Harry

 
   It was still chilly in Paris at the end of May, even at four-thirty in the morning. Fifty degrees Fahrenheit, no more. There was no reason to be out in such weather unless absolutely necessary. And certainly not in the relentless drizzle. If you weren't one of the famous French chestnut trees, rooted to the spot with no choice, then staying indoors was the wiser option. That’s precisely what the organizers of the 108th Grand Steeple-Chase de Paris at the central racecourse had decided.

   Nine hundred thousand euros were on the line, with a third going to the winner. Harry had known in advance who would take the prize. An insider among the stablehands had tipped him off. A gentleman from Washington had planned to place five thousand euros on a five-year-old French-bred mare, ridden by jockey James Revely. But luck had other plans. The rains that swept across the entire ;le-de-France ruined the scheme to cash in on the sure thing.

   In a foul mood, Harry dragged his small grey suitcase behind him as he left the four-star Marriott Rive Gauche on Boulevard Saint-Jacques, early in the morning. A fifty-year-old American of Ukrainian descent, he cursed the weather under his breath, seeking solace in a uniquely Slavonic brand of schadenfreude. Misery loves company, after all. He wasn’t the only one whose Parisian adventure had taken a disappointing turn.

   Thanks to the miserable weather and the ongoing strikes by Parisian trade unions, tens of thousands of tourists from around the world found themselves unable to visit the Louvre, Versailles, or the Mus;e d'Orsay that week. Even tennis fans weren’t spared. The usually crowded stands at Roland Garros were conspicuously empty until the semifinals. The Congolese mafia, which had snapped up the bulk of the tickets online back in December, was facing massive losses. Burly men lined Boulevard de l'Auteuil, leaning against the metal fences, offering the rare passerby tickets to the tournament “at face value.”

   Just yesterday, Harry had walked past the same scalpers on his way to the racecourse. Today, he couldn’t even get a coherent answer from the taxi drivers.
“Will you take a credit card for the fare to Charles de Gaulle?” Harry asked one Congolese driver in English.

   “Oui, bien s;r,” the driver replied. He jumped out of his Mercedes, eager to grab his customer’s suitcase.

   “Keep in mind, fifty-five euros will be charged through MasterCard,” Harry added, knowing from previous trips to Paris that not every business worked with that particular credit giant.

   “Oh, but excusez-moi, monsieur,” the driver stammered, suddenly less eager, leaving Harry to retrieve his own suitcase from the trunk.

   The next taxi driver had no objections to Harry’s card. Within minutes, the cab was speeding through the rain-soaked streets of Paris. The constant drumming of the rain against the windshield set an annoying rhythm. In the back seat of the Peugeot 308, Harry felt at ease, despite the car barreling through the wet night at 70 miles per hour. The driver, a sixty-something Parisian native, exuded a quiet confidence that only came from years of navigating the city’s streets.
Harry ignored the blur of wet pavement, the glow of the truck's red taillights ahead, and the ticking fare meter. His mind was on his upcoming flight to Kyiv.
“Putain de merde!” the driver suddenly swore, jerking the steering wheel to the right.

   Harry’s heavy body lurched sideways across the back seat, slamming against the door as the car swerved. Through the gap between the front seats, he saw a plastic pylon bounce off the hood, followed by several more orange and white-striped bollards scattering in every direction. The Peugeot shuddered violently, skidding over the concrete divider between two freeways. The driver wrestled with the steering wheel, swaying the trunk back and forth before finally regaining control and merging onto the correct road. Without slowing down, the cab sped onward towards the airport.

   “Ah, I’m very sorry, sir,” the French driver said with a sheepish grin, glancing at Harry in the rearview mirror. “Because of the truck, I missed the turn for the airport.”

   “I understand. Just take me to Terminal 2E,” Harry replied, though his mind was racing with another thought:
What if someone had been following us, headed for Charles de Gaulle at the same speed? If they had crashed into the trunk, I’d be in a ditch right now, not on my way to Kyiv.

   His thoughts wandered to a similar incident a couple of years ago, with a cab driver he knew in a quiet suburb of Washington. On the way to Dulles Airport, in dense fog, a young Middle Eastern immigrant had missed a turn. It shouldn’t have been a big deal; the viaduct was just seven kilometers ahead. The backseat passenger would have lost no more than fifteen minutes and maybe five extra dollars, which she could have easily disputed. But that wasn’t what happened.
The woman, in a panic, screamed directly into the driver’s ear:;“We missed the turn!”

   Her shriek terrified the young Syrian. He slammed on the brakes and swung the car into an abrupt U-turn. On a four-lane expressway, it was a suicidal move. He hadn’t even completed the turn when a vehicle plowed into them head-on. The driver and the other car’s passengers were killed instantly. The cab driver, though alive when paramedics arrived, died in the ambulance soon after. Of the four people involved in the accident, only the hysterical woman survived. At the last moment before the crash, she had fallen to the floor between the seats, miraculously escaping without a scratch. She would later tell the police the entire story, not once considering herself at fault for what had happened.

   Harry, snapping out of the memory, was still puzzled as to why his French driver had seemed confused earlier. After all, the driver had dropped him where he’d asked to go. Perhaps his pronunciation of "2E" had sounded like “2I,” or maybe “2A” in French—it was hard to tell. When two people communicate in a foreign language that is neither’s native tongue, misunderstandings are bound to happen. Harry decided not to argue. He was thankful just to have arrived safely, especially since things could have turned out much worse. Besides, he had more than three hours before his flight.

   Harry had intentionally arrived at the airport early. Two days before, an Egyptian Airbus had vanished over the Mediterranean Sea, and he was certain that heightened security measures would be in place at Charles de Gaulle after such a disaster. He had mentally prepared for at least two hours of pre-flight inspections, leaving another hour for browsing duty-free shops, grabbing a coffee, and visiting the restroom.

   To his surprise, there was no sign of heightened security at the inspection area. Whether the French were still half-asleep at five in the morning, or simply confident that Ukrainian air terrorists had no business here, Harry couldn’t say. Regardless, his suitcase passed through the X-ray machine without delay, despite containing a liter of Double Black Label, the iconic Johnnie Walker whiskey. The frail-looking security officer, likely of Indian descent, barely acknowledged him. Harry didn’t even need to remove his belt or shoes. The metal detector let out a brief squeak before falling silent, and the guard cast an indifferent glance at Harry’s solid build. With a lazy wave of his handheld detector, he motioned Harry towards the waiting area, muttering something that sounded like “Syo pyumi.” Even though Harry’s knowledge of French was limited to basic phrases, he understood from the guard's tone and gesture that it meant something like, "Move along."
At the gate, Harry found himself alone. His fellow passengers were taking their time, and the waiting area remained largely empty. With a couple of hours to kill, he would have been bored out of his mind if not for his trusty MacBook Air. This little gem from Silicon Valley could easily keep him entertained for six hours without needing a recharge. Settling into a plush seat, he opened the silver lid of his laptop, ready to type in his password—but he never got the chance. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a woman approaching him quickly.

  She looked to be in her early forties, no more. Her beige sweater tucked into blue jeans emphasized her high breasts and flat stomach. While Harry couldn’t be sure, he suspected a push-up bra might be helping, though the rest of her figure was all natural. The jeans clung tightly to her slim legs, and Harry found himself admiring her as she drew nearer. There was no mistaking her destination—she was walking straight toward him.

   "Excuse me," she said in Russian, her voice marked by a soft Ukrainian accent. "Could you watch my suitcase for a few minutes? I need to use the restroom."

   Not waiting for his reply, she spun on her expensive sneakers—Harry guessed around two hundred bucks—and strode off toward the restrooms.

   From behind, she looked just as striking as she did from the front. Her firm, athletic figure was mesmerizing, and Harry’s thoughts drifted into a fantasy. He imagined taking hold of her hips, feeling the firmness of her flesh under his fingers. His mind wandered further, envisioning her legs entwined with his, pulling her close, their lips locked in a passionate kiss. He followed her movements with his eyes, captivated, unable to look away.

   His reverie was interrupted when the woman returned, seating herself beside him in the departure lounge.

   “Nataly from Poltavta,” she said cheerfully, offering her hand in greeting.
Though Harry considered kissing the smooth wrist she extended, he restrained himself. Such gallantry at the airport, especially at such an early hour, might be seen as over-the-top and would likely push away, rather than charm, a fellow traveler.

   “I just flew in from Atlanta,” the attractive woman shared with Harry, her fellow traveler, without preamble. “Those American idiots completely wrecked my nerves during the transfer. The fat fools at the border control kept staring at my Mexican passport, like they couldn’t figure out how someone like me could have it. They couldn't grasp that I wasn't there to stay in their country, that I was just passing through. It just didn’t fit into their thick heads that a citizen of Estados Unidos Mexicanos could have blue eyes and be named Natalya. I honestly thought I’d miss my flight to Paris because of them.”

   Harry, a U.S. citizen, nodded in sympathy and chimed in with his own frustrations about the staff at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. He mentioned a couple of problems he had encountered during transfers in Atlanta on his way to South America, casually sprinkling in a bit of his own experience. In an attempt to emphasize his knowledge, he added, “Did you know that airport has held the world record for passenger traffic for twenty years?” But then, realizing it might seem irrelevant, he quickly corrected himself. “Although that doesn’t justify the rudeness or ignorance of the staff.”

   Harry was showing off a little, not to boast, but more to please his travel companion. It was a habit—an attempt to connect rather than a bid for self-importance.

   Over the next two hours in the departure hall, followed by three hours seated next to her on the flight, Harry learned more about Natalya than, perhaps, her own mother knew. This strikingly beautiful and intelligent woman opened up to him completely, sharing personal secrets, health struggles, and the details of her strained marriage. She vented about her Mexican relatives and spoke about her future plans with surprising candor. As she poured out her soul, Harry sat there, listening intently and silently wondering:

   'Why does she trust me so much? Am I that special, or was I just the first person to cross her path who was willing to listen?'

   It was clear to Harry that Natalya had been carrying these burdens in silence for years, and now she was desperate to release them. He could also tell that she had no intention of unburdening herself back in her hometown of Poltava. She wouldn’t confide in her mother, who was eagerly awaiting her “happy” daughter’s return. Nor would she speak openly with her friends, who had long been consumed by jealousy.
 
   After all, who wouldn’t envy Natalya? A stunning forty-year-old woman who had married a Mexican millionaire ten years ago, she lived in the most beautiful city in a warm country. She spent her days at the gym, shopping in luxury stores, relaxing at spas, and getting massages. She drove a red convertible McLaren 650S, a car her friends had probably never even heard of. Natalya was the kind of woman who could inspire envy not just among a few neighbors or former classmates, but across the entire town.

   “Be sure to call me,” she said in a commanding tone as Harry helped her retrieve her suitcase from the luggage carousel in the Boryspil terminal.

   These are just words of courtesy, spoken before parting forever, Harry thought wistfully, though he couldn’t help but ask, just in case:;“What’s your phone number?”;“You’ll have my number as soon as we leave the arrival hall,” she replied with a smile.

   Neither had a phone number to exchange immediately, but that only made their situation more amusing.

   “Behind those doors,” she said, pointing to the sliding glass panels with the casual familiarity of someone used to small-town customs, “my cousin will be waiting for me. She has my mom’s cell phone number. Once I’m in Poltava, I’ll borrow my mother’s phone. I’ll sleep it off tonight, and starting tomorrow, I’ll be available around the clock.”

   She clearly needed rest. Unlike Harry, Natalya had been on the road for two days straight.

   Five minutes later, just as she promised, everything unfolded smoothly. After introducing Harry to her cousin as a "good friend," she rummaged through the contacts on her Samsung and gave him her number.

   “Call me as soon as you can,” she said. “I’ll be waiting.”

   “Of course,” Harry replied, smiling.

   But as much as Harry remained a gentleman to the end, he wasn’t entirely sure he would drop everything to call her tomorrow. Truth be told, he didn’t quite believe she really wanted him to.

   As Harry rode the Subway to the outskirts of Kyiv, to the apartment he was renting in the Nivki District, his thoughts wandered:
   'I’m her husband’s age, he reasoned. She made it clear she prefers men at least ten or fifteen years older. I listen, which is a big advantage. I’ve lived an adventurous life, and I know how to tell a story. But what does her millionaire husband look like? Probably tall, fit, with dark hair and sharp features. Or maybe he’s a bald, overweight man with gold-rimmed glasses and a cigar.
As for me, he reflected, I’m relatively fit. A few extra pounds don’t ruin me. I’m quick on my feet, adaptable. I could probably list a few more strengths, but they’re all negated by two glaring weaknesses. First, I’m not a millionaire. I could never give her the life she’s used to. And second… I’m married. The most I could offer her is friendship.'

   Harry stopped there. He ordered himself not to think about this woman.

   Over the past five days, he had managed to visit four Ukrainian regional centers, and now he planned to spend the remaining three days of his trip in the capital. His task in Ukraine was complete, the draft report written, and there were still a few days left before his flight home. Not wanting to waste them bored in his rented apartment, and more out of politeness than any real expectation, Harry pulled a slip of paper from his wallet. It had the phone number his airport companion, Natalya, had scribbled for him.

   “Finally!” came a worried voice as soon as Harry said the usual “Hello.”;“I’ve been waiting for your call. Where are you?”

   “I’m in Kyiv,” Harry replied.

   “Get on a minibus right away and head to Poltava. I’m waiting for you,” Natalya ordered.

   “Nat, it’s late. It’s already ten o’clock. How am I supposed to travel now?” Harry protested, hesitating. “Just think—by the time I get from Nyvky to the Central Station, find a minibus, and make the trip to Poltava, it’ll be at least seven hours. I’ll arrive in the morning ‘dead as a glacier.’ What are you going to do with me then?”

   “I’ll rent you an apartment for all three days. I don’t want to bring you to my mother’s house, sorry. Poltava is still like a big village. You can rest, and after lunch, I’ll show you the city. Please come. I really want to see you.”

   “Why don’t you come here instead?” Harry suggested half-heartedly, hoping she would decline.

   “Well, I could come, but not until the day after tomorrow. I have a meeting with the notary tomorrow to re-register the house. I’ll be free on Sunday, and we can spend two days together.”

   Those were the words any man would want to hear from a woman he liked, but they didn’t suit Harry. For reasons he couldn’t ignore, he couldn’t host her in Kyiv. He was meant to be the guest, not the host.

   “No, sweetheart, that’s too long. It’ll be better if I take the high-speed train tomorrow morning. I’ll be in Poltava by ten o’clock.”

   “Fine. I’ll meet you at the station,” she agreed.

   The so-called high-speed Kyiv-Kharkiv train stretched the definition of “high-speed.” This Korean-engineered marvel rarely exceeded 100 miles per hour during the three-hour journey to Poltava. Most of the time, the electronic board above the glass door flickered with speeds between 65 and 75 miles per hour. Still, the 190 miles between the capital and Poltava were covered in just three hours.

   The regional center greeted its visitors with a drizzle. The guest, armed with an umbrella, opted to wait for Natasha under the canopy at the main entrance instead of heading inside the station. Less than three minutes later, she appeared in his line of sight. As she got closer, she broke into a short run to avoid a puddle, then gracefully jumped over it.

   ‘Just like my favorite five-year-old mare, Sow French,’ Harry thought, stepping forward to meet her.

   Harry stepped forward to meet her, and they embraced, their umbrellas briefly tangling.

   Collided as they embraced, resembling lovers who hadn’t seen each other in ages. Aware of how they might look from the outside, both felt a twinge of embarrassment.

   ‘I’m in my fifties, but here I am, hugging and kissing someone else’s wife in the rain like a twenty-year-old fool,’ thought Harry.

   It seemed Natalya had a similar thought, as they both burst into laughter the moment they let go of each other.

   After a warm kiss, Natasha pulled back slightly, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

   "Are you satisfied with eating my lipstick?"

   "Yes, I am," Harry replied with a grin, wiping his smiling lips with a handkerchief.

   "Now, let’s go for a walk.” She said, taking him by the hand and leading him through the station square toward the Shopping Entertainment Center ‘Kiev’ on Kondratenko Street.

   They passed the center, strolled along the Cathedral, and reached the Glory Monument in Korpusny Garden. From there, they made their way to the Holy Dormition Cathedral, circled the monument to Ukraine’s new hero, Mazepa, and paused at the Poltava Galushka memorial sign. The rain kept alternating between stopping and turning into a drizzle. Harry was starting to tire of this sightseeing tour. Had it not been for Natasha’s company, the Washington resident would never have walked more than a few blocks along the city’s central streets. After encountering the first deep pothole at the intersection of Zenkovskaya and Kondratenko, he would have turned back to the station to wait for the return train.

   But Harry knew how much this city meant to his companion. He shared her feelings for a different regional center in Ukraine. After all, no beauty—be it in Rome, London, New York, or Guadalajara—could eclipse one’s love for the place where their youth unfolded. The gentleman from Washington patiently, and sometimes with genuine interest, listened to Natasha’s tale of the heroic defense of Ivanova Mountain, where the Rotunda of Friendship now stood. As they stood under its colonnade, Harry glanced around the Podol area before Natalya led him towards the Ivan Kotlyarevsky estate.

   "Would you like to go inside and see how the writer-poet-educator lived?" Natasha suggested.

   "Perhaps it's enough for me to familiarize myself with the classic quote: 'Where there is peace and quiet in the family, there are happy people and a blessed country...' The one that replaced the words about the brotherly love between the Ukrainian and Russian peoples at the Rotunda," Harry replied.
"Then we’ll go to the nearest caf; with Wi-Fi, take a break, and from there we can contact my friends," Natasha suggested.

   Harry raised his eyebrows in confusion.

   She elaborated: "We’re having lunch with some friends, as planned."

   "Who are they?" the man from Washington asked, clearly not wanting to waste time with uninteresting company.

   "A police sergeant from the local correctional center, a tax inspector, and a real estate broker," Natasha clarified, adding, "The police officer will be alone, and the tax inspector and broker will be with their spouses."

   "That sounds like a decent group. Could be interesting," Harry said.

   "Depends on how much alcohol is involved," Natalya added, her tone philosophical.

   At Olivia Caf; on Kotlyarevsky Street, the Wi-Fi signal was spotty, forcing the two to change halls twice and switch tables three times before finally catching a stable connection. After all the moving around the caf;’s basement, Natasha managed to reach her friend.

   "Don't worry about the money. We’ll buy everything we need for dinner for six," she reassured her classmate. "Seven people? Fine, seven it is. Who else is coming? Ah, got it. See you at the market entrance in fifteen minutes."

   "Every day they overcharge me by at least a thousand hryvnias," Natasha muttered as she finished her coffee from a tiny thimble cup, watching Harry's reaction to her words. "Today, they’ll drain you dry."
Harry took out his wallet, placed some cash on the table, and, after counting the bills with her, said, "There’s fifteen hundred here. If it’s not enough, I’ll use a credit card."

   "They accept cards. I've used mine there before. If not, I'll cover you."
Each moment spent together brought them closer. Natasha appreciated Harry’s willingness to contribute and enhance her reputation with her friends. She had no doubt she had already told them more about him than he had shared with her.

   "How did you introduce me to your friends?" Harry asked.

   "I told them you were a real colonel," she said with a smirk.

   "In general terms, yes, but you got the rank wrong."
   
   "Is it general?" she asked, feigning a laugh.

   "Sometimes I was part of a general's entourage," he joked.

   They didn’t have to wait long for the police sergeant at the entrance to the Central Market. As soon as Natalya and her companion emerged from the underpass beneath Evropeyskaya Street, they saw her.

   Moving heavily, her legs as thick as an elephant's, puffing like a steam engine, and dragging a frail teenager of about fifteen, the "gray cardinal" of the penal service approached them. Her swollen, puffy face hung over an enormous, shapeless chest. The loose white flesh swayed in waves beneath the obscenely low neckline of her sweater. Connoisseurs of the female form might have referred to her bust as "handbags," but Harry saw them as nothing more than sacks of occupation. Her knitted jacket was tucked into a pleated skirt—an attempt by the policewoman to emphasize a waist that had long since disappeared. The corrugation of the skirt only made her wide hips look even wider, and above the waistband, a roll of fat wrapped around her body, constrained by the limits of a size G bra.

   "Hello, friend," the woman immediately greeted Natasha, leaning in for a hug. "And is this him?"

   "It’s him," replied Natasha, averting her eyes, as if unused to the brashness of her former compatriots.

   "Nice to meet you. I'm Galina, and this is my son Valera," she said, words pouring from her mouth as her sharp eyes scanned Harry's face, clothes, watch, and shoes.

   "Jan Hus," Harry replied, fully confident that this woman had no clue who the Czech preacher from the 14th century was.

   Ten seconds later, the mound of fat, accustomed to commanding the lives of the condemned, had satisfied her professional curiosity and laid out her plan for the two guests from the Americas.

   "First, we'll go to the meat section for pork ribs. Then we'll buy vegetables from the stalls across the way, grab three bottles of vodka from the liquor store, and head to Oksanka's. She's waiting for us."

   The gentleman from Washington didn’t even have a chance to respond. He mulled over a couple of questions:;Why didn’t the sergeant ask if he even wanted to go to Oksana’s, a person he didn’t know? Did she really not care about the preferences of the people she was planning to dine with?

   Seeing Harry's slight bewilderment, Natasha took him by the arm and gently pulled him along after her panting friend, who was already heading into the vast market pavilion.

   "Why did you introduce yourself like that?" Natasha asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

   "I wanted to test how smart your friend is."

   "Test her?"

   "Yeah, she's not exactly a beacon of intelligence."

   "But why Jan Hus?"

   "That’s the name I’m known by in the eastern regions."

   "How?"

   "I send medicine through intermediaries to the Cossack National Guard in Donetsk." Wanting to avoid more questions, Harry quickly called out to Valera.

   The pale young man had lagged a few steps behind his mother, and when the couple caught up with him, Harry asked, "What grade are you in? And what do you plan to do after school?"

   "I'm in the eleventh grade. I’ll become a chef. I love cooking."

   Harry was a little surprised by this answer. Judging by the boy’s appearance, Harry would have expected him to dream of becoming a programmer, a database administrator, or maybe a web designer—not a chef. Trying to dissuade him, Harry said:

   "It’s not a bad profession, but it’s a tough one. You know, professional chefs are on their feet for eight hours a day, spinning around the kitchen, often without sitting down once. Their backs ache because they have to stand bent over for hours. And even when they leave the cutting board, it’s only to put a pan in the oven or take it off the stove, adding more strain to their backs. Plus, you’ve got the heat, oil fumes, the smell of spices, and frequent cuts on your hands—all of it takes a toll on your health. Chefs see minor injuries and back pain as just part of the job. Have you thought about that?"

   "No, I hadn't thought of that," the boy replied, frowning. "But I still want to be a chef."
 
   Natalya looked at Harry with curiosity. It seemed she was trying to figure out what he did for a living. Back at the Paris airport, when he discovered the woman of his dreams hadn’t worked in the last ten years, Harry decided not to ask her any questions about her education or professional activities in her homeland. In turn, she had shown a careful indifference to his own career.

   "Maybe you want to become a chef because your parents don’t let you express yourself?" Harry asked Valera.

   "No, they don’t restrict me. But they always cook the same things—just what they’re used to. I want to cook something different. I want to feed people delicious food, something they’ll really enjoy, not just stuff to fill their stomachs."

   "So, you're a bit of a rebel, huh? Good for you," Harry said, impressed by the boy's resolve.

   "Find a bigger piece," Galina barked at the butcher. "Yes, that one will do. Chop it along the ribs."

   "Two hundred and forty hryvnias," said the butcher, wrapping nearly a meter-long rack of pork ribs in pink paper.

   "Pay," Galina ordered Harry, not even turning to look at him as she moved further down the aisle.

   Harry paid and followed her to the vegetable section.

   "Did you get the meat?" she asked, turning back.

   "I’m not your husband to haul groceries around the market for you," Harry replied, maintaining his composure even though her arrogance was starting to get to him. "Since Valera is old enough to join the adults for drinks, he can carry the meat."

   "Valera, get the meat," Galina ordered, completely unfazed.

   After the group bought vegetables and herbs, Natasha reminded her friend about bread. Galina headed to the bread stall and picked up a loaf of chernushka before giving another command: "Give the seller seven hryvnias."
The order made Harry smile. He already knew that people in central Ukraine could be frugal, but this level of penny-pinching both surprised and amused him.
Jesus Christ. Harry thought to himself. Seven hryvnias is twenty-five cents, with the dollar at twenty-five to one—it’s hardly any money at all. How little must she make to get hung up on such pettiness?

   In the liquor store, a minor argument broke out between the women. Galya insisted that the guest should buy three bottles of vodka, but Natasha refused. She said she wouldn't drink vodka of questionable quality and would prefer Martini instead.

   "The likelihood of a fake Italian drink is much lower," she explained to her companion.

   Galya’s entire body seemed to quake with indignation as she argued that drinking low-alcohol beverages was a waste of money. However, the millionaire's wife stood her ground, firmly holding her position. It was unclear how the argument would have ended, but Harry intervened:

   "I’ll have Martini with Natasha."

   "Then buy three bottles of vodka and the Martini," Galya insisted, her excitement renewed.

   "No, two bottles," Natasha replied firmly, turning to Harry with a knowing look. "I know how it will end if we follow her lead."

   Galya fell silent, and the gentleman from Washington picked up two bottles of vodka, a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon, and a liter of Martini. Neither the Guadalajara native nor her American companion had to carry the alcohol far, and they didn’t break that tradition in Poltava either. With his arm around Natasha’s shoulders and her hand resting on his waist, Harry left the store with her, empty-handed. Valera, their little pack mule, was already burdened with bags of snacks and also left the store without touching the alcohol.

   Seeing the cooing couple and her son leaving without the liquor, Galya—cooling off in the fresh air—rushed back into the store. A minute later, she reappeared with a bag of bottles.

   "Have you called the taxi?" she asked, though not addressing anyone directly.

   "No," Natasha replied serenely. "You’re the one running the show, my friend pays for it, and I just enjoy his company. So, you call the taxi yourself."

   A light brown Opel with a blue tailgate and a slightly dented fender rolled up to the market within five minutes. It bore no markings to indicate it was a taxi.

   "Uber in action," Harry quipped, mimicking a South Ukrainian accent.

   Natasha laughed. "Exactly. Though I doubt they know the name. Most likely, these local drivers are just copying the idea illegally."

   "Should I open the trunk?" the cab driver surprised them by asking.

   "Is there a problem?" Harry replied.

   The Opel’s owner silently got out, took the bags from Valera and his mother, placed them in the trunk, and got back behind the wheel. After twenty minutes of bouncing over the potholed streets of Poltava, they reached their destination.

   "Thirty-two hryvnias for the ride, plus one hryvnia for the trunk," the driver said, puzzling Harry with his last statement. Harry handed him thirty-five, refusing the change, and asked:

   "What does ‘hryvnia for the trunk’ mean?"

   "I got out of the car, right? Opened the trunk, right? So, for that, I should get paid," the driver replied, surprised at the passenger’s ignorance.

   "Stunned. This is the first time I've heard that. If you come here at six and take me to the station, I'll give you forty."

   "I'll be there in ten minutes, I guarantee it," the Poltava resident assured him.

   The Opel drove off, and Galya and her son had already disappeared behind the green iron gates of the courtyard. Natasha stood waiting for Harry by the clay fence.

   "Well, what’s your impression?" she asked.

   Harry didn’t answer immediately. He looked around, taking in the surroundings.

   Squat huts, built in the mid-19th century, clustered on the slope of a hill that sloped down to the Vorskla River. The street had no pavement and was cut by a deep rut in the middle.

   Amazing how that German car that brought us here didn’t bottom out, Harry thought, but he said aloud, "Not exactly impressive."

   "I know," Natasha said softly, a hint of sadness in her voice, "but I grew up here."

   Harry walked over and kissed her on the cheek. Just a few steps away, the homeowner’s two daughters were playing on the ground. One looked about twelve, the other around eight. They giggled at the sight of the innocent kiss.

   "You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Let’s go inside, and you can introduce me to the owners."

   As soon as they stepped behind the high fence, a strong stench of human waste hit their noses. Harry was sure the successful real estate broker had a bathroom inside the house. A woman in her position wouldn’t be using an outdoor toilet.

   Maybe they’re fertilizing the garden with manure, he thought. Or the wind’s bringing the smell over from the neighbors.

   Unable to find a better explanation, he left the thought behind as they entered the courtyard. Leaving Natasha in the yard, he stepped into the house.

   The hostess, Oksana, came out from the kitchen to greet him. She introduced herself and offered him a brief tour of her home. Oksana was an attractive woman, short with a curvy figure. The slight fat rolls at her sides and her small belly didn’t detract from her overall appeal. She had a pleasant, friendly face. As she led him through the rooms, Harry noticed an abundance of her handicrafts displayed on shelves, in cabinets, and behind glass doors. Most were three-dimensional puzzles—miniature versions of landmarks like the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, St. Basil’s Cathedral, Manhattan’s skyline, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and the Odessa Opera House. Harry recognized them all, and while they were impressive, they held little interest for him. He had seen the real thing.

   After thanking Oksana for the tour, Harry sat down on the sofa and pulled out his laptop. He typed up a few sketches of his impressions of Poltava, uploaded photos of the city’s notable sights, and then headed back outside to join Natasha in the courtyard.

   To Harry's surprise, the unpleasant smell had vanished. Either he had gotten used to it, or the wind had shifted. By this time, the rain had also stopped, and these two improvements lifted the traveler's spirits.

   His mood had been slightly dampened the night before. After a phone call with Natalia around nine, things hadn’t gone quite as he’d hoped. He had called to let her know that he’d bought train tickets and would be arriving early in the morning. In an apologetic tone, she explained, "I’ve started my period unexpectedly. According to the plan, it wasn’t supposed to happen for another three days, but I think the long flights, the change in climate, and time zones threw my body off. I’m sorry. I really want to see you, but tomorrow won’t work for that."

   "Hey, I’m not handing the tickets back," Harry replied. "Sure, I was looking forward to being intimate, but I’m ready to have a great day with you even without it. So, nothing changes. I’ll see you at the station in the morning."

   That morning, the weather hadn’t been on their side, as Mother Nature decided to drench the citizens of Poltava with a steady drizzle for half the day. By two in the afternoon, the clouds finally tired out. Though they remained heavy in the sky, the rain had stopped.

   Standing at the threshold of the house, Harry looked out into the yard. A young man, probably in his early twenties, stood by the brazier, turning over pork ribs with long tongs. He was lean and wiry, his face set in a brooding expression, fully focused on the meat. Next to him, a man in his forties was giving advice on how to handle the coals. The young man didn’t respond, and it was hard to tell if he was following the advice or simply ignoring it.

   In the corner of the courtyard, four women were setting the table beneath a makeshift shelter—a garage roof held up by pipes dug into the ground. The garage had one wall and a gate, with the other sides open to the house and garden. Oksana, Natasha, and the wife of the forty-year-old advisor moved back and forth between the kitchen and the garage, bringing dishes, cutlery, and snacks. Galya sat at the table, cutting vegetables, sausage, cheese, and bread. Her son and Oksana’s three children played inside the house, occasionally running outside to complain to their parents about one another.

   Between the brazier and the garage stood a small decorative fountain. Harry suspected it was the pride of the young man tending the grill and probably the envy of the neighbors. It wasn’t much to look at—a clay jug mounted a foot above a stone-lined basin, from which a thin stream of water flowed. Despite its simplicity, the fountain's little pump kept the water gurgling, and the sound seemed to charm the Poltava residents.

   Less than an hour after the guests had arrived, everyone was invited to dinner. The young man took the head of the table, with Harry seated to his right in the place of honor, and Oksana to his left. As Harry looked between the hostess and her husband, it struck him that the young man seemed more like Oksana’s fourth child than her spouse. It was a significant mistake, one that would later have a notable impact on the course of events.

   When the young man approached the table, Harry was already seated, opening bottles of alcohol. The owner extended his hand in greeting and introduced himself. In response, Harry, without standing up, shook the young man’s hand and gave his real name, then went back to unscrewing the cork on a bottle of American whiskey—now blended with the essence of Poltava.

   After everyone had been served and raised their glasses for a first toast to mark the occasion, they quickly downed the shots and began eating. Turning to Sergei, who was seated next to him, Harry asked:

   "So, what do you do?"

   "I’m a driver," Sergei replied curtly, flexing his bare arms. He was dressed in a T-shirt and worn-out sweatpants, clearly not in the mood to chat with the guest.

   But Harry wasn’t concerned with his unwillingness to engage; he had his own agenda.

   "Where do you work?"
   
   "I drive my wife around for her business." Sergei nodded in the direction of Oksana.

   Harry’s curiosity about Sergei—the local term for someone in his position was "primak" (a man who marries into a woman’s family and takes her surname)—evaporated instantly. Everything clicked into place like a three-dimensional puzzle, much like the ones he had seen in Oksana’s house.

   Oksana, a forty-year-old real estate agent with three children, had a house on the outskirts of Poltava. To help her business, she’d hired a young man, likely in his early twenties, with a Lada sedan. During their professional relationship, it seemed she had convinced him to take over not just her household but her children as well. A once free and handsome young man had overnight become the head of a ready-made family.

   Theoretically, respect should have come with the role, but it hadn’t. Everyone in their circle knew exactly who was in charge—and it wasn’t Sergei. No one cared that at night, it was Sergei who lay next to Oksana; what mattered was the visible power dynamic, and everyone knew Oksana held the reins.

   'I’m the one in charge here, period,' Sergei's thoughts might have gone. 'It doesn’t matter that my wife’s friend’s husband is showing me how to grill ribs, or that this arrogant guest didn’t even bother to stand when he greeted me. He didn’t approach me first when he crossed the threshold, as is proper. He didn’t compliment my house or the yard I built with my own hands. It’s like I don’t exist. All the while, I’ve done so much to make sure the neighbors envy Oksana and me. I built the garage and the fountain. I take care of the garden because my dear wife can’t afford to get her hands dirty—those hands are the calling card of our family business. And now, this foreigner sits at our table, pouring the local booze for everyone while sipping Italian Martini with Natasha. What a pretentious jerk. Though, probably not a jerk. He wouldn’t be known to that Mexican millionaire if he was. Maybe he’s rich like Natasha’s husband. I heard he paid for everything on the table without blinking. Interesting. What does he want here?'

   Though Harry couldn’t read Sergei’s mind, the thoughts were written all over his face. The tense, brooding expression of the man sitting next to him, coupled with the sharp fork in his right hand, kept Harry on alert. He made sure to keep an eye on Sergei’s movements, even if only from the corner of his eye.

   At this point, three participants at the table had become engrossed in a conversation about corruption in the country, particularly in Poltava. They took turns expressing their frustrations, and Harry caught fragments of the exchange from police sergeant Galina, tax inspector Mykola, and real estate broker Oksana. As Harry listened to their discussion about how bribes and “problem-solving fees” had tripled, he became increasingly convinced that the fight against corruption in Ukraine was, paradoxically, making things worse. Those at the table placed the blame squarely on the creation of an anti-corruption committee.

   "Another layer has been added to the money flow going up the ladder," Mykola said, his voice thick with alcohol. "Young, greedy, and arrogant. Now you have to grease the wheels with them in mind, too."

   Mykola, Harry observed, looked like a seasoned alcoholic, while his wife Maria reminded him of a caterpillar. This impression had formed the moment he saw her.
 
   Her red dress clung to her small chest, three rolls of fat beneath, and her protruding belly. Her bulk seemed evenly distributed between her torso and bust. Though she didn’t participate in the heated discussion, her round face and small eyes were fixed on Natasha. But Harry noticed that Maria’s gaze wasn’t truly on Natasha—it was on him.

   Maria quietly talked with Natasha, reminiscing about something that had happened fifteen years ago. As she offered profuse thanks to Natasha for an invaluable service rendered years ago, her eyes never left Harry, and it seemed to him that her mind was elsewhere.

   She’s thinking about something completely unrelated to what she’s saying to Natasha, Harry thought.

   Drunk and no longer exercising her usual professional caution, Galina agreed with Mykola’s take on the country’s corruption. She turned to Harry and, without hesitation, said:

   "If you need to get someone locked up or avoid jail time yourself, you come to me. It’ll cost more than before, but since you’re Natasha’s man, we’ll give you a discount."

   “He’s not my boyfriend,” Natasha quickly clarified.

   Oksana, cheerful and leaning across the table with both arms outstretched toward Harry and Natasha, joined in: "What are you holding back for? I’ll send the kids outside right now, and you can take him into the house—any room will do!"

   "She can’t today," Galina interjected, biting into a juicy piece of meat. She wiped her mouth with a greasy napkin and added with a grin, "She can’t."

   Natasha lowered her head, and Harry could see her shame in the gesture. It seemed as though she wished the ground would swallow her up. Her best friends were casually discussing her menstruation in front of the young man hosting this gathering, the tax inspector’s husband, whom Natasha had only met twice before—and the man she had unexpectedly reconnected with in Paris. It wasn’t even the fact that they were talking about her intimate life with strangers; it was the crushing realization of what the person she had thought about almost daily for the past week must now think of her.

   "Oh, I beg you!" Oksana added fuel to the fire. "If you can’t do it the usual way, just go ‘retroactively’ or ‘verbally.’"

   Natasha's face turned crimson. She couldn’t stop her drunk friends, and Oksana’s vulgar insinuation about anal or oral sex had everyone laughing—except the gentleman from Washington and Natasha. To defuse the situation, Harry rose from the table and walked into the house.

   "See that?" Oksana continued, loudly calling after him. "He’s already gone inside to wait for you!"

   Five minutes later, Natasha came into the room where Harry was sitting, staring at his laptop.

   "Sorry about them. And about me too," she said, wrapping her arms around his strong neck and pressing herself against him.

   "You don’t need to apologize," Harry gently pulled her back, meeting her gaze. "For them, it’s all about instant gratification—momentary profit or pleasure. Their motto is 'Here and Now,' and that’s how they live. I’m not like that. I didn’t travel 200 miles just for a quick fling in Poltava. I came to understand you better, to see if we can be friends. That’s what brought me here."

   "There are 2,000 miles between our cities," she replied, her voice tinged with sadness. "How do you imagine this friendship?"

   "I don’t see thousands of miles," Harry responded. "I see a four-hour flight. The cost of continuing our relationship is just $700—that’s what round-trip tickets cost, Natasha. And that’s nothing. I can even buy a house in Mexico, within 60 miles of yours. The question is: do you want that?"

   "Yes, I want it," she answered quietly, her voice thoughtful. "I need a real outlet, a true friend who won’t betray me no matter what. I’m exhausted from pretending to be the loyal, loving wife of this Mexican macho. I’m sick of putting on a show for his mother and all of his relatives."

   "Can’t you solve the problem with your husband in a more... final way?" Harry asked, his meaning clear.

   Natasha looked deeply into Harry’s eyes, then slowly pulled back until she was at arm’s length. In a quiet voice, she said:

   "No. That won’t change anything. He’s the only one protecting me from his family. If he’s gone, I won’t survive a week. You have to understand, I can’t even leave him. All the money is his. Without him, I’m nothing, no one. I’m a complete outsider in Mexico. I’ve lived there for ten years, and I still only speak English with him. But I won’t come back here to these Poltava fools, either."

   "Your opinion about your friends is absolutely right, but I don’t understand why you still spend time with them," Harry said.

   "There’s no one else," Natasha replied with a sigh. "And they know how to get things done. They know all the ins and outs. Take Galya, for example. She’s known as the 'gray cardinal' of the Poltava penitentiary system. Every document for convicted citizens in the region passes through her hands. She’s got great connections in both business and the underworld. I wouldn’t have been able to get my house in my name in three months, but she and Oksana sorted it out in three days, and it only cost $500. Now, for the next three weeks until I leave, I’ll have to put up with their company. Maybe you can extend your vacation and stay for at least a week?"

   "I can’t, Natasha. I have to be back at work in two days. Do you know the English word 'must'?"

   "Yes."
   
   "Well, this is one of those cases."

   "It’s a pity," she murmured. Just then, Galina’s drunken voice echoed from the hallway.

   "What’s a pity? The vodka’s run out—that’s a pity! Forget everything else. Sergey! Where are you?"

   "Here I am," the host called out from behind the door leading into the room.
Neither Harry nor Natasha had noticed Sergey and Galina inside the house. Good thing we kept our conversation quiet, and the door was closed, Harry thought. Sergey snuck in to spy on whether Natalia would please me—not to eavesdrop on her family secrets.

   "Give Sergey some money," Galina slurred as Harry and Natasha walked into the kitchen. "Let him go buy a couple more bottles."

   "Don’t give him any," Natasha shook her head. "It’ll just make things worse."
Realizing he wouldn’t get money for more booze, Sergey went out into the yard. Galina, still not giving up, turned to Natasha.

   "Are you mad at me or something? I’m sorry, friend."

   "For what?" Natasha asked, surprised.

   "For not waking you up yesterday at eight like you asked."

   "I spent the night at my mother’s while a professional cleaning crew disinfected our house," Natasha explained, adding, "I’m not upset—just calm down, Galya."

   Natasha didn’t feel guilty about anything, but her apology was a way to segue into what she really wanted to say.

   "My husband kept me in bed for almost an hour that morning, so I didn’t wake her up. I didn’t want to stop his labor over me. Because of that, she missed her appointment with the notary, and she’s still sulking at me for it."

   "Well, your husband’s got it right, and congratulations to you too," Harry responded. He then gently took the hefty, drunk woman by the shoulders and led her outside, saying, "Let’s get some fresh air and keep the party going."
Natasha lingered in the kitchen, while Galya wandered off somewhere beyond the gate. Harry returned to the garage, but neither the tax officer nor Sergey was there.

   "Where did Sergey and your husband go?" he asked Maria, who sat alone, pouring the last of the vodka into her glass.

   "He’s not my husband at all," she said playfully, sliding her chair closer to Harry.

   "I thought you were married. I was going to compliment him on his bravery. Not everyone would openly accuse a former head of the Security Service of Ukraine of bribery," Harry said, genuinely impressed.

   "Courage?" Maria scoffed. "He’s the biggest coward. His wife is in Italy, wiping old women’s asses, and she’s not planning on coming back. Meanwhile, he’s using me here, and he won’t even marry me."

   "Why doesn’t his wife plan to return?" Harry asked, intrigued.

   "Because she’s screwing the son of the old woman she looks after," Maria said bitterly. "She’s hoping he’ll marry her so she can stay in Italy forever. Mykola told me himself. I’m here, taking care of him and their kids. I clean, cook, and serve him in bed. And he still won’t divorce her. She sends him a lot of money from Italy. That’s why."

   With a deep sense of hurt, Maria downed a third of her vodka in one gulp. Then she suddenly asked, "Are you married? Or maybe you just want me? I’ll give it to you right here and now, since Natasha can’t today."

   Harry noticed Maria’s button-like eyes sparkling playfully, her lips stretching into a voluptuous smile. With surprising agility, she began trying to slide under the table at his feet.

   "Another time," Harry said gently, grabbing her by the shoulders and guiding her back into her chair.

   Just then, Natasha emerged from the house, carefully navigating the stone slabs in her high heels as she approached the garage’s shelter.

   "Looks like Maria didn’t have time to 'orally' please my man," Natasha teased with a smile. "But she sure gave it a try. What a sly little thing."

   Mykola’s mistress shrank, mumbling something incoherent as she slipped through the half-open garage doors and disappeared into the street.

   "You didn’t have to be so harsh on her," Harry said. "She’s just unhappy and not very bright. Be kind. And don’t worry about me—I wasn’t born in a trash heap to sink that low."

   "Don’t worry about her," Natasha replied. "She’ll cross the road, have a shot of moonshine, and forget everything. Over at Mykola’s house, the rest of the crew is already knocking back drinks."

   "Wait—you’re saying your friends drank everything here and quietly snuck off to the next house to keep the party going?"

   "Exactly. But they’ll be back soon—the food’s still here."

   "I’m surprised by the local customs."

   "Think of it as an intermission. The second act will begin shortly," Natasha said with a knowing grin as she poured the last of the Martini into wine glasses.
   
   "But while we’ve got a moment, let’s toast to our meeting."

   "Let’s."

   They finished off the Bianco vermouth, chewing the lemon slices soaked in it, and looked at each other with a quiet sadness. The courtyard was still, the only sound coming from the trickle of water in the homemade fountain. Neither felt like speaking. What could they say, with only a couple of hours left before parting? There was nothing between them—no promises they could make. Yet the weight of the moment was heavy. The future of their relationship seemed uncertain, distant, like a fading dream they both knew might not survive.

   Suddenly, five of the Poltava locals burst back through the gate, noisily reclaiming their seats around the table. They dove into the food—boiled young potatoes sprinkled with dill, lightly salted cucumbers, half-smoked sausage, and bacon. The young host, Sergei, plucked sauerkraut from a bowl, shaking his hand dramatically over it to let the excess brine drip back. Each time, before taking a bite, he flung his head back like a gander, greedily swallowing the white cabbage strands flecked with red carrot shreds. His sharp Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, making his resemblance to a bird even more pronounced.

   Galya, having satisfied her hunger—or rather, pacified the moonshine clawing at her stomach—suddenly began to sing:

   “Carry the water, Galya, the yoke bends down,
   And behind her, Yvanko creeps like the periwinkle.”

   Mykola joined in, his deep voice rumbling as he put a hand on the sergeant’s broad shoulder and lifted it higher:

   “Galya, my Galya, let me drink your water,
   You’re so good, grant me a little favor.”

   From that point, a concert of Ukrainian folk songs broke out. Harry didn’t join in and, after thirty minutes of enduring the singing, decided it was time to act. His taxi would arrive soon, but he still had one goal: to gauge the political pulse of the Central Ukrainian countryside. He planned a small provocation.

   Rising from his chair, Harry tapped a fork against his glass and announced,
   
   "Now it’s my turn."

   The crowd went quiet, and Harry, in a well-practiced baritone, began to sing
"The Song of Lenin"—a tune he remembered from his choral lessons in the 1980s:

   "Lenin called the peoples to friendship and peace,
   We are faithful to Lenin's bright behests.
   And we are inspired in a victorious movement,
   By the mighty Party of our country."

   The first to react was Sergei, who jumped up and shouted, "I’ve got separatists in my house!" before darting toward the garage door.
 
   Mykola chased after him.

   The women at the table erupted in laughter and, as if drawn by nostalgia, began to sing:
 
   "Eh, it’s good to live in the Soviet country!
   Eh, it’s good to be loved by the country!
   Eh, it’s good to be useful to the country,
   Wearing the red tie with pride!"
 
   After a short dash down the street, failing to gather enough backup to confront the supposed "separatist," Sergei and the others returned, immediately rushing under the roof to hurl insults.

   "Why is he so worked up?" Harry asked Oksana, ignoring Sergei, who was hopping with rage in his worn-out sweatpants. "Can’t take a joke?"

   "Go to manda with your jokes!" Sergei shouted at Harry, though he didn’t stray far from the garage door, staying close just in case. "I’m a patriot of Ukraine! I’m ready to die for it, and now a communist sits at my table. It’s a disgrace to the whole neighborhood!"

   Natasha couldn’t tolerate the nonsense any longer and turned to Sergei, her voice calm but sharp.

   "You don’t even know who he is, and yet you’re spouting complete garbage."

   "Sending me to manda doesn’t make any sense. You have no idea what you're talking about," Harry added with a smirk.

   "I see it and screw it every day!" Sergei spat, still fuming.

   "Sonny, what you ‘screw every day’ isn’t what you think it is," Harry said, his tone steady but mocking. "The word you’re so proud to misuse, manda, actually sounds like the French phrase de monde, which means ‘world.’ So, according to you, you ‘screw the world every day.’ Doesn’t make much sense, does it?"

   At that, Sergei’s bravado faded, and he slunk out of sight, with Mykola following close behind.

   Natasha turned to Harry and asked for the taxi driver’s phone number, quickly arranging for him to pick them up.

   Meanwhile, Oksana, still intrigued, asked about the origins of the Russian meaning of the word manda.

   "In the Orsay Museum in Paris, there’s a famous painting by Gustave Courbet titled L'Origine du Monde," Harry began, slipping into a brief art lecture. "It shows a naked woman lying on silk sheets. The focal point is a detailed depiction of an unshaved vulva."

   "What?" Maria, the tax officer’s lover, exclaimed, clearly lost.

   "Vagina," Natasha muttered through clenched teeth.

   "The title of the painting sounds like 'Original Manda' to Russians unfamiliar with French, but the correct translation is 'The Origin of the World.'"

   To Harry’s surprise, Galya suddenly seemed to sober up. Trying to smooth things over, she turned to him.

   "Don’t leave—he’s not mad at you, he’s mad at us. For singing that Pioneer song. Ksenia, why are you sitting there? Go calm him down and bring him back."

   "Celebrate without us," Harry replied, his tone final. "Natasha and I will leave as soon as the taxi gets here."

   "Who’s going to take me home?" Galina asked plaintively.

   "Stay here and enjoy the party. There’s still plenty of food, and the neighbors have moonshine. You’ll be fine," Harry said, dismissing her concerns.

   "I’m not going alone! And where’s my son?" Galya cried, frantically looking around. "Valera!?"

   As she wandered off in search of her son, Harry turned to Natasha, shaking his head.

   "I don’t get it. Can’t she make her way home in her own town?" Harry asked.

   “The problem is that most cops stopped paying for things themselves ages ago,” Natasha explained. “If there’s someone around with money, they’ll use that person every time.”

   "Natasha, I understand that mentality when it comes to big amounts. But what I don’t get is why someone who takes hundreds of dollars in bribes can’t pay a taxi driver a dollar and a half for a ride."

   "You don’t get it because you think differently. For them, it’s a matter of principle. A cop at a buffet won’t pay for coffee if a friend is nearby. She even made you pay for bread at the market, remember? You think she didn’t have seven hryvnias? That’s twenty-five cents! I just gave her three hundred dollars two days ago for handling part of my parents’ house paperwork. That’s about seven and a half thousand in Ukrainian currency—her monthly salary. Let’s say she gave half to someone who helped her, but she still kept plenty. And we’ve known her since first grade. I’m not offended. I know this system has shaped her into who she is.”

   As Natasha explained Galya’s behavior, an Opel with a blue door pulled up to the house. Harry and Natasha climbed into the backseat and waited for Galya and her son. When they finally arrived, Galya squeezed into the front passenger seat, bringing along her 14-year-old son and his girlfriend.

   In the cramped backseat, Natasha, Harry, and the two teenagers made light of the situation, playfully teasing the kids, and no one mentioned the earlier drama.

   It wasn’t until they arrived at the train station that Natasha brought it up again.

   "I still have one question," she said thoughtfully. "Why did you pull that provocation?"

   Harry, an officer from the U.S. State Department’s Intelligence and Research Bureau for Europe and Eurasia, could have explained his reasons in detail, but there wasn’t time for that. Instead, he gave her a simplified version.

   “I see several sources of tension within Ukraine. I didn’t have time to explore them all, but I wanted to test one theory by the end of the night. When your friends got drunk enough to lose their filters, I tested my hypothesis about generational conflict.”

   "And what did you find?"

   "I found that the internal conflict in central Ukraine isn’t rooted in nationalism—or at least not just in Ukrainian and Russian tensions. It’s deeper than that. It’s about the younger generation rejecting what the older generation holds dear."

   Natasha nodded, reflecting. "Sergei’s reaction was over the top. But are you serious about the manda thing, or did you just make that up on the spot?"

   Harry chuckled. "Sergei’s reaction wasn’t abnormal. Don’t forget, he’s in his early twenties. He grew up rejecting everything Soviet. I’m sure if he had a few peers there, it would’ve turned into a fight. He just didn’t want to take me on alone. As for the manda," Harry grinned, "I made it up on the fly. But the word has existed in Russia since the 13th century. There was even a village called Mandino in Muscovy in the 15th century. And yes, the painting does exist—in the Orsay gallery, on the second floor of the left wing."

   "Got it," Natasha said, turning away to hide her tears. "So, you were here on duty."

   "No, Natasha. I came here to meet you. I just happened to take the opportunity to run an experiment."

    A voice over the loudspeaker announced, "High-speed train 721-O, Kharkiv to Kyiv, is now boarding at platform one. The train will stop for one minute. Carriage numbering begins from the front."

   "You have to go," Natasha said softly.

   "Yes," Harry replied. He kissed her and, without looking back, walked to his carriage.

   As he stepped onto the train, Harry turned and called out, "I’ll come to Guadalajara!"

   But Natasha had already disappeared into the twilight that had fallen over the city.