My wife called me a savage. It was because I refused to delicately appreciate art—specifically, to rave about the performances in her avant-garde theater.
To me, their theater was excessively avant-garde, sometimes showcasing things so far removed from art it was hard to classify them as such. They called it a free perspective on art, or modern creativity. This “modern creativity” grated on me, but my wife was outraged by my insensitivity, my thick-skinned nature.
— How can you have such a stunted perception of creativity? Especially theatrical! It’s the theeaaater! Not some movie, ugh, mass-produced junk! You have to feel it!
— Lara, I don’t just fail to feel this surrealism, I flat-out don’t understand it, sorry… This… activity, forgive me, I can’t call it art—it’s beyond my grasp.
— Well, well. Like I said, savage. You’re untamable! A bear! — Larissa huffed, displeased.
Back then, I was the director of a department at a pharmaceutical plant, overseeing the quality control laboratory for biological drugs.
Our lab was massive, spanning not just a few floors but four entire buildings. The plant wasn’t short on funds—our labs were equipped like NASA, cutting-edge technology all around. I managed this whole operation and looked the part: a distinguished man in an expensive suit, a tie that once cost my entire monthly salary, with a company car and, naturally, a driver. Though, truth be told, I preferred driving myself around the city.
I’d started at the bottom, of course, early in my career. Despite having a degree, I had to take what I could get—even a lab assistant job, as there were no other openings. Starting from scratch, in other words. Just to get a foothold, to cling on by a single claw. I had no connections, no one pulling strings for me. Slowly, I climbed, step by step. It meant working hard and studying on the side: I enrolled in graduate school, wrote a dissertation. I scrambled as best I could. I was constantly off to advanced training courses—soon I could’ve wallpapered a room with all the certificates. There were frequent trips to seminars, symposiums, conferences—what career growth could there be otherwise? Just because I’d worked a few years in the lab? The bosses needed tangible results: innovations, patents, publications, beyond just ambition for a promotion.
Lara, meanwhile, shone in her beloved avant-garde theater and, oddly enough, found success. The press wrote about her; she even appeared on a few shows, giving interviews about the new word in modern art.
When I bought my first car, I decided to show off: I got a sleek SUV. Black, big, gleaming—a toy for grown boys, my long-time dream! I was thrilled like a kid! My chest swelled with joy. When I drove my shiny SUV to my mother’s village and pulled into our yard, my sister Vera stood on the porch, holding a pot of green borscht. We were setting the table for lunch under the pear tree, as usual. Nearby, a rooster strutted in circles, eyeing the table with his round amber eye, plotting how to hop up and snag something. Oddly, no one had shooed him away yet—the family stood frozen like statues. Vera stared, mouth agape, forgetting to close it. Then my mother stepped onto the porch, squinting to see who this wealthy stranger was, rolling up in a fancy car. My nephew Vince poked his head out, hiccuping in confusion. And there I was, stepping out of the SUV…
— Hey! It’s me! Didn’t expect me, huh?
And so the pot tumbled off the porch, splattering hot borscht everywhere. Our dog Buddy barked himself hoarse. The rooster ditched his table plans, bolted behind the shed, and started ranting to the hens. My family was stunned. Think any of them were happy to see me roll up in style? Not a chance! Vera snapped out of her daze and glared at me with something like hatred.
— Look at you! Some big shot, come to flaunt your wealth in front of us poor folks? Yeah, we’re just peasants, right?
Vera spun around and stormed off, slamming the door so hard the windows nearly shattered. My mother shook her head, pressing a hand to her mouth in sorrow. I stood there, floored. I’d vaguely suspected my sister wouldn’t cheer my success. But I hadn’t realized that while she scraped by in the sticks, I shouldn’t have rubbed it in. Still, I wasn’t prepared for such raw, unmasked resentment…
Mother didn’t hate me, but she scolded gently:
— Oh, son, it’s not right to show off like that to family. Not everyone can afford what some can…
— Didn’t think, Mom. Sorry. Thought I’d share the joy, but it backfired.
— My boy’s grown, gotten rich, become a boss, but still hasn’t gained any sense… — she sighed.
She hugged me, and I held her close. I noticed how tiny she’d become—smaller than ever. It hit me hard, especially with my height. Mom, my dear mom…
By evening, Vera thawed a bit, talking almost like old times. Then she started cozying up, asking for money.
— We can’t finish the new house. With Vince’s dad, how can we save? The walls have been up for three years, no progress. I scraped together for a roof, hiding it from him, but we still need windows, doors… flooring… need to hire a crew, actually build… Can you give us money for it? We’ll pay you back, bit by bit. Not right away, but slowly…
Oh, Vera, Vera. Sly as a fox! I knew most of the money I sent Mom went to her. And I sent plenty! Yet it vanished like water into sand—no trace. Later, I dialed back my generosity, sending Mom modest amounts. I revised the shopping list—coal, firewood, flour, sugar, chicken feed…
Clothes and shoes for Mom I brought myself, knowing she’d never buy them, scrimping every penny, patching old rags. Still, she managed to get by on next to nothing, funneling every “extra” cent to my sister and her deadbeat husband. It remained a mystery where Vera stashed the cash—what didn’t she manage to save from all I sent?
Her Vince, the drunk, probably swiped it all. Giving them money was like tossing it into the old well behind the yard—pointless, no trace. No results, no benefit, even for them.
Early on, I’d invited Vera to the city when I moved there to study. By my second year, I was juggling two jobs, watching my grades to keep my scholarship. I sent Mom what I could—not much, but I helped! I invited Vera’s husband, too, offering to pull strings for a dorm room and a job at the plant. The rest would’ve been up to him, to Victor!
I’d made it in the city, after all! I planned to join the plant after my degree, claw my way up from the bottom, as I said. But he didn’t want it. Vera didn’t come either—wouldn’t leave her man alone, afraid he’d be snatched up! Too many women eyeing someone else’s guy—just shoo them with a stick! Sure, sitting pretty, dodging responsibility—it’s easier! Just dip into someone’s generous hands, take without effort…
And drink it away! The dumbest thing they could do, no dumber.
So, we talked, my sister and I. I laid out the party line as best I could. I refused. Like before, I said I’d help them earn, but I wouldn’t let their family ride my back. Thank God, they’re healthy—let them work!
— Vera, get it! It doesn’t fall from the sky for me either! I’ve got a family too, remember! Lara doesn’t even visit here anymore—she’s scared you’ll hit her up for cash… I’m used to it, but she can’t handle it.
— Like I’ve asked for so much! — Vera bristled. — Like you’ve given so much!
I sighed.
— And I don’t have anything to give now, especially not for a house. I’m paying off our apartment. And now the car, too.
At the mention of my new car, Vera snorted like a cat. She jumped up, knocking a plate to the floor, and stormed out like a fury, slamming the door again, the windows rattling pitifully. Before she left, she shouted, stomping her foot:
— Choke on your wealth, you miser! Cheapskate!
That’s how it turned out…
Years of helping, and it’s never enough—I’m still a cheapskate miser.
The next day, villagers trickled into Mom’s yard. At first, it was small talk, nothing much: how’s life, how’re you managing, Mrs. Kuzmin… How’s your rich son doing in the city? Then it came—lend us some money, Mrs. Kuzmin…
Lend, your son’s a big shot, riding fancy cars, must have cash to spare! If he doesn’t mind bashing a slick ride on our rough roads to get here… One, then another, then a third… all with the same plea—money to “borrow”…
Some needed firewood for winter, others a new roof, or a fence…
All promised to repay “when they could.” Mom just looked at me helplessly—I’d forgotten that in their village, you don’t say no to neighbors, even such blatant mooching. I asked straight: why should I give them anything? Their logic was ironclad, no arguing:
— You’re one of us! We knew you when you were this tall! Now you’ve got plenty—look at that car you roll in! Bet you haul money home in sacks!
What a mess! That darn car, stuck in everyone’s craw…
I tried explaining I was drowning in debt—no one listened! They didn’t take the refusal, and all got mad as one. At Mom, too, by extension. I regretted driving that SUV to the village—shouldn’t have flashed my new ride in our old town. Would’ve been better to take the train like before, then walk from the station, down the dirt road, old-school. Instead, I fell out with family and neighbors alike…
Showing off my new toy, what a mistake.
Lara kept performing, as always. And as always, she chided me for being a savage, a cold fish with no sense of beauty. She kept pushing me toward more material gains—our achievements weren’t enough. By then, we had a new spacious downtown apartment, cars for both of us, obviously. We vacationed every summer in Greece or Italy. Lara loved buying fur coats, either from Greece or our city’s chic “Lux-Furs” salon. Naturally, she wore jewelry with glee…
We didn’t need to save for a new place—ours was perfect: roomy, comfy, great location! New, top-notch furniture… but…
But we should look for a house—enough huddling in an anthill! And come winter, she needed a blue mink coat, shaved, soft as down—stylish, gorgeous, festive…
And why only vacation in summer? The real trend was jetting off for New Year—from the city’s damp cold and snow to exotic lands with fruit and sun! Lara tired of plain gold, switching to white gold and diamonds. Rubies? Too plebeian, like, hello…
Try arguing with that!
The one thing Lara opposed was kids.
— Kids now? Not for at least five years! I’ll ruin my figure! What about the stage? My fame?
I’d wistfully recall loving open spaces, animals, rivers, forests…
A campfire, fragrant fish soup simmering over it, crickets chirping, and stars scattered across a velvet black sky. Lara only loved the city, civilization, the bustling chaos of urban life. She loathed the countryside, suffering at the slightest lack of comforts. I always craved silence. I even had my office fitted with extra windows because it faced a noisy six-lane road—at my own expense. Same at the university. By then, I was teaching there, having defended my doctoral dissertation after my candidate’s, not satisfied with just science and teaching. Mom secretly beamed with pride, while my sister and her husband just scoffed, calling me a nutcase. They’d say:
— What more does that nutcase want? Trying to grab all the money in the world? Better give us cash to finally fix our roof!
Lara adored noise, bustle, theater! Performances, press attention, fame, popularity, armfuls of flowers, crowds of fans clamoring for autographs…
— Lara, let’s go to the forest, just once? For a week? I need silence—I’m worn out by endless traffic, the city’s smog and grime! I want to catch fish, cook soup, sit by a crackling fire, listen to crickets in the dark… Pure bliss…
— There it is. Like I said, savage! Ugh! Mosquitoes, tents—awful… no way!!!
And then one day, I lost it.
I quit everything, packed a backpack, and… moved to the taiga. I became a ranger! All I’d achieved, I traded for wilderness and a tiny wooden cabin with one window—no one understood. Not at the plant, not at the university, not in the village. Not a single soul supported me. Even Mom, as usual, shook her head, pressing her frail hand to her mouth in grief…
Lara demanded a divorce. Though she got everything—my expensive suits, my fine English shoes, all left behind since I wasn’t taking them to the taiga—she cursed me.
— Scoundrel! Jerk! Forty hit you in the head and knocked out your last bit of sense! Ranger, damn you! Hope tigers tear you apart! Rot in your taiga!
And so on. What could I do? I made peace with it. I gave her the divorce—our future was done anyway.
One day, a group of tourists was resting in the taiga. Among them was a quiet woman, odd, pensive. Something about her stuck with me, though what, I couldn’t say…
It happens.
I didn’t even catch her name then. I promised the group info and support but warned them—no hunting. They agreed: they weren’t here for that, just travelers.
This traveler managed to get lost, lag behind the group, and wander off in the taiga. It was nearly night…
She roamed alone, then slipped off a cliff into a river. That could’ve been the end—current swept her along—but she grabbed a thick branch. She couldn’t climb out. She’d screamed herself hoarse, barely able to whisper, no hope anyone would hear. My dog Boatswain found her, some uncanny instinct—another mystery. Dogs sense what we can’t. He bolted from the cabin and ran into the taiga. At the river, he spotted her, then led me to her. Silently. He didn’t bark needlessly—a quiet one, like me. Our silent procession returned to the cabin: Boatswain upfront, me behind, carrying the woman. All three of us, quiet. Boatswain had his job—leading the way, no point barking. I had mine: carrying a soaked woman, no easy task even for my near-two-meter frame. The woman, in shock, shivering, teeth chattering, stayed silent too.
I brought my drenched find to the cabin, peeled off her wet clothes, and rubbed her with alcohol till she glowed, to warm her and keep her from getting sick. Then I dressed her in my huge, scratchy sweater.
— It’s itchy! — she hissed.
— It’s supposed to be! It’s like medicine! Blood flow. — I explained.
— Doctor? — she hissed again.
— Not quite. I’m a ranger. But I know a thing or two about colds.
I didn’t mention my pharmaceutical past. No point dredging that up—it’s history…
I handed her a mug of hot fireweed tea with honey, spiked with a spoonful of pine cone jam for good measure.
— Tasty… — she hissed, then coughed.
— Don’t strain your voice! It’s gone for days—you overdid it, — I warned, stopping her coughing attempts. — Drink your tea and hush!
Maybe not polite, but she got it and sipped quietly.
She got sick anyway, despite the rubbing. She lay feverish for four days, half-delirious—taking her through the taiga on foot would’ve been reckless. No cell service out there. Like two Robinsons, with Boatswain as our Friday, cut off from civilization.
A couple more days, and she was steady enough not to wobble, clinging to the log walls. We got acquainted. I told her I’d been a respected man, with two big jobs… Now? Part hermit, part forester… All my titles and scientific feats? Poof, not worth mentioning…
But I don’t need anything else! Real life’s here! Back there? Just hustle. She, it turned out, was a former businesswoman. Owned a chain of coffee shops and a small confectionery factory. Her name was Hope.
— Hmm, sweet lady? — I chuckled.
— No, bitter lady. Not sweet, — Hope replied grimly, no hint of a smile.
Hope had been married fourteen years to a man she barely saw. Like I barely saw Lara. Looking but not seeing…
Like through foggy glass or a steamed-up mirror—you see one thing, but it’s something else entirely…
Hope had her business and a burning dream: to have a child. But it never happened, despite treatments, cutting-edge health methods, and piles of money spent on specialized resorts…
Pregnancy wouldn’t come. She and her husband tried fertility doctors, at a clinic—ironically—called “Hope”…
They did IVF, four times. None worked—each time, her body rejected it, the embryo didn’t take. Like her very nature forbade intrusion, refusing new life from that man. He gave up. She begged to try again. He said he was done wasting money—tons of it, down the drain! She said to hell with money—she had plenty! But no child. She jinxed herself…
While she focused on fertility, her husband learned she had plenty and to hell with it…
He cleaned her out, siphoning her funds to hidden accounts. Then filed for divorce. Hope barely settled her debts, and her business collapsed. Her partner, long eyeing her coffee shops, bought them up. She got a decent sum to start over… elsewhere. Not in the city, not with cafes or factories, of course. Just enough for a solid house, to live quietly in a remote place, free of traitors and disappointments…
So she fled to the taiga—far from civilization, and people if she could help it. She joined the tourists to scout a village to settle in, always wanting to live among pines…
Then she fell into a river, nearly drowned. After that, almost died of pneumonia, since drowning didn’t get her…
Pure luck, every step of the way!
— So yeah, I’m a bitter lady. Not sweet, — Hope repeated grimly.
— Well… I like bitter stuff. Like dark chocolate, for instance, — I said seriously, no smile.
She gave me an odd look, silent. Most importantly, she didn’t say “no”!…
The weather cleared, her health stabilized, but Hope didn’t rejoin the group. She told them she was fine, not to worry, and later grabbed her backpack. She stayed in the ranger’s cabin.
Oddly, neither of us—used to years of comfort—minded the cramped cabin, no amenities. We lived together like we’d always known each other. Well, three of us—Boatswain was family too. One day, we had a talk…
Boatswain was there, third wheel, silent as usual, eyes flicking between us.
— I’m thirty-five! Not sixteen, you know! That okay?
— So what! I’m forty. And I’m broke—no house, no land, just this one-room ranger shack. All I’ve got is Boatswain and miles of taiga around…
— You’re just… a passerby! Like me. We met by chance, we’ll part by chance… It probably won’t work out. Unless… — she trailed off, and I didn’t catch the pause.
— I’m not backing down! I’m a savage, forgot? Though I’d even go back to civilization if you’re better off there… If you want, of course! — I said, heated.
— Oh, heavens, what a caring guy, just look! I’ll swoon from the sweetness.
— Yeah, I’m caring, actually! And responsible.
— Responsible? Well… that’s handy! Because… I’m pregnant! With your little savage.
I scooped her up and spun her around. She squealed and kicked:
— Put me down, you bear! You’ll squash us! With the cub…
— Never letting go! Ne-ver!!! — I laughed, still spinning.
She closed her eyes, happy. See? Total savage. Right?
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