for tomorrow, okay?

– Mmmm… the day after tomorrow. – Okay, who am I to argue with fate? What if, while we’re sitting next to each other holding hands like romantic couples should, that “zing!” from the children’s monster cartoon happens? – That’s it, I really have to go.

I kiss him on the cheek, slip out of the car, and hurriedly walk home.

I open the door to go inside, but the light is on in the kitchen, and I’m greeted by Jeanne’s puzzled face.

And a bunch of white orchids, tossed carelessly on the table, as if it were an unkempt broom.

– What…? – I want to ask a question, but I stop talking because I notice the “answer” sitting at the table.

– I told Lord Shad’Far that you were already… resting… – Jeanne tries to warn him, but when he starts to rise and literally fill all the available space, he immediately shuts up and huddles against the cupboard with the dishes.

The damned moonshiner just keeps getting up and getting down.

His powerful figure, armored in a black suit, must be six feet tall. And I want to punch him, too, because even I, at six foot four, have to hold my head up to look into his silver, like all moonshiners, gaze. This one, though, has eyes with a slight steely blue that begin to darken rapidly when he looks at me, puffing up like thunderclouds.

– What is it, Mrs. Sheremetjeva? – He leans slightly in my direction. – Has my sight made you speechless?

It’s good that he spoke now, before the thought of his stunningly beautiful eyes could completely fill my mind.

I crossed my arms across my chest, looked expressively under the table, and shooed him away:

– Are you all done yet, finished? Or do you have a few more meters to spare? If so, it’s time to get them, because I’m totally unimpressed.