Marta was given that name because she was born on the eighth of March. Her mother, a Russian language and literature teacher in a small village, was already thirty-three at the time. She was a beauty—tall, with large expressive eyes—but her personal life never worked out: she never married. To this day, Marta did not know who her father was—her mother never told her.
The girl had been drawing ever since she learned how to hold a pencil: the sky, flowers, the sun, her mother—everything she saw. As Marta grew, her passion grew with her. She began to dream of attending an art college. Her talent was undeniable, but she was not accepted. They told her she “didn’t know how to see the world correctly.”
Marta managed to get a job at a city restoration workshop. The work was meticulous and demanding, but it suited her, and she did it wonderfully.
One day a young, handsome man brought an old icon in for restoration. His name was Alex, and he was graduating from a construction institute. He had found the icon in an old apartment where students were doing renovation work on the side.
That was how Marta and Alex met. And they fell in love with each other at first sight. Their love was great and real. Three months later, they got married.
They had nowhere to live at first, as both were newcomers to the city. Alex lived in a student dormitory, so the young couple had to rent an apartment. It was very hard—almost all their money went toward rent. Marta decided to leave the restoration workshop and take another job that paid more; a friend helped her get a position as a sales manager at a company.
When Alex received his diploma, he found a job at a construction firm. His career quickly took off, and soon they were given an apartment—bright, spacious, with a balcony and a loggia, and even a view of the river. His company helped him with housing.
***
Five years passed. Marta and Alex lived happily, but for some reason they had no children. Doctors told them, “You’re healthy. Just wait—they’ll come.”
Life went on as usual: work, household chores. Everything seemed fine! They didn’t quarrel, they loved each other. Marta was only slightly irritated by the fact that Alex often found fault with the food.
“I want a pie like my mom’s!”
“I want borscht like hers. I want mamaliga.”
That mamaliga—a corn porridge—drove Marta to hysteria. She didn’t know how to cook it; his mother did, all the time! And yet Marta baked wonderful pies, made great cutlets and pâtés.
One day they had a fight. Apparently over that very mamaliga. That morning, she had made delicious chops and buckwheat porridge, generously buttered. And he said:
“I want my mom’s mamaliga!”
And pushed the plate away.
Marta flared up, grabbed the plate, and threw the buckwheat porridge straight in his face. A scandal erupted. They almost came to blows. It was the first time anything like that had happened in all their years of marriage. They argued almost the entire night, forgetting what had started it. Exhausted, they kept recalling new reasons to continue the fight. They didn’t have dinner, didn’t watch TV—only argued and argued.
At last, just before dawn, Alex couldn’t take it anymore. Marta had locked herself in the room and sat silently, staring out the window. There were no more tears, no more shouting.
Alex took out his travel suitcase and quickly packed the essentials: a razor, socks, a couple of shirts, documents. He felt terribly bitter after such a night. Never before could he have imagined that they might quarrel like this.
Outside, the sky was growing light. Alex shouted through the door:
“I’m leaving forever! Goodbye! All the best!”
And slamming the door, he disappeared.
The sound of the door made Marta come to her senses.
“He’s gone—good riddance!” flashed through her mind at first.
And then: “My God, how quiet it is.”
When the sound of his footsteps on the stairs finally faded, she began to cry—and then burst into sobs. Tears streamed down her cheeks. All her anger at her husband suddenly vanished.
“My God, I love him!” her heart pounded. “I love him! I don’t want anything without him. I’m a fool, a fool. Why did I throw that plate of buckwheat at him? I can’t cook mamaliga! But I’ll learn someday. He’s my husband, after all! He left hungry…”
She cried. And then suddenly remembered that she was an artist.
She pushed her anguish aside, found her neglected paints (she hadn’t used them in a long time—there had been other concerns: work, family, and her beloved Alex), and began to paint. Right on the wall in the hallway.
She had never painted with such inspiration before. The paints flowed onto the wall quickly and confidently, as if someone were guiding her hand. Outside, the ordinary day had long begun, but for her only her creation existed.
It was a portrait of her husband. And also—her happiness, her life, her sun, her sky, everything they had lived through together.
Two hours later, she finished the portrait. She glanced at the alarm clock—there was still time to get to work. Beneath the portrait, she wrote what she felt, in large red letters, and one more word:
“Forgive me!”
Then she went to do her makeup—to hide the traces of tears, the sleepless night, and to forget that wild quarrel.
Half an hour later she left for work, illuminated by some new feeling she had never known before. How much she loved her Alex—his voice, his smile, that unruly black forelock!
***
Alex arrived at work and, looking through what he had thrown into his suitcase, discovered that he had forgotten his driver’s license and a few other necessities.
“I’ll have to go back,” he sighed. “I didn’t even take my sweater, and it’s cold today.”
And suddenly he noticed with surprise that his anger toward his wife was fading away. He even wanted the buckwheat he had so rudely rejected the day before.
“Marta cooks well. I was out of my mind yesterday,” he thought.
Alex knew that his wife didn’t come home for lunch—her job was far from the apartment. A convenient time to grab what he needed. During his lunch break, he went home.
He climbed to his floor, quietly opened the door, raised his head—and froze.
From the hallway wall, he was looking at himself.
The portrait was magnificent. In it, Alex was smiling and looking at the world with such eyes as if to say, “I am happy!” And below, in familiar handwriting, were the words:
“I love you anyway. Very much! Forgive me!”
“Marta! I had no idea she could paint like this! Such talent—and she’s selling goods instead!”
Alex tossed his suitcase into the corner. He didn’t need it anymore. He took only his driver’s license…
***
That evening, he and Marta enjoyed a cake Alex had brought home. He had asked the confectioners to write in cream:
“I love you. Very much!”
Now, cutting off piece after piece, both of them watched carefully not to damage the precious words. For the most part, they were silent. Yesterday’s thunder and lightning seemed as if they hadn’t happened to them at all. The smell of that cursed quarrel had already vanished from the room, replaced by the intoxicating, all-consuming aroma of love.
The moon winked at them through the open window. Marta went to make the bed, and Alex began unpacking his suitcase. They were both silent. They placed the top of the cake with the treasured inscription into the refrigerator. They didn’t turn off the hallway light, so the portrait on the wall would remain visible.
And they had such a night of love as they had never even dreamed of. They became one whole, one life—two halves joined by God himself. And only He could ever separate them.
And nine months later, Alex picked Marta up from the maternity hospital with their son, whom they named Sergey. Now there were three of them! And the portrait on the wall was kept even after renovations—as a memory.
***
At last, Marta’s mother told her about her father. It turned out he had been an artist. He had come to their village to decorate the community club and library. That was how a brief romance happened between a teacher and an artist. Later, she gave birth to a girl.
Both the daughter and the grandson inherited the artist’s talent. The boy drew strange flowers, trees with astonishing eyes, his father, his mother—unconventionally, in his own way.
“Sergey has drawn all over the house and everything he can reach,” Marta thought. “He looks exactly like Alex, but he’ll probably be an artist, like me!”
And she smiled, glancing at the portrait in the hallway—the one that had brought so much happiness into their family.
Story by Zoya Gradova
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