Vera Ivа́novna stood before the mirror, and what she saw displeased her greatly. A gray-haired old woman stared back at her. She had long since abandoned the pointless struggle against swiftly running time, yet complete acceptance still eluded her.
“Why do they say time takes its own?” she thought. “Time takes what belongs to others.”
Time had stolen her youth—craftily, silently.
Vera Ivа́novna had no patience for the so-called “cheerful old ladies” who endlessly try to look younger, displaying their public optimism and that famous “youthful soul.” To her, it all seemed like childish posturing. She disliked the opposite type just as much—those who grumble endlessly, insisting that everything had been better before and that princes once fell at their feet by the dozen.
People said Vera Ivа́novna lacked social life. They were wrong. She had the best companions in the world—books. Reading had always been her passion. She devoured novels, and remembered the nineties with unexpected fondness: a flood of previously inaccessible literature suddenly poured into the country.
Often Vera Ivа́novna imagined herself as the heroine of whichever story she was reading, and the world around her shifted to resemble the novel’s universe. As a girl, she fancied herself Aleksander Grin’s Assо́ly, and even her ordinary street looked like a road to Liss or Zurbagan. When she imagined herself as Patricia Holman from Remarque’s Three Comrades, she felt tubercular, and the entire world grew strangely black-and-white. Over her long life she’d tried on many women’s fates.
People usually say about women like her: “Life didn’t work out…”
But she never felt that way. So what if she never had a family or children? She had known other kinds of happiness—rare moments, yes, but all the more precious now.
***
It happened almost half a century ago at the Moscow Hippodrome. Her neighbor, Petya—a second-category jockey—had taken her there. He liked Vera Ivа́novna and tried to court her, awkwardly but persistently. Once he’d even given her a real horseshoe for luck. Vera Ivа́novna carried it with her to the races for years.
She liked the hippodrome. She wasn’t a gambler, but the place contained elements of a life not entirely of this world. No, it wasn’t Ascot with its strict dress code forbidding skirts above the knee and requiring ladies to wear hats, where gentlemen could only remove their tailcoats if the temperature rose above +30°C. But still—Vera Ivа́novna enjoyed the tribunes, the vestibules, and even the solemn announcement:
“For mutual betting settlements…”
It felt like a message from another reality.
She pored over the program with genuine interest. The horses’ names fascinated her: they had to include syllables from both mother and father. Classy Lad, Collector, Brownie, Real Girl, Laviola Lok.
She sometimes thought one could write an entire story just from listing horse names—and planned to do it someday, though never found time for that.
She also loved reading the jockeys’ colors: “White jacket and helmet, yellow-and-blue angle on the back,” or “Black jacket with white, green yoke, white helmet,” or simply “Red jacket and helmet.” It all seemed like an echo of knightly times. In truth, the master jockey wore the main colors, while his boys—first and second category—were required to include them in their own jackets.
At first, Vera Ivа́novna felt like Anna Karenina on the hippodrome. But Vronsky was nowhere in sight—not then, not on the horizon.
She bet small amounts, with mixed results, usually going home with the same sum she’d arrived with. She didn’t overthink her choices—mostly trusted her intuition. But she did have her favorite horses.
Passing a man bent over the program, desperately trying to calculate something, she remarked:
“Bet on Travka.”
Travka was her favorite at the moment—a bay mare, small, neat, and graceful.
The man looked up in surprise and rushed to the cashier.
The gong rang, the starting machine rolled forward, and the race began. The tribunes fell silent with anticipation.
“Mecenat takes the lead, Travka in second place,” the announcer called.
“…Mecenat falters!”
A roar swept the stands. Mecenat was the favorite—many had bet on him.
“…Mecenat breaks into a gallop and will be disqualified. Travka leads. Covenant’s Ark in second.”
“Travka finishes first. Covenant’s Ark a neck behind.”
The hippodrome buzzed. Instead of the obvious favorite, an “unpromising” mare had crossed the finish line first.
Vera Ivа́novna had bet on Travka, and even the single win paid quite well. Those who’d combined Travka into double or triple bets would receive handsome sums.
The losers grumbled, as always: “The race was bought. Mecenat stumbled on purpose.”
What losers always say.
The man she’d advised was waiting for her at the exit.
“I’d like to take you to dinner.”
“Why? You don’t even know me.”
“You told me about Travka. I won, and I want to thank you.”
They went to the restaurant Begа́. It was a democratic place in those days. You could see an old fellow in felt boots and a padded jacket sitting next to ladies in evening gowns with diamond necklaces. Mostly winners—or those who had lost everything.
Vera Ivа́novna ’s companion ordered black caviar, sturgeon, expensive cognac, Chicken Kiev.
They talked. His name was Konstantin, an architect at one of the Mosproject institutes. His wife had left him two years earlier—a fact he didn’t seem to mourn.
For dessert they brought a glowing pineapple: a hollowed pineapple with holes carved in its shell, a candle burning inside, slices arranged around it. It cost a fortune. Vera Ivа́novna scolded him for such extravagance.
“Easy money is cursed,” he said. “It brings no happiness. Better spend it quickly.”
And he was very good at that.
Several men from the Caucasus asked Vera Ivа́novna to dance. She didn’t refuse—she liked attention. But they grew increasingly persistent, and it was getting late. Konstantin walked her home. He kept his hand closed around something, and Vera Ivа́novna asked what it was.
“A knife. I stole it from the restaurant in case those Caucasian guys follow us. To protect you.”
Vera Ivа́novna burst out laughing and couldn’t stop. The knife was practically decorative—completely useless. But it was nice, she thought, to have even such a “decorative” protector.
They began seeing each other, going to the races together. Once Konstantin invited her to a postmodern art exhibition where his painting was displayed. Like many architects, he dabbled in fine arts. The piece was titled Portrait of My Wife and depicted a woman’s backside wrapped in cobwebs. Vera Ivа́novna suspected it was his refined revenge on his ex-wife, but he muttered something about spiritual vision.
Soon they moved in together. Vera Ivа́novna felt happy, though always with an odd sense of living someone else’s life—as if this wasn’t really happening to her. And soon enough the novelty faded, and routine wore them down. A year later they parted peacefully, without scandal. Life had happened—now it was time to move on.
Before leaving, Konstantin asked for something to remember her by. She gave him her cherished horseshoe. They never met again.
Through mutual acquaintances she later heard he’d emigrated, lived in America, remarried, had children—and perhaps grandchildren by now.
She never attempted to find him, though in the age of social networks it would have been simple. She didn’t know why she remembered all this today. She didn’t complain about fate—it was useless anyway. Nothing could be changed. And yet… her heart gave a small tremor.
***
The doorbell rang. A middle-aged woman stood outside. Though these days “middle-aged” meant very little. The expression “Balzac age” had come into use after The Thirty-Year-Old Woman. Now thirty was still practically youth. Gogol’s Pulcheria Ivanovna from Old-World Landowners was only fifty-five. There she was already an ancient crone; today she wouldn’t even qualify for retirement. Pushkin’s Maria Gavrilovna from The Captain’s Daughter was “no longer young” at twenty.
“Vera Ivа́novna?”
“Yes.”
“Forgive me for coming without notice. I’m here on behalf of Konstantin Mikhailovich Glazyev. Do you remember him?”
Remember him?
She had just been thinking about him. It felt like pure mysticism.
“How… how is he?” Vera Ivа́novna asked hoarsely. Emotion stole her voice.
“He passed away three months ago. I am his daughter—my name is Vera. He knew he was dying. And he asked me, when I next come to Moscow—I travel here often for work—to give you this.”
She took a small box from her handbag and handed it over.
Inside lay the very same horseshoe Vera Ivа́novna had given Konstantin nearly fifty years ago.
“Father said this horseshoe brought him happiness. He wanted to thank you. I don’t know you, but he spoke of you often. I’m in Russia a lot. If you ever need anything—anything at all—tell me.”
Vera Ivа́novna didn’t need anything. She felt something she had not felt in decades: someone had remembered her. Someone had thought about her. And soon, perhaps, they would meet again in heaven—a place she did not believe in.
***
Since then, young Vera visited Vera Ivanovna every time she was in Moscow. They spoke for hours; sometimes they would go to the theater.
Now Vera Ivа́novna had a new goal in life—to live until the next visit.
So far, she was managing.
Elena Kuchina
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