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Many men had known, flirted, or had simply been made the acquaintance - though certain scoundrels took pleasure in claiming something bigger - Ekaterina Goncharov, and many men would claim her a Medusa in pale skin and golden hair, or, if they had chosen to be more generous, an ungrateful shrew who could turn everything she touched into gold and still remain unsatisfied with life. They’d spit her name into the puddles of Moscow’s filthiest streets as grey raindrops only filled them up higher and higher. To them, all she had was laughter. Didn’t they know that her heart had already been turned to stone by hundreds of eyes long ago?
Not only were they fools for such accusations, they were liars. Eketerina had found solace in one mister Goncharov, a man she had been bonded to by their families such they were mere babes. Goncharov came from little money and even littler education, but that only meant he grew up knowing how to scream and how to bare his claws. But if you passed by them on the sidewalk and you saw how he held her shoulder and how she grabbed the black leather of his vest and how they cooed and laughed over each other, you wouldn’t know any of that. In fact, you would’ve gotten on your knees and pleaded to bare witness to the way he had kissed her over the corpses of the men who’d wronged them, they were so beautiful.
Yet, solace and love couldn’t be the piece in Eketerina’s heart that satisfaction was, certainly not throughout these past weeks. She had been able to embrace Goncharov’s soft, pathetic tendencies as apart of his soul and mind, but now he was pushing it - who was this banker, and what could he provide him that her riches and affections couldn’t? The departure from her family and their tiny cottage that dangled above the St. Petersburg ocean had already taken it’s toll, was her husband intending on pushing her off the cliff of her sanity?
Before Mister Goncharov could plant another hit on her, she walked out into the night and into the nearest club she could find. If he could waltz around Naples with no regard of her, he’d make a mockery of himself if he were to say she couldn’t do the same. She sat in the corner of the fine establishment, the cigarette in her hand twirling smoke into the air. She pushed it in between her lips, inhaled in all the heavy gray ash, and blew it out in a long puff. She only smoked when the worse morphed into abysmal, and that was evident in her coughing fit that snuffed out any pride she still held. When she returned home, Goncharov had better let her crawl into his arms and forgive her. Their marriage was a two-way street, after all.
“A drink for your trouble, Madame?”
Muting her hacks with her fist, she raised her head up to find herself being not looked down upon, but rather being gazed at by one from above. The lips carrying the sweet, soprano Italian accent was coated in rouge, and the dark frills of her dress covered the area of carpet that was lucky to be graced with her presence. Her eyes brown like copper and her wavy, jet black mane of hair that reached her upper back reminded her of the man Eketerina had ran here to reminisce about. This must’ve been her guardian Angel sent down in her time of need, and the glass of red wine extended to her in her gloved hand was her sharp sword, made to protect with the use of any means necessarily.
Eager by newfound ennui to befriend anyone she could wrap her head around, Eketerina took the offered glass. “Thank you,” she said. And it was true; she couldn’t recall a time she was thankful for anyone’s deeds since making a home out of Naples.
The woman’s gift of the wine was replaced with the privilege of being able to take her hand. “Come on, poor girl, get off the floor. You don’t know what’s stuck there.”
“Living with a man, I could make a few educated guesses.”
The woman laughed as pulled Eketerina onto her feet, and she smiled. It felt splendid, eliciting joy out of someone she’d known for less a minute. When the way her husband had been treating her recently, she thought that was a skill she’d lost to time.
The woman dragged Eketerina across the room to a tiny mahogany table. She pushed her into the hard, cold chair before seamlessly swaying into the one opposite of her.
“So what might I call you?” Eketerina raised the glass and took a sip of the wine. The sweetness swirled in circles on her tongue, she had to swallow it quickly to ensure that it wouldn’t shrivel up and become rotten.
“Sofia,” she titled her head and raised her ink-like brows, “And you are…?”
Eketerina craned her head forward and surveyed Sofia’s face, a game of checkers in a life where the game she knew best was chess. Understanding a man was as hard as hiding a corpse; understanding a woman was as easy as killing someone in the first place.
“Ekaterina.” She replied.
“Ah, a good Russian girl!” Sofia exclaimed, clapping her hands. “You know, my mother studied aboard all across Russia when she was in college. The way she speaks the language, you’d think she was born there as well.”
Ekaterina smiled at Sofia’s sudden enthusiasm. She hadn’t misjudged the woman - you could never be too careful when you were the bride of Mister Goncharov - but had simply given her the harshness life had dealt it. It was an idiot’s game, letting out all your anger on the line belonging to one who hasn’t done anything to cause it. The fact that Sofia had saved her from the incessant ticking of the clock previously mounted just above her head was a blessing in itself.
“I was born in St. Petersburg. I’ve spent my entire life there, actually.” She mentioned. “My husband is only here in Naples for his work.”
“Why, this cursed city should be honored to have you in it’s mist!” Sofia reached forward and took her new friend’s hand once more. She’d held her hand more times tonight than Goncharov had within the last week. “What business is he involved in here?”
If she could plant a tree each time someone had granted her this exact inquiry, she’d have her very own forest. She chose her answer like dresses - lawyer, officer, soldier, if it painted Goncharov in the Christ-like portrait he had shed oceans of blood to model in, it was what Goncharov did to make their money.
“Banking.” She blurted out. If her husband could lie, could betray her no matter her years worth of sacrifices and complacency to his rules, lying to a woman she just met was child’s play.
The raised corners of Sofia’s mouth dropped down like guillotine’s sealing Ekaterina fate. It only struck more fear into her heart, but she remained cold with her stoic mask. She was a winter’s storm in all her white silks and beautiful fury, and she was not about to let herself be fought away by a silver spring.
Sofia just shook her head and laughed. “My, what a coincidence.”
“To what, might I ask?”
“My friend, Joseph,” Sofia began, “Was attacked by a banker and his accomplice this morning. He came by my apartment shouting his head off about getting robbed of his gin bottle.” She chuckled to herself as if returning to a fond memory inside of her head. “Alcoholics; they lead lives of gluttony and feign surprise when the world treats them like such.”
The knife Goncharov had pointed against Ekaterina’s back was just about to begin twisting after all this time, and all the bets she once held were off.
“By any chance, he didn’t tell you the names of these men?” She inquired in the war between her and the urge to rip out the revolver from the skirt of her dress and demand that Sofia give her the identities of these fiends, but even without her emotionless objectives, threatening Sofia was useless - she had shared a bed with the accomplice for many years.
“No, it all happened so fast, and prying a crazed man for information is like poking a sleeping bear.” Sofia answered.
Light from the tomb of Jesus floated into Ekaterina’s head in the form of an idea, a revelation. If Sofia had no clue of her husband or his little banker friend’s existence, she could be her savior, her beam of pale yellow at the end of her darkest tunnel. She could break free from Mister Goncharov’s iron grasp and finally live just to live in the meadows with a woman underneath her arm and friends surrounding her like immortal flowers that would never wilt. His own clock was ticking down now, even the smallest movement encouraging him towards his doom. No longer would she play the part of his Mary, a wife cruelly disguised as a demure, abiding wife - she adored him like the lord, but not enough to spare him. Rather, she’d wield the words and kiss of Judas ready to dawn him on his cross. She’d be his forever, tied in the blood of history books.
“I like your heels.” Sofia mused, her light eyes casted down at the garments in question, casting the comets of confidence back into Ekaterina.
“Thank you.” She swayed her legs around underneath the table childishly, “I stole them from a Mrs. Gorbacheva.
Sofia giggled, and Ekaterina’s heart joined right in with the lovely song. “You are one fine comedienne, Ekaterina. May I have one of your cigarettes?”
“Of course, but please - call me Katya.”