The Right to Choose

by Andrey Vasilyev

  “You know, I figured out who you remind me of,” Elena said, smiling maliciously at Soloveva, who was crimson with rage.

  “Who?” The latter’s nose flared, her fists clenched.

  “Stick your tongue out.”

  “What?” Soloveva’s eyes just about fell out of their sockets. I wasn’t sure who Elena was talking about, but Miss Pimple reminded me more than anything of a boiled crab. The color, the face…

  “Stick your tongue out,” Shelestova asked again, her tone calm. “Is that so hard?”

  “Are you out of your mind? Should I close my eyes, too?”

  “No, your eyes are fine.”

  “Come on, stick it out,” Tasha called as she licked the spoon. “Now, I want to hear who you look like.”

  “We do, too,” the peanut gallery chimed in.

  “Don’t forget about me,” I added. “Even though I shouldn’t be encouraging you.”

  “Okay, okay.” Soloveva blinked uncertainly and stuck out her tongue.

  “That’s it!” Shelestova said, clapping her hands. “I just watched an old movie the other day, something about war and the Germans, and one of the fascists in the concentration camp had a German Shepherd that looked exactly like you.”

  Soloveva’s gnarled fingers just about slashed their way across Shelestova’s cheeks, though she ducked just in time. I leaped in to grab the skinny girl. She wriggled furiously, bucked, yelped, and swore she’d shred Elena, and I could barely hang on.

  “Boss, how does she feel?” the culprit asked. “Scrawny? Boney?”

  “Like a radiator,” I replied automatically—I’m not sure how—but I really could have counted all her ribs.

  Soloveva settled down and started sobbing.

  “You can do what you want, Harriton, but I’m not just going to let this go,” Vika said in an official-sounding voice. “I will be writing a report to say that Shelestova regularly paralyzes the group with her instigation. Regularly!”

  When she heard her name, Shelestova came to attention.

  “The only thing that’s regular is diarrhea,” I said sadly. “And that’s only if you eat something you shouldn’t. You’re a bunch of bastards, my dear colleagues. I put everything aside, asked the big guys up there for permission, came here to eat, drink, and be merry with you, and you’re just the same as you always are. One’s crying, another’s being an idiot, and a third is eating out of the serving dish by herself.”

  Tasha looked down at the half-empty plate and made a grimace. Yeah, yeah, I know, but it tastes so good! Then, she dipped her spoon back in.

  “Okay, Mari, I’m sorry.” Shelestova realized she’d gone too far and came over to the sobbing Soloveva. “What was that, though? I mean, my tongue’s always getting me in trouble, but why did you blow up like that?”

  Soloveva waved her away, but Elena put a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

  “Let’s go, girlfriend. We’ll have some martinis, maybe even some vodka,” she said cheerfully. “Turn that frown upside down, and let’s have some fun. Vika, why are you looking at me like that? Go write your report. The boss is right; all this can wait. Today’s a holiday, so let’s sit down before Tasha eats it all. Hey, you, put that plate down! What’s your problem? Ksenya, take it away from her and spread it around a little, so it at least looks like we have some left.”

  It was the perfect reaction. All I could do was wonder in amazement.

  “Absolutely,” Zhilin said, stepping over. “I could eat a horse! I want salads, sausage, cheese, and some mandarin oranges.”

  “Something to drink, too,” Stroynikov and Samoshnikov called from the corner.

  The conflict was forgotten, Marietta pulled herself away from me, somebody took the half-empty plate and the spoon from Tasha, chairs were pulled around, the refrigerator door banged, and bottles rattled together. Wait, when did they buy a refrigerator?

  Vika and I were the only people not involved. I was waiting for everyone to find a seat; my girlfriend was busy smiling unpleasantly. Knowing her as I did, I realized that she was putting a very insidious plan together in her head.

  “Master, your place is at the head of the table, like the father you are,” Elena called. Her flexible waist bent slightly as she gestured invitingly. “And you, Vika, please, sit down. What are you waiting for?”

  How does she do that? Somehow, she was able to call out everyone around her with everything she said, while still never crossing the thin line between sarcasm and rudeness. Also, how has she lived this long? With her mouth, she should have been buried in concrete long before then.

  Vika said nothing as she took a place to my right, directly across from Tasha. The latter had realized that she wasn’t getting to the salad, and so she’d pulled a plate of olives over and was quietly munching away at them. I wasn’t sure how she’d ended up right next to me, though I didn’t mind. As long as she leaves some food for me. She wasn’t that big, but she could sure fit a lot.

  Once everybody was seated, I picked up my shot glass and stood up. The first toast was mine, needless to say.

  ***

  My worries turned out to be unfounded. There was enough food for me, as well as everyone else. The party was a success, too, which surprised me. I’d been thinking about how I’d felt left out the last time we were all drinking together.

  An hour later, nobody remembered the scuffle. Soloveva was laughing for no reason, a few shots in; the guys were giving toasts so fast that I started going every other one; and Tasha had finally gotten enough to eat turning to the screen of her phone, the group forgotten. Everything was the way it was supposed to be.

  “What about presents?” Shelestova asked as soon as there was a second of silence. “I wouldn’t mind giving someone something, maybe even getting something in return. I’m not materialistic; I’m just sentimental! It’s New Year’s, after all.”

  She pulled a party popper out of nowhere and fired it at the ceiling, showering Tasha with confetti.

  The guys looked at each other worriedly; I doubted it even occurred to them that they should bring gifts. Really, I figured they assumed Elena was joking then just as much as when we were about to leave to go see Mammoth.

  No, sir, they don’t joke about things like that. I didn’t know about that Siberian ulcer or another ten percent of women, but, by and large, the weaker sex looks at picking out presents as a holy ritual, one they approach thoughtfully and with care. Everything is weighed in the balance—who the gift is for, the occasion, what they want, what the recipient is supposed to think, the color, the size, the price… Yes, the price. The number one yardstick is the kind of present they got from the person the year before. Even inflation is taken into account. The wrapping paper is important, too. It can tell you a lot if you only know how to read it.

  It really was a shame I hadn’t had time to go to an actual store. Everything is simpler for men, but still…

  “Screw you,” Tasha said mildly, shaking her head and watching the confetti fall onto the table. “At least, it didn’t get in my plate.”

  “Okay, let me start,” I said as I stood up. Vika gave me a surprised look. “You already got a present from Raidion in those envelopes. You did get them, right?”

  The group nodded happily. You have to hand it to the bosses; they pay well and on time.

  “That’s good. And now, from me personally. I’ll be honest, I wasn’t able to get you anything really nice, so go easy on me.”

  “It’s the thought that counts,” Shelestova said to a drunk Soloveva. “Out with it, boss. I’m so intrigued, I’m itching all over.”

  “For you, Elena, I have a set of exclusive neckerchiefs with the Fayroll logo.” I pulled out the bag. I was only just barely lying, as the woman at the gift store told me the scarves were only sold at the Raidion head office. Still, I needed to say something about how exclusive they were. “They’re very rare; only a few of them ever made. You’re a unique woman, so—”

  “Beautiful!” Elena replie
d, as usual, with an intonation and inflection I didn’t understand. “Now, there will be something for my family to pass down from mother to daughter. In two hundred years, those adorable little rags will be sold at Sotheby’s as historical relics.”

  “I like them,” Tasha said as she eyed the bag. “I want some, too.”

  “Sorry,” I shrugged, “they’re the only ones I have. I do have a rarity for you, too, though. Here. It’s a collector’s item, you should know.”

  I held out a flash drive made to look like a hand casting a spell. It was, indeed, a rarity, if only for the time being—they’d just gotten them in at the store the day before.

  “Cool,” Tasha said, holding the weighty little figure in her palm. “What does it do?”

  “It brings your slippers to you in bed,” Shelestova replied as she tied one of the scarves around her neck. “Then, it makes you coffee and closes the door quietly behind you.”

  “It’s a flash drive,” I said to Tasha. “It splits apart in the middle.”

  All the men in the group got a good old Swiss Army knife, if without the Raidion logo. I wasn’t sure why they didn’t have it. Then, I gave Ksenya a teddy bear that said something like “Hit him with a fireball!” and Soloveva a folding umbrella. I hadn’t been able to find anything better for her, and I wasn’t about to give her a T-shirt with the slogan, “Fayroll: Dreams Come True.”

  “What about me?” Vika asked softly.

  “Oh, please,” Shelestova called over as she looked at herself in her pocket mirror. “You already have the world at your feet. Just tie a silver ribbon around the boss and stick him under the tree.”

  “Too far, don’t you think?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Shelestova pulled a gold bag with rope handles out from under the desk. “That doesn’t make sense. You’re together, aren’t you? You shouldn’t be giving each other presents when everyone’s drinking together; you should be giving them to each other when the clock strikes twelve. If you and I were living together, you’d have given me the scarves at night, not now. You’d have given me something more, too.”

  “You’re not looking to replace me, are you?” Vika asked Elena. Her voice was even, but there were bright red spots on her face that told me how close she was to losing it.

  “Do I have to answer that?” Shelestova smiled. “Why don’t we just wait and see?”

  “What’s in there?” As always, Tasha wasn’t keeping up with the dramatic lift in the conversation. Her finger was pointing at the gift bag Elena was holding.

  That was probably the first time I was happy to hear one of the girl’s illogical forays. It was just in the nick of time. I even vowed to give her a raise.

  Regardless, my ego was having the time of its life. Not even in my best years, when I was young and brandishing much more hair, had anyone really done much fighting over me. With me, yes; for me, not so much. But there I was, caught in what could have been a Shakespearian passion play. As long as they don’t poison me, figuring that it’s better nobody gets me.

  “It’s a present from all of us,” Shelestova replied, her index finger in the air, “for our favorite boss.”

  “From all of us?” Samoshnikov asked in surprise, which earned him a couple jabs in the ribs from Stroynikov and Zhilin. The three then froze with benevolent smiles on their faces.

  “Oh, yes?” Tasha said. “What are we giving him?”

  “A surprise!” Shelestova winked at her, stood up, and held the bag out to me. “Harriton, we wish you the very happiest of New Years.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, sniffing emotionally.

  “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Her eyes flew open wide, and she looked over at Vika. “On the cheek; nothing that bad.”

  Vika ground her teeth as my lips touched Elena’s velvety skin, not without enjoying it.

  “It’s like I got an award!” Shelestova said to Soloveva before adjusting her scarf and sitting back down.

  “What’s in it?” Tasha asked, hopping on her chair. “I can’t wait to see what I got you!”

  I swatted her hand away from the bag. “Hold on and eat an orange!”

  “I don’t do well with them,” she replied with a wave.

  I opened the bag to find a box in wrapping paper with funny pictures—a cat clubbing a mouse over the head and a mouse stabbing a cat with a huge fork. It was a large, heavy box. Oh, God, what did she come up with this time?

  The box turned out to be made of soft black material with wooden inserts and snaps.

  I glanced over at Elena, who motioned for me to open it.

  The snaps clicked open, leaving me to pull the lid open and whistle.

  Inside was a pistol, chrome-plated, and nothing plastic about it. The simplicity of the classic design, the weight, the lettering on the barrel any man would recognize (albeit with a bucking horse) were gorgeous. I’d never seen anything like it. Niches in the box held accessories: a spare clip wrapped in plastic and cleaning tools.

  “A Colt M1911A1,” Zhilin said quickly from his perch looking over Soloveva’s shoulder. “Takes .45 ACP ammo. Is that real? Shelestova, are you crazy?”

  Elena wiggled a finger around her temple. “What are you talking about? It’s an air pistol, of course, but an exact replica. Size and everything.”

  I pulled it out and pressed the magazine release. The clip slid gently out of the grip. Yep, an air pistol; there’s the slot for the gas cylinder.

  “Chrome-plated,” Zhilin said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a chrome-plated Colt air pistol. The grip is different, too. That’s weird plastic, although… Is it really plastic?”

  “It’s ivory and mother of pearl,” Shelestova replied, her tone a bit annoyed. “What do you want?”

  “So, it was made to order?” Zhilin continued. “Huh. That must have cost quite a bit of—”

  “Zhilin, are you looking for a fight?” There was a threat in her voice.

  “Okay, okay,” he said and stepped away.

  I slid the clip back in, stroked the warm material inlaid in the grip, took another look at the odd illustration (both ivory plates featured a circle woven out of odd symbols and lines—unusual, but beautiful), and asked Elena a single question.

  “Why?”

  “It goes with your car,” she replied, eyes narrowed slyly. “You can’t have one without the other.”

  It was an expensive gift—too expensive, really, even if they’d all pitched in—and I’d never liked when things happened that I couldn’t explain.

  I stuck the pistol back in the box, put the box back in the bag, and looked up at the group.

  “I love it, I’m touched, I appreciate you all. Let’s drink.”

  To be honest, I was feeling kind of embarrassed. Okay, really embarrassed. I could tell right away that it wasn’t anything mass-produced, and picking it up just further convinced me. My scarves looked great in comparison.

  But that wasn’t the worst part. She was always one step ahead—one step ahead of everyone, including me. And why does she feel like she needs to be? For fun? A game? There could have been some objective she had that I didn’t know about.

  I really needed to tell Zimin what I was thinking and have him take care of the security side of things, but that was in a perfect world, and I decided to put it off for the time being.

  We hung out for another hour and a half, well beyond when it got dark outside. I wasn’t sure about everyone else, but I was having more fun than I’d had in a long time. I was with my kind of people.

  “Time for me to go,” Tasha said to the group. “I’m not going home today, so by the time I get—”

  “Oh, yes?” Soloveva, who was way past drunk, jumped in with a finger shaking under Tasha’s nose. “Our little Miss Antisocial has a personal life?”

  “Hey, I don’t have any pimples, at least,” Tasha replied innocently. “I mean, that’s why I don’t have any.”

  ***

  When we all tumbled outside in a bundle of noise, it was
beautiful. Light snowflakes gently eased their way to earth, the air was chilled, and it smelled crisp and clear.

  “Wonderful,” Shelestova said, holding her white-mittened hands up to the sky and spinning around in her fur coat. “Are we really going to have a white New Year’s? I forgot what that’s like.”

  “Yes, the weather’s been terrible the last few years,” Samoshnikov said. “Dirty and slushy. There’s nothing to do but sing songs and drink vodka. You don’t even want to go outside.”

  “Sing songs!” Shelestova spun around again. “Let’s go find a karaoke bar!”

  “There isn’t anything like that around here,” Petrovich replied as he let out a puff of smoke and held on to Soloveva to keep her from falling. “I already checked.”

  That sounded like him, all right. Whenever he went somewhere new, he always checked around to see what bars and restaurants there were in the area. I wasn’t sure why, but he did.

  “That’s a shame,” Elena sighed. The fresh air was clearing her head, doing the same for the rest of us. “Oh, hey, and you said there wasn’t one!”

  She pointed at a nearby bank. Rather, she pointed at the lettering running across the sign out front.

  “Come che-eck out our rates,” she sang to the tune of It’s Five O’clock Somewhere.

  It was infectious. First, Soloveva joined in from where she was hanging on Petrovich, then Zhilin’s bass added to the chorus, and I didn’t even notice when I joined in. Even Vika stopped huffing and sang along. I think I was the only one who noticed, however, that she was, in my opinion, far shier than she should have been. Our profession is out in the world and, like another, similarly old field of work, has no time for persnicketiness or excessive delicacy. I’m going to have to have a serious discussion with her about that since she’s better off finding other work while there’s still time if that’s how it’s going to be. It would only get in the way for her.

  “Up to twe-e-enty perce-e-ent,” we sang smoothly, following along with the words on the sign. “Lo-o-ots of ways to pay o-o-off your credit.”

  The guards smirked and looked at each other, but they didn’t join in. They were working.