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After the birth of their child, Svetlana and Mickey move into a studio apartment with grey walls and windows that open onto a chicken factory.
Svetlana spreads her canvases across the room. She leans them against the walls and puts them on top of the dresser, so that their home will be full of colour. They are the only decorations. She is pleased with the way they look.
Mickey follows her around while she does this, holding Yvegeni in his arms. The child is quiet, suckling at his shirt as if it were a breast.
“It’s fucking depressing,” Mickey says.
Svetlana shrugs. “It is home.”
###
Every morning, she makes herself a cup of coffee and a bowl of yogurt, then sits in front of the window to paint. In the shadow of the chicken factory, the dawn breaks with a strange muted orange. She takes note of the colour.
The house they moved out of had better windows, but it very frightening. Here, it is safe — here, it is a place of choices, instead of fear.
So it goes, she thinks. She read that in a story about the Dresden bombings.
After breakfast, her day is dependent on Mickey. If he does not have shifts that day, she leaves the baby with him. If he does, she takes the baby with her. Yvegeni is a good child — does not cry much, eats well. He is easy to bring around. This is a blessing.
Today, Mickey will work at the burger shop, so she packs up the paintings that are not going into galleries, and bundles up Yvegeni. It is always a little difficult to get him into the carrier. He doesn’t like being pinned in place. He’ll be okay once they start moving.
“There is coffee in the pot, still,” she says to Mickey. He is crawling out of bed, messy-haired. “You drink it. Do good job. No sleepiness.”
Mickey looks up at her, bleary. “No fucking sleepiness,” he says. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something mean, but instead he yawns into his fist. His eyes go wide, as if he wasn’t expecting for that to happen.
Svetlana smiles, and turns away. She does not love Mickey, but he is okay to live with. Sometimes, he is even sweet.
###
Svetlana and Mickey both have things in their past that they do not talk about. Perhaps this is why they are able to make this life work. There is barbed wire in their minds, and they know that people can live around this.
Svetlana is determined: when her child grows into a man, he will not understand how to make the compromises they have had to make. If he wants to know about suffering, he will have to read about it in a book.
###
Today, she is carrying fourteen dollars and seventy-seven cents, with which she will buy a coffee and a muffin from she shop where she sells her art when it is between galleries. She is wearing her selling clothes — a black sweater with a long red coat over it, and skinny pants.
Svetlana’s paintings are big, with thick paint and heavy colours like bruised fruit. Mickey thinks they are stupid because they don’t look like anything, but he doesn’t know a thing about art.
The air is biting. Her shoes click on the sidewalk. She puts an arm around Yvegeni in his baby carrier and whispers to him in Russian as she walks. Russian is a much softer language than English, better for speaking quietly.
When she walks through the door, the owner — a kind woman, not much older than herself, with a head of turquoise hair — smiles too wide and raises her hand. “Svetlana!” she trills. She says her name with a sibilant f — Sfetlana — but at least she tries. “How are you! And how is Yiv-gen-ie?”
“He is good,” Svetlana says. She looks down at him. His mouth is open, and he is drooling happily onto her nice sweater. “What is wrong, Maria?”
Maria’s smile grows. This is never a good sign.
“The paintings,” she says. “I’m sorry, Svetlana, but you’re going to have to bring them back next week.”
“No,” she says, her stomach sinking. “This is no good for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Maria says. “My cousin — she’s in high school — my dad wanted me to put some of her things up. He’s helping me set this place up, so I couldn’t …” She trails off, then shakes her head, as if she has run out of words.
Svetlana looks around them. There is new art on the walls, strange pictures of people with knives for hands and buttons for eyes.
“This is bullshit. You promised me. You send me an e-mail three days ago, to confirm. If I knew you would do this, I would have made other plans.”
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
Svetlana starts to say more, then remembers herself. She will need Maria’s help again. She swallows the words back and nods. “I understand,” she says. “It is a good reason. Next month, we will go back to it as usual.”
Maria runs her hand through her funny coloured hair. “Thanks,” she says. “I’m sorry. Next month. Look, why don’t you — get a coffee, alright? Anything, free.” She turns. “Nika!” she calls, to the counter. “Anything this woman wants, no charge, okay?”
Svetlana nods, stiffly. It is not a good consolation prize.
She adjusts Yvegeni’s position against her body and goes to the counter.
“A mint chocolate latte,” she says. “Biggest one.”
“Sure,” says the woman at the counter.
Svetlana looks down, quickly. She recognizes the accent. It’s the same as her own.
The woman has very dark eyeliner and piles and piles of golden hair. One of her eyes points in a different direction than the other. She is beautiful the way all good art is — with qualifications.
“You are Russian?” Svetlana says.
“Yes,” says the woman. Her crooked eyes light up. She flushes. “You speak?”
“Yes,” says Svetlana, in Russian, and the woman grins at her.
“There aren’t many Russians here,” she says back to Svetlana. Her Russian is languid and fluent. “I haven’t met anyone in like — ages, anyway. Where does your family — shit. I’m working. I can’t be chatting with you. Here. Let me get you your coffee.” Her face is growing red and blotchy. She holds up a finger, and turns away.
Sometimes, between people, there is a moment of recognition. A half-knowledge: you, like me, have a difference. Svetlana loves that second, almost as much as she loves what occasionally comes after.
Svetlana watches her as she work, thick wrists delicate, her shoulders hunching as she bends over the machine. There is something sensual about watching a person make food. Svetlana has never noticed this before. She licks her lips with the tip of her tongue.
Svetlana scrambles to remember her name. She knows Maria said it, only minutes ago. Nika, she thinks — yes, that was it.
When Nika comes back with the coffee, she’s still grinning. “That was an asshole thing Maria did to you,” she says.
Svetlana nods. “She’s young. She’s had an easy life. She doesn’t know how to say no to her father. I’m not angry with her.”
“I’m angry with her,” Nika says, with too much enthusiasm, and Svetlana smiles in a way she knows is wolfish. She can’t help it. It’s what her face looks like when she’s happy.
“Look,” Nika says, and grabs the cup back from her. “I am going to write down the size of this beverage, and by happy coincidence this size is nine digits long and possibly the same as my phone number. No guarantees. You can do what you want with that.”
Svetlana picks it up, careful not to spill anything on Yvegeni. A baby requires a lot of balancing. He is beginning to stir in her arms, and she thinks he will wake up soon.
She switches back to English. “Thank you for good service,” she says, and winks.
The air is still cold when she walks out, and her paintings are still in her hand. It is a problem. Still, the coffee is warm, and she cannot help smiling.
###
By the time Mickey comes back, she has thrown the cup away and stuck the number to the fridge with a magnet.
Yvegeni is just barely awake. She is rocking his cradle with one hand. He is a good son.
Mickey shuts the door behind him and comes to collapse beside her on the couch. He smells like grease, and he looks exhausted. Svetlana approves. This means he has worked hard.
“Fuck,” he says. “I hate customers. Entitled jag-offs, thinking I’m some kind of McSpeedy burger robot.”
“We will have a guest for dinner,” Svetlana says.
He jerks his head upwards. “Now?” he says.
“No,” she says. “Later. Sometime this week, maybe.”
Mickey settles back down. “Who?” he says. “Not Maria, I don’t want to sit here all night while you give business pitches.
Svetlana shakes her head. “No. A friend. Maybe more, someday.”
“You got a girlfriend? Today? When did you find time?”
“Someday,” she repeats.
Mickey runs his hands through his hair and drops his head backwards. “Jesus,” he says. “Fine. This mean I can start bringing boyfriends home?” He doesn’t say it like a question, though — he says it like a mockery, like it’s something he knows he’s not allowed to have.
Svetlana’s bones hurt. This is what they came here for, to this tiny and terrible apartment, so that they could both have the lives they wanted. Freedom. Choices. The small dignity of keeping phone numbers in public places.
She looks down at Yvegeni, and then she pats Mickey’s arm. He startles, as he always does, but then he breathes out, and he watches her.
“Yes,” she says. She spreads her arm outwards. “This is home.”