“The Groom Called the Bride Pathetic. Her Father Heard It and Took His Daughter Away Right from the Wedding.”
The windows of the large hall at the Golden Dragon restaurant were fogged over from the heat of so many bodies and the steam rising from the hot dishes. The wedding had already been going on for four hours, and the guests, worn out by the long formal toasts and endless party games, had finally relaxed. The music was blaring, some people had already started dancing, while others, gathered in tight little circles on the men’s side of the room, carried on unhurried conversations over cognac.
Alina could feel her back throbbing from the unusually high heels. She was smiling, but her cheeks were already cramping from that fake, ceremonial smile. The full white dress that had seemed like the embodiment of a dream in the bridal salon now hung on her like a heavy burden, and the corset dug into her ribs with every breath. She discreetly adjusted her veil, which kept catching on the microphone, and looked toward the other end of the table, where her father was sitting.
Ivan Petrovich, a burly man with gray at his temples and heavy, work-worn hands, felt out of place here. He had come wearing the jacket he had only put on three times: to his wife’s funeral, to Alina’s diploma defense, and now for this. He was stifling in the heat, and the tie tightened around his neck like a noose. He did not dance and barely drank, only sat silently and looked at his daughter. Looked at how she, his little girl, whom he had rocked in his arms at three in the morning when she was teething, whom he had gotten ready for first grade and whose tears he had wiped away after fights with her friends, was now standing beside a strange man.
The groom’s name was Kirill. Tall, with a firm chin and a fashionable haircut, he worked for a large company and, as it had seemed to Alina, was the very “prince” she had been waiting for. But Ivan Petrovich saw him differently. He saw how carelessly Kirill had tossed the bridal bouquet onto the edge of the table, right into a stain from spilled wine. He saw how, without even listening to Alina’s aunt’s toast, he had demonstratively turned away toward his friend. He saw the condescending look with which he surveyed the modest gifts from guests who had come from the provinces.
But he kept silent. For Alina’s sake. For her special day.
“And now, dear guests, the traditional first dance of the newlyweds!” the emcee shouted, and the hall exploded with applause.
Kirill reluctantly got up from the table, glancing at his watch. Beaming, Alina approached him and held out her hand. They stepped into the center of the hall. A slow song began to play. But the dance did not come together. Kirill moved stiffly, as if he were doing someone a favor, barely moving his feet. Alina, trying to save the situation, spun gracefully around him, but that only made the contrast more obvious. When the music faded, one of the groom’s half-drunk friends shouted:
“Hang in there, Kiryuha! Now she’s your cross to bear!”
Kirill twitched his cheek in something like a smile and led Alina back to the table. As they passed her father, he suddenly slowed his step and, leaning close to Alina’s ear, hissed through his teeth loudly enough for the nearby Ivan Petrovich to hear every word:
“Stop grinning like an idiot. You dance like a cow on ice. Sit down properly already. Don’t embarrass me in front of everyone with your pathetic grace.”
Alina stumbled. It felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath her feet. The color drained from her face, leaving only an unnatural flush on her cheekbones. She looked up at Kirill, hoping to see a trace of a smile there, some hint that it was a joke, but his gaze was cold and sober. It was not a joke.
Ivan Petrovich did not say a word. He only slowly, very slowly, set down the napkin with which he had been wiping his lips. Then he stood up. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders.
“Alina,” he called.
His voice was not loud, but it carried such force that the guests sitting nearby fell silent and turned around.
Alina flinched and turned toward her father. Her eyes were full of tears.
“Dad…”
“Come here, daughter.”
Obeying some inner, childish impulse, she took a step toward him. Kirill smirked and started to sit back down in his seat, but Ivan Petrovich stopped him with a gesture.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked his son-in-law. “Stay right there.”
Silence fell over the hall. Even the musicians stopped playing, sensing that something was wrong. The emcee, who had opened his mouth for another joke, froze with the microphone still in his hand.
“Repeat what you just said,” Ivan Petrovich said, walking toward Kirill. He was half a head shorter than the groom, but at that moment he seemed enormous, filling the entire space.
Kirill gave a nervous little laugh and glanced back at his friends, looking for support.
“Ivan Petrovich, what’s your problem? That was just between family. Stay out of other people’s business.”
“Other people’s?” The father’s eyes narrowed. “She is my business. She has been my only business for the last twenty-five years. And as long as I’m alive, she’ll remain my business. Now repeat what you said.”
Alina stood there, more dead than alive. She looked from her father to her groom and back again. One thought pounded in her head: This is just an argument, it’ll all be smoothed over, he’ll apologize any second now.
Kirill realized there was no backing down. His pride would not let him bend in front of some old provincial man who, in his view, had come to the wedding wearing his only decent jacket.
“I said what I think,” Kirill spat out, no longer looking at the father but somewhere off to the side. “You should be grateful I even married someone so…” He faltered, searching for the word. “So uneducated. She ought to just sit there and be grateful.”
The silence became ringing. One of the women gasped.
Ivan Petrovich did not hit him. He did not even raise his voice. He simply nodded, as though he had just received confirmation of his worst fears, and turned to his daughter.
“Alina, take it off.”
“What?” she whispered.
“The ring. Take it off.”
The girl’s hands would not obey her; they were shaking. And so her father carefully, but firmly, removed the thin wedding ring from her finger himself…
Continuation a little lower in the first comment.
The windows of the grand hall at the Golden Dragon restaurant were fogged up from the heat of so many bodies and the steam rising from the hot dishes. The wedding had already been going on for its fourth hour, and the guests, worn out by long formal toasts and endless party games, had finally relaxed. Music thundered through the room; some people had already started dancing, while others, clustered into tight little groups on the men’s side, carried on slow conversations over cognac.
Alina could feel her back throbbing from the unfamiliar high heels. She kept smiling, but her cheeks were already aching from that false, ceremonial smile. The voluminous white dress that had seemed like a dream come true in the bridal salon now hung on her like a heavy burden, and the corset dug into her ribs with every breath. She discreetly adjusted her veil, which kept snagging on the microphone, and looked toward the other end of the table, where her father was sitting.
Ivan Petrovich, a heavyset man with gray at his temples and large, work-worn hands, felt out of place here. He had come in the jacket he had worn only three times: to his wife’s funeral, to Alina’s graduation, and now, to this day. He was stifling in the heat, and his tie felt like a noose around his neck. He did not dance and barely drank, only sat there silently and watched his daughter. Watched how she, his little girl, whom he had rocked in his arms at three in the morning when she was teething, whom he had gotten ready for first grade and whose tears he had wiped away after quarrels with her friends, was now standing beside another man.
The groom’s name was Kirill. Tall, with a firm chin and a fashionable haircut, he worked for a large company and, as it seemed to Alina, was the very “prince” she had been waiting for. But Ivan Petrovich saw him differently. He saw how Kirill casually tossed the bridal bouquet onto the edge of the table, right into a stain from spilled wine. He saw how, without even listening to the end of Alina’s aunt’s toast, he demonstratively turned away toward his friend. He saw the condescending look with which he swept over the modest gifts from guests who had come from the provinces.
But he kept silent. For Alina’s sake. For the sake of her special day.
“And now, dear guests, the traditional first dance of the newlyweds!” the emcee shouted, and the hall exploded in applause.
Kirill rose from the table unwillingly, glancing at his watch. Beaming, Alina approached him and held out her hand. They stepped into the center of the hall. A slow song began to play. But the dance did not come together. Kirill moved stiffly, as if he were doing her a favor, barely moving his feet. Alina, trying to save the situation, spun gracefully around him, but that only made the contrast more obvious. When the music faded, one of the groom’s tipsy friends shouted:
“Hang in there, Kiryukha! That’s your cross to bear now!”
Kirill twitched his cheek into something resembling a smile and led Alina back to the table. As they passed her father, he suddenly slowed his step and, leaning down toward Alina’s ear, hissed through clenched teeth loudly enough for Ivan Petrovich, sitting nearby, to hear every word:
“Stop grinning like an idiot. You dance like a cow on ice. Sit down properly already and quit embarrassing me in front of people with your pathetic grace.”
Alina stumbled. It felt as though the ground had dropped out from under her feet. The color drained from her face, leaving only an unnatural blush on her cheekbones. She looked up at Kirill, hoping to see a trace of a smile there, some sign that it was a joke, but his gaze was cold and sober. It was not a joke.
Ivan Petrovich did not say a word. He only slowly, very slowly, placed the napkin with which he had been wiping his lips onto the table. Then he stood up. The jacket stretched across his broad shoulders.
“Alina,” he called. His voice was quiet, but there was such force in it that the guests sitting nearby fell silent and turned around.
Alina flinched and turned toward her father. Her eyes were full of tears. “Dad…”
“Come here, daughter.”
Obeying some inner, childlike instinct, she took a step toward him. Kirill gave a dismissive snort and made as if to sit down, but Ivan Petrovich stopped him with a gesture.
“And where do you think you’re going?” he asked his son-in-law. “Stay right there.”
Silence fell over the hall. Even the musicians stopped playing, sensing that something was wrong. The emcee, who had opened his mouth for another joke, froze with the microphone in his hand.
“Repeat what you just said,” Ivan Petrovich said, walking toward Kirill. He was half a head shorter than the groom, but at that moment he seemed enormous, filling the entire space.
Kirill gave a nervous smirk and glanced at his friends for support.
“Ivan Petrovich, what’s gotten into you? I was just talking to her like family. Don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
“Where it doesn’t belong?” the father’s eyes narrowed. “She is my business. She has been my only business for the last twenty-five years. And as long as I’m alive, she will remain my business. Now repeat what you said.”
Alina stood there as if dead and alive at once, looking from her father to her groom. One thought pounded in her head: This is just a quarrel, it’ll all be smoothed over, he’ll apologize now.
Kirill realized there was no backing down. His pride would not allow him to bend in front of some old provincial man who, in his opinion, had come to the wedding in the only decent jacket he owned.
“I said what I think,” Kirill spat out, looking not at the father anymore but off to the side. “You should be grateful I married someone so…” He faltered, searching for the word. “So unrefined. She should just sit there and be happy.”
The silence became ringing. One of the women gasped.
Ivan Petrovich did not hit him. He did not even raise his voice. He simply nodded, as if he had just received confirmation of his worst fears, and turned to his daughter.
“Alina, take that off.”
“What?” she whispered.
“The ring. Take it off.”
The girl’s hands would not obey her; they were trembling, and her father gently but firmly removed the thin wedding ring from her finger himself. He placed it on the table in front of Kirill.
“We’re leaving,” he said loudly, now addressing all the guests. “The wedding is off.”
A wave of murmuring swept through the hall. Alina stood there pale as her dress.
“Dad, don’t…” she tried to stop him, grabbing his sleeve. “What will people say? What will they think?”
Ivan Petrovich looked at her, and in his gaze she saw not anger, but such an abyss of pain and love that it frightened her.
“And are those people going to marry him for you?” he asked quietly. “Are those people going to live with him? Are those people going to endure being called pathetic? No, daughter. That is not what I raised you for.”
He took her hand. Took it just as firmly and reliably as he had back in kindergarten, when he used to lead her through a noisy yard, shielding her from stray dogs and bullies with his own body.
“Come on. We’ll gather your things and go home.”
“Ivan Petrovich, what is this, some kind of theater?” the groom’s friend tried to stop him, getting to his feet. “The guy lost his temper, it happens to everyone. Have a drink, cool off.”
Ivan Petrovich did not even turn around. He led his daughter through the parting guests. Some shook their heads in disapproval, while others, especially the women, looked at Alina with barely concealed gloating. Near the exit, Kirill’s mother, a heavyset woman dripping in gold, tried to block their way.
“Have you lost your minds?” she hissed. “People spent half a year preparing for this! The restaurant has been paid for! You’re shaming us for life!”
Ivan Petrovich stopped. He shifted his gaze from her to Kirill standing at a distance, who seemed only now to be grasping the scale of the disaster.
“Shame?” he repeated. “No, this is not shame. The shame would be if my daughter stayed with your son. And the restaurant…” He gave a bitter smile. “I’ll pay you back for the restaurant. In installments if I have to, or all at once. I denied myself everything while I was saving for her education. But that money—those were the best expenses of my life. And these,” he nodded toward the laden tables, “will be the rightest ones.”
He threw open the heavy restaurant door. Fresh, cool air struck them in the face. Alina, still in her wedding dress, stood on the steps as large tears rolled down her cheeks, washing away layers of foundation.
“Dad, I’m scared,” she sobbed. “I love him.”
Ivan Petrovich embraced her, pulling her close and shielding her from the wind with his broad back.
“I know, daughter. It will pass. It’s like a toothache: at first it throbs, and then once the tooth is pulled, it gets easier. Love… love does not shout ‘pathetic.’ Love is something else. Come on, Alina. Let’s go home.”
He took off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders on top of the veil. They walked down the steps, and Alina suddenly felt the weight lift from her. The corset no longer pressed into her, the dress no longer felt like a hundred-pound burden. She felt light and free. Frightened, bitter—but free.
She turned back toward the bright lights of the restaurant, from which the agitated murmur of voices still drifted out. Kirill remained there, inside that golden dragon’s belly. Her old life remained there too, the life she had been building so carefully out of cardboard and foil. And here, on the sidewalk, stood her father, hailing a taxi.
The car pulled over. Ivan Petrovich opened the door and helped his daughter, tangled in the hem of her dress, into the back seat beside him. The taxi driver, an experienced sort of man, merely grunted when he saw a bride without a groom, but asked no questions.
“Where to, boss?”
Ivan Petrovich gave him the address. The old Khrushchyovka apartment building on the outskirts of town, where all of Alina’s childhood had passed. The place that smelled of pies and old books, where her school certificates hung on the wall beside a photograph of her mother. The place where she was loved not for graceful beauty and not for education, but simply because she was herself.
Alina leaned against her father’s shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with tobacco. And for the first time in a long while, she felt safe.
She did not know what tomorrow would bring. What her friends, colleagues, or neighbors would say. But one thing she knew for certain: she was home. She was in the one place where no one, under any circumstances, would ever call her pathetic. Because to this man, she had always been and would always remain the greatest treasure in the world. And that was worth more than any wedding banquet.
