Human audacity knows no bounds. It is constantly expanding, striving to occupy every available space. Unless you let in a timely draft of harsh reality, this mold will spread throughout your entire home, settle comfortably on your sofa, and then demand that you serve it a hot dinner.
While my husband’s relatives announced their plans, I wanted nothing more than to burn the whole madhouse to the ground. Honestly, a genuine fire-breathing dragon was awakening inside me. Fortunately, my inner beast was well-mannered and held a degree in economics. So it merely narrowed its eyes and silently watched the scene unfold.
In the center of my dining table stood a freshly baked, golden-brown open fish pie. Its crisp, butter-glazed crust released such a rich, intoxicating aroma of baked salmon, dill, and fried onions that our neighbors were probably already considering digging a tunnel into our apartment.
I leisurely picked up a tender piece of fish with my fork. Across from me sat my husband’s sister, Zoya, who had pulled the largest plate toward herself as though she owned the place. She always wore scarves decorated with incredibly colorful patterns and considered herself a woman burdened with a difficult yet noble destiny.
Beside her fidgeted her husband, Arkady—a man who had spent the last ten years standing just one step away from an enormous financial breakthrough. Unfortunately, he had never managed to take that final step because of scheming competitors, Mercury being in retrograde, and his reluctance to get out of bed before noon.
They had arrived half an hour earlier carrying two enormous plaid bags. Frying-pan handles and the plump side of a feather pillow protruded from them. My husband, Kostya, a peaceful and deeply decent man, had retreated toward the kitchen cabinets under the pretext of brewing fresh tea. He was carefully rearranging the spice jars, demonstrating an extreme degree of busyness.
“Vera,” Zoya began, stuffing a substantial piece of pie into her mouth, “Arkady and I have thought everything through and made a firm decision. It’s time for us to expand. Our one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts is completely incompatible with my husband’s spiritual potential. He needs a prestigious space where he can meet important people.”
She waved the hand holding her fork and nearly struck the crystal sugar bowl.
“That’s why we’re moving into your late grandmother’s apartment on Leninsky Prospekt. You’ll give us the keys today. Our belongings are already in the hallway.”
I carefully chewed the fish, enjoying the perfect balance of salt and spices.
“Zoya,” I said in the most peaceful voice I could manage, “perhaps I missed the moment when you and I visited a notary and signed a deed of gift. Remind me—which day of the week was that?”
“Oh, Vera, why bother with all those formalities?” Zoya dismissed my words as though brushing away an annoying mosquito. “We’re family! We’re blood relatives! The apartment is standing empty anyway. Kostya is your lawful husband, which means the property belongs to both of you. And Arkady is Kostya’s own brother. The connection is obvious.”
She spoke with such confidence that she might have been reading out a Supreme Court ruling.
“And besides,” Arkady joined in, adjusting the collar of his plaid shirt, “letting real estate sit idle is a financial crime. I intend to establish a consulting office there. I’ll receive investors. My energy will fill those old walls with vibrations of success. We’ll breathe new life into that wreck, so to speak.”
I pushed my plate aside. My favorite part of these ridiculous performances was beginning—the collision between illusion and the cast-iron stove of reality.
“Arkady,” I said sweetly, looking directly into his darting eyes, “over the past ten years, your energy hasn’t even managed to fill the fuel tank of your old car. You still borrow petrol money from my mother-in-law. What investors are going to visit you on Leninsky Prospekt? The ones who collect empty bottles outside the building?”
Arkady shifted in his chair as though someone had thrown a handful of prickly pine cones down his trousers.
“You don’t understand anything about global strategy!” he protested in a high, cracking voice. “You’re a typical employee—a cog in the system! Your mind is trapped within the limits of a monthly salary. You’re incapable of seeing future opportunities!”
He puffed himself up and began to resemble an overfed pigeon whose best piece of bread had been snatched from beneath its beak.
“My mind, Arkasha, is confined within the framework of the Family Code of the Russian Federation,” I replied calmly. “And that helps me enormously in preventing my life from becoming an extension of a homeless shelter.”
“What do legal codes have to do with anything?” Zoya shrieked, slapping her plump palm against the table so forcefully that the fish pie trembled pitifully on its platter. “Kostya, do you hear the way your wife is speaking to your own brother? She’s insulting our noble aspirations!”
Kostya turned toward the table. He was holding a teapot filled with fragrant herbal tea. He carefully placed it on a ceramic stand.
“Zoya,” my husband answered evenly, “Vera isn’t insulting anyone. She’s stating facts. The apartment belongs to her, and we never intended to turn it into a hostel for relatives.”
“What do you mean, it belongs to her?” Zoya planted her hands indignantly on her hips. “You’re married! Everything purchased or received during a marriage is divided equally! I consulted the women on a young mothers’ forum. They know all the laws!”
I sincerely admired such pure, unclouded legal ignorance.
“Zoya, please convey my deepest gratitude to the women from that forum for cheering me up,” I said, clasping my hands together. “Now I’ll educate you free of charge. Article 36 of the Family Code: property received by one spouse during marriage as a gift, through inheritance, or by another gratuitous transaction is that spouse’s personal property.”
I paused briefly, allowing the information time to penetrate through the colorful scarf and reach my sister-in-law’s brain.
“I inherited the apartment under my grandmother’s will. It belongs to me—entirely and completely. Kostya has no legal rights to it. And you, Zoya, have precisely the same rights to that apartment as you do to the Bolshoi Theatre building: absolutely none.”
Arkady jerked his shoulder nervously. Zoya shifted her gaze from me to Kostya, searching for support, but my husband was methodically pouring himself tea, his entire appearance demonstrating complete agreement with Article 36.
“Fine!” Zoya abruptly changed tactics and decided to appeal to our sympathy. “Let’s assume your paperwork says that. But we’re human beings! Arkady needs an opportunity to develop. We’ll pay the utility bills—at least whatever we use according to the meters. You’ll cover the building renovation fees and property tax, of course, since you’re the owners.”
She adjusted her hair with a businesslike air and delivered an argument astonishing in its sheer audacity.
“And Vera, the toilet needs replacing and the hallway wallpaper has to be changed. It’s much too dark. Arkady needs a light background to attract financial energy. Hire a crew this week so everything is ready before we move in.”
I studied her with scientific curiosity. This wasn’t merely selfishness; it was a masterpiece of entitlement, sculpted by years of complete impunity.
“And if I refuse to finance this celebration of your financial energy?” I asked.
Zoya smiled triumphantly.
“You can’t refuse. We sold our apartment. The buyers demanded that we vacate it by noon today. Those plaid bags in the hallway contain all our belongings. We simply have nowhere else to go.”
She shot me a victorious glance, certain she had backed me into a corner.
Kostya frowned, clearly preparing to offer his sister money for a couple of nights at a cheap hotel, but I touched his elbow reassuringly. At moments like this, the most important thing was to act without unnecessary fuss.
I carefully dabbed my lips with a paper napkin.
“What a shame, Zoya,” I said, looking directly into her eyes with genuine concern. “What an incredible shame that you were in such a hurry to move.”
“What do you mean?” Zoya immediately became alert.
“Exactly what I said.” I opened the table drawer and took out a thick folder of documents. “You see, maintaining a four-bedroom apartment on Leninsky Prospekt is expensive. So yesterday morning, I leased it out on a long-term contract—officially, with a signed agreement and taxes being paid.”
Arkady stretched his neck, trying to read the words on the contract.
“Who did you lease it to?” Zoya asked hoarsely.
“Wonderful people.” I turned the contract toward them. “A private dental clinic. They were looking for premises on the ground floor for a new branch. They paid one year in advance, plus a security deposit.”
I watched with pleasure as their faces fell.
“A crew of workers arrived there this morning. They’re demolishing the old partitions, installing reinforced wiring for the X-ray equipment, and setting up dental chairs. I’m afraid Arkady might find it difficult to attract investors over the sound of dental drills.”
“You—you made all of this up!” Zoya jumped to her feet. “You deliberately arranged it behind our backs just to keep your husband’s own brother out!”
“Of course I did it deliberately.” I pulled the plate of pie closer to me. “I rented out my property specifically to earn a stable income—not to support two able-bodied adults who confuse family ties with a charitable foundation.”
“How can you say such a thing?” my sister-in-law screamed. “We’re out on the street with all our belongings! We have nowhere to sleep!”
“The situation is genuinely unpleasant,” I agreed sympathetically. “But as Arkady’s business coaches like to say, every crisis is a powerful opportunity for growth. This is a wonderful chance for your husband to finally find a job.”
I leaned against the edge of the table.
“A real job, with an employment record and a salary—not imaginary global strategies. Construction work pays extremely well these days, and physical labor is excellent for clearing blocked financial channels.”
Arkady sprang to his feet after his wife. His face displayed the highest possible degree of wounded dignity.
“You—you’re a materialistic woman with no spirituality!” he declared. “You’re destroying the aura of creation! We would have brought the energy of prosperity into that apartment, but you let a bunch of tooth-pullers move in!”
He grabbed a napkin from the table, crumpled it, and forcefully threw it onto an empty plate, apparently considering the gesture the height of dramatic artistry. He looked like an offended kindergarten child throwing a building-block piece at his teacher.
“Arkasha, don’t waste your energy of prosperity on paper napkins,” Kostya said calmly as he rose from his seat. “Vera has explained everything. The apartment has been rented out. You can’t stay with us.”
Kostya folded his arms across his chest.
“If you need time to find another apartment, you can spend a couple of nights at the hostel near the railway station. I’m even willing to transfer enough money to your card for two nights—solely out of brotherly affection.”
Zoya looked at Kostya as though he had suggested that she eat a handful of earthworms.
“We won’t take anything from you!” she announced solemnly as she rushed into the hallway toward her plaid bags. “You’re no longer our family! Someday you’ll come crawling to us, begging for help, but it will be too late!”
“Certainly, Zoya. The moment we decide to establish a support fund for unrecognized geniuses, you’ll be first on the list,” I called politely after her.
They gathered their things in the hallway with such noise and fury that they appeared to be competing in an emergency evacuation drill. The heavy door slammed so violently that the keys on the hallway shelf rattled.
We were alone again. I cut another piece of fish pie for Kostya. A thin stream of appetizing steam was still rising from it.
“You know,” my husband said thoughtfully as he sat down again, “she’s going to call Mom now. Mom will drink valerian drops and complain that we threw her children out into the cold.”
“I know.” I nodded as I added a little homemade sour cream to his plate. “That’s precisely why we have a plan.”
“What plan?”
“We’ll tell your mother the truth: the dental clinic is paying us such a generous amount in rent that we’ve decided to finance the complete replacement of all the windows in her apartment with insulated double-glazed units. The installers will come to take measurements tomorrow morning.”
Kostya burst out laughing and leaned back in his chair.
“Vera, you’re a brilliant strategist. You’ve even deprived them of the opportunity to complain comfortably. For the sake of new windows, Mom won’t just forget about Arkady—she’ll forget how to use the telephone until everything has been installed.”
I looked out of the window. The September sun had finally broken through the gray clouds, illuminating the wet rooftops of the neighboring houses.
Our apartment was warm, filled with the smell of fresh baking, and wonderfully peaceful. Nobody was demanding that I replace toilets at my own expense. Nobody was planning to invite investors into my property, and no vibrations of success threatened our family budget.
Sometimes, to preserve a pleasant atmosphere in your home, you simply have to show shameless people the door at the right moment—and preferably lock it securely behind them.
