veil | W. Axl Rose

Ⅱ

𝟐𝟎.𝟎𝟓.𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓

Following Linda's graduation, she visited Dmitrij, a fellow alumnus a year her senior, who studied Russian philology at St. Petersburg University. A resounding knock echoed through the hollow door, and the release of three bolts followed.

-It's Empress Elizabeth.-he smiled.

Dmitrij, only marginally taller than Linda, possessed a slender, pale figure from frequent drinking and being inside all the time. His eyes always looked puffy with heavy bags underneath them. He cleared the couch of a pile of clothes, academic tomes, and a copy of the Спутник¹ magazine creating a space for a girl to sit down.

The flat was very different from the apartment where Linda and her mother resided. It was crammed with furniture, souvenirs, movie posters, newspapers, and empty wine bottles. The tomato plants, struggling to reach sunlight, held onto the windowsills tightly, with their green vines stretching out in search of some rays. The lighting inside was pretty weak, even during the day, since it was faced north. However,  what really attracted him to choose it was the breathtaking vista it afforded of the Hermitage.

-Send for the chancellor.-he remarked supercilious in unison with Dresser and extended a bowl of sunflower seeds to Linda.

Linda deftly cracked seeds between her teeth and flicked off the Doc Martens she had been wearing since September. She hesitated to disclose to her mother the growing jadedness she felt for the footwear. She had no desire to emphasize the reality to her mother, that her daughter was the reason behind the entanglement in electric bills and her evolving phases, a factor that left her metaphorically clawing at the windows, like Dmitrij's dying tomato plants.

-What are you reading these days?-Linda inquired.

Though an actor with a limited portfolio of work, abstaining from television roles, he made some money by lending his voice to Books on Tape. Under the nonunion circumstances, he adopted the pseudonym Wolfram Padaprigorovy. Every morning, the resonance of his voice filtered through the wall, reaching Linda's ears at an early hour. His skill in German and Russian, picked up during his tenure in army intelligence—an irony, according to his declaration—led to his engagement with works written by authors of those languages.

-Chekhov's short stories.-he said, leaning in to present the book from the coffee table. It was full of notes and Post-its and underlines. As she leafed through the book, she shared,

-My mother hates Chekhov. She claims anyone well-versed in his works knows why there had to be a revolution.

-Your mother.-Dmitrij grinned.-Actually, you might really like him. Chekhov exudes a lovely melancholy.

Their attention then shifted to the television, catching the line in The Scarlet Empress and along with Dresser they recited,

-Don't any of you think I'll give you the pleasure of seeing me die. I'll outlive all of you, you sinister buzzards. All of you!

Linda envisioned her mother as a modern-day Elizabeth Petrovna—regal, composed, and marked by a certain melancholy, her gaze fixed upon a far-off horizon. In this perception, she existed among furs and opulent palaces of rare treasures, grand fireplaces capacious enough to roast a reindeer, and vessels crafted from Russian maple.

Linda had seen young girls fervently asking for new clothes and grumbling about the dinners their mothers cooked. Such scenes mortified her. Didn't they know they were tying their mothers to the ground? Did the chains not feel shame for holding their captives?

However, a tinge of envy colored Linda's mind as she observed how these girls' mothers would sit on their beds, genuinely inquiring about their thoughts. In stark contrast, Linda's mother was not in the least bit curious about her. Linda often pondered over the question of what her mother perceived her to be—a dog she could tie in front of the store, or perhaps a parrot perched on her shoulder?