veil | W. Axl Rose

ⅩⅤ

𝟐𝟒.𝟏𝟐.𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟓

Until Christmas, Linda bumped from lavish parties to casting calls and glamorous photo shoots in exotic locales and fittings. Those extravagant photoshoots that catapulted Linda back to limelight. From posing in couture gowns to embodying the essence of a rebellious ingenue in edgy editorial spreads.

    Linda stood at the address on Washington Street that her mother had specified in a letter. Snowflakes, like miniature fractals, fell on her coat and dissolved in the blink of an eye. Her breath forming puffs of steam in the frosty air. The narrow street was lined with historic brownstones that stood shoulder-to-shoulder with sleek modern apartments. Their stoops adorned with potted plants and clusters of wild lupines and roses. Ivy snaked its way up the walls. A wrought-iron gate marked the entrance to the building. The facade was embellished with Rococo ironwork and ornate carvings.

Eerie silence enveloped the normally bustling thoroughfares. It was December 24th, and the city seemed to have slowed to a crawl under a spell of hushed verklempt. The streets were almost empty, save for a few solitary figures hurrying along the sidewalks, their faces obscured by scarves and hats. These were the last-minute shoppers, the procrastinators scrambling to cross off the final items on their holiday shopping lists before the stores closed their doors for the night. Their arms laden with shopping bags and packages as they darted frantically in and out of stores like chickens with their heads cut off. The scent of roasted chestnuts and mulled wine wafted through the air from street vendors, mingling with the crisp aroma of pine from the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree.

Linda pressed the button next to her mother's name, labeled "Lebedeva." A soft chime echoed through the intercom system. She held her breath, waiting for the characteristic sound that meant her mother had buzzed her into the building. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, feeling the chill of the winter air seep through her coat. The faint click of the lock disengaged, followed by the creak of the door as it swung open slowly. Linda pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the dimly lit foyer of the brownstone. She took in the faded Persian rug beneath her feet, before heading up the stairs.

On the fourth floor, her mother stood in the doorway.

-Nastya, it's so good to see you.-her mother pulled her into a tight embrace.

    Sofiya kissed the top of her head and brushed her short hair with her fingers. She lifted Linda's face in her hands and kissed her all over, wiped her tears with her strong thumbs. She stroked a strand of her hair between her fingers, stretched it to see how long it was, but didn't say a thing.

    Linda missed her; the sound of her voice, the way her front teeth were square but her second teeth turned slightly, her one dimple, left side, her half-smile, her wonderfully blue eyes flecked with white, like new galaxies, the firm intact planes of her face. She looked like she could have just walked off the Soho with a book under her arm, ready to settle in at some jazz club.

-How do you like it in here?-Sofiya asked after they sat on the sofa, touching her hair, her collar, her cheek. Not pliable at all.

-New York agrees with me. There's no hypocrisy here.-Linda said and swiftly added.-Oh, I have something for you.

    She took out a small blue box from her purse with a white ribbon – packaging of Tiffany & Co. Inside lay a delicate pearl pendant which she bought from money she made from modeling.

    Of all the red-letter events of the Russian sentimental calendar, Sofiya hated Christmas the most. Linda remembered the year she came home with a paper angel she made in school, with golden sparkles on tissue paper wings, and her mother threw it straight into the trash. Didn't even wait until Linda went to bed. On Christmas Eve, she always read Yeats's "The Second Coming": What rough beast . . . slouches towards Bethlehem . . . They'd drink mulled wine and cast runestones. She wouldn't come to hear her daughter sing Kolyadas, Snegurochka, or Shchedryk with her class at Elementary School in St. Petersburg.