An old grudge

Ira fundamentally disliked visiting the Mukhins. More than that—every such trip evoked a dull, gnawing irritation in the pit of her stomach, which, as a well-bred woman, she had spent years learning to disguise behind a polite smile. The source of this irritation had a specific name: Vadim. Her husband's old college friend, and also the main witness at their wedding, was the man who had once committed an unforgivable act against Ira, which she preferred not to mention to anyone, not even Oleg. She simply shoved the incident into the back of her mind, sprinkled it with everyday life, and pretended it never happened. It worked poorly, however—whenever they were in the same company again, everything would come back to her in detail: the scent of his cologne, his sticky gaze, and her own humiliating numbness. But Oleg adored these forays of the "old guard"; for him, they were a breath of fresh air amidst his dreary accounting, and refusing him meant causing a scandal with unpredictable consequences. The Mukhins' house was a typical lair of the nouveau riche of the early 2000s: red brick, an attic with stained-glass windows, and a sauna, which was, in fact, the whole point of the whole thing. When they pulled up, three cars were already parked in the driveway in front of the garage. Oleg, who had already begun to warm up with cognac from a flask during the drive, noticeably perked up and, as soon as he got out of the car, immediately headed toward the group gathered on the terrace. Ira lingered, stretching her stiff back and looking at familiar faces. Sergey Mukhin, the owner, was always smiling and a little fidgety. His wife, Lenka, was an empty but harmless blonde, with whom it was perfectly possible to while away the time discussing tea varieties and casserole recipes. Igor and Marina were a married couple with no particular distinction, quiet and inconspicuous. And, of course, Vadim. Without his wife, as always. He stood leaning against the railing, lazily sipping something from a tall glass, watching her car drive away with the long, appraising gaze of a cat who's finally noticed the owners have brought out a platter of fish. Ira hated that fish. The first few hours followed a standard pattern. Barbecue, idle chatter about politics and gas prices, Lenka's signature "Oh, girls, I'll tell you something..." The alcohol flowed freely, and Ira, contrary to her usual habit of rarely drinking in such company, indulged more than usual. Partly to quell the inner guard that had been persistently nagging her since their arrival about keeping her ears open. Partly, it was simply out of boredom. By that point, her husband had already reached the point where his speech became slightly louder than necessary, his gestures more expansive, and this served as a sure sign to those around him: it was almost time to load Oleg into the car. The denouement came closer to midnight, when the male members of the group decided it was time to go to the bathhouse. Ira, already quite groggy from the stuffiness and the martinis she'd drunk, felt almost relieved. She could settle down peacefully in the guest room they'd been assigned and finally rest her facial muscles, stiff from a forced smile. She was already climbing the stairs to the second floor, anticipating a horizontal position, when she heard footsteps behind her. Not exactly stealthy, but not overt either. They were a bit too soft for Oleg. - Ir, take your time, sit with us. Yours is already out of whack. Why are you like a step-brother, huh? Vadim stood at the foot of the stairs, blocking the way and fiddling with his glass. In the dim light of the hallway, his face looked like it had been carved from rough, porous stone. "I'm tired, Vadim. Say hi to the guys," she tried to answer as neutrally as possible, taking another step up. "Oh, come on, Oleg won't even have time to get offended, he's already face down in the salad. I just wanted to... talk. Without witnesses. About that old incident. You know, when you turned me down for no reason. It was kind of awkward, don't you think?" Blood rushed to Ira's cheeks instantly. He didn't just remember—he dared, like this, to pluck it from the trash can of the past. She wanted to respond sharply, bitingly, but the alcohol transformed her resolve into a viscous, awkward confusion. Instead of a retort, she uttered an unintelligible "Stop it," sounding more pitiful than threatening. And he was already rising, pushing her away from the stairs and into the hallway, toward the far bedroom. He smelled of juniper and something tart and masculine, and the scent acted on her like a time machine, instantly transporting her back eight years, to the same helpless situation from which she had somehow managed to extricate herself. What happened next was swift and mundane. A nightlight was on in the bedroom, where he'd practically shoved her. The curtains were drawn, creating the feeling of a sealed capsule, isolated from the outside world. Ira tried to protest, but the alcohol had left her tongue slurred, and her body was disgustingly uncooperative. Vadim acted without unnecessary roughness, but with the relentlessness of a tractor. He didn't waste time on persuasion—he simply scooped her up in an armful, one hand securing her wrists, the other lifting the hem of her summer dress. Ira moaned, burying her face in his sweat-soaked T-shirt, feeling stinging, useless tears welling up in her eyes from humiliation and her own helplessness. Her body, betraying her will, responded to his caresses mechanically, reflexively, which made the whole thing even more repulsive. She felt his fingers, roughly and possessively penetrating her, preparing for the invasion, and the realization that this was the same Vadim, the man she had despised all these years, made her feel nauseous. He took his time. He laid her across the wide bed, lowered her jeans, and, without removing them, entered. Sharply, deeply, and without any of the foreplay a woman usually needs. Ira cried out softly, burying her face in the bedspread, which smelled of someone else's laundry detergent. Vadim fucked her silently, measuredly, sometimes pausing mid-sentence, as if savoring the moment of power and long-ago revenge. Below, through the ceiling, snatches of drunken laughter and the splash of water in the pool could be heard, making the situation even more surreal. Somewhere up there was her husband, unaware that his "old friend" was now methodically and deliberately raping his wife on the floor above. It seemed to Ira that her consciousness had split in two: one part indifferently recorded the facts - the creaking of the bed, the beads of sweat falling from his forehead onto her back - while the other was in an animal horror that someday, in some monstrous way, this would come to light. How long it lasted, she couldn't say. The minutes merged into one viscous, stifling lump. Vadim came with a strangled, guttural exhalation onto her lower back, and almost immediately pulled away, fastening his belt with a sickening clank. Ira remained lying in the same position, afraid to move. Hot drops trickled down her skin, and it was the last thing she was prepared to endure. "You see, Irish," he said casually, adjusting his clothes, "it's simple. And you shouldn't have put on airs back then. Friends should share, right? Oleg doesn't need to know about our little secret. You understand that." He walked out, carefully closing the door behind him, leaving her in silence and semi-darkness, permeated with the scent of his sweat and juniper tonic. Ira lay there for a few more minutes, staring at a single spot on the ceiling, feeling an icy, crystal-clear void growing inside her, where her heart had been. No resentment, no rage. Only a cold, merciless awareness of the reality in which she had to somehow continue to exist. Go downstairs. Smile at Lenka. Get into the car with her unsuspecting husband. And the worst thing—never, to anyone, not a single word about what had happened in that bedroom. Because the truth would destroy not only her marriage, but something far more important within her. And Vadim knew this perfectly well. This was his most sophisticated, most vile revenge for that college insult, which Ira had almost managed to forget. Almost.