He stared at her for a long moment, and then his wrinkled mouth formed several shapes before he croaked out, “Samara.”
“No, Grandfather, it’s Nadia,” she said. “Samara’s daughter.”
He didn’t seem to understand that she had contradicted him, however. He simply turned his head once more to look up at the ceiling.
“He calls me Samara too,” Rashel said. “Or Anatalya. But never Rashel. So sometimes I think he’s doing it on purpose.”
Nadia couldn’t tell if Rashel was joking or not.
She kept standing awkwardly next to the bed, wondering if she should keep talking at her grandfather. She could tell him that she’d come to visit from Paris or tell him how long she planned to stay.
She would have done it, if Rashel hadn’t been sitting there, watching her with her bright, slightly bulging eyes.
“You don’t have to say anything else,” Rashel said perceptively. “It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t understand it anyway.”
“Alright,” Nadia said with some relief.
“Do you want dinner?” Rashel asked.
Having seen the state of the house, Nadia was afraid to eat anything from the kitchen without checking if the food was expired.
“Don’t go to any trouble,” she said, hastily. “Actually, my fiancé—Maxim—he’s going to come get me around nine. So, we’ll probably get some food while we’re out.”
“Fine,” Rashel said carelessly.
“Well, I’ll let you keep reading,” Nadia said, nodding toward the book splayed open on Rashel’s lap.
She hurried out of the room, keen to escape the unpleasant medicinal smell, and the blank, staring eyes of her grandfather.
* * *
True to his word,Maxim came to pick her up precisely at 9:00 p.m. He wasn’t usually that punctual, but Nadia supposed he was probably as keen as she was to get away from his relatives.
As she had promised, Nadia had dressed in a tight white party dress, her dark hair in thick, soft waves down her back, and wings of black liner emphasizing the exotic tilt of her bright green eyes. She thought she looked a bit like Sophia Loren. Maxim gave her an approving whistle as she approached his car.
He had waited in the drive, not wanting to come into the house.
She saw that he had rented some kind of flashy Lamborghini, and she hoped he wasn’t going to drive even more recklessly than usual putting it through its paces.
“So where are we going?” she asked as he roared down the street.
“I told you, some big party,” he said. “At some mansion in Patriarshiye Ponds.”
“Yes, but who’s house is it?” Nadia asked.
“The Markovs,” Maxim said.
Nadia turned to stare at him, her mouth hanging open.
“We can’t go to the Markov’s house,” she said.
“Why not?” Maxim asked without taking his eyes off the road.
Nadia looked at him like he was a complete idiot. Which he might be.
“Because the Markovs hate the Lebedevs,” Nadia said.
Maxim laughed. “What are you talking about? You don’t even know them.”
