The Museum of Abandoned Secrets

old, age-old love—or equally old envy—all those stunning stories you never even suspected to be hidden right under your nose, like lions sleeping in savannah grass; such séances don’t last long, a witch’s count—from the first roosters till the second—but they are the zenith of every party, its catharsis. A party without them is like sex without an orgasm; they are the living knots that make the threads of friendship stronger, and if someone only taught those poor Americans not to go home at ten, but to hang around for two or three hours longer and let things take their course, they’d save a fortune on therapy.
    They left right after midnight that time because Vadym had to fly out, at some ungodly hour before dawn, into the boon-docks, to Dnipropetrovsk, or Odessa, to the nonexistent pipeline “Odessa-Brody.” So in the end, it was Vadym, again, who set the timer on our little soiree; he was the one who had constructed the whole evening and controlled it, from start to finish, making sure nothing got loose—all guards posted, all buttons buttoned, ties knotted, and nothing, nothing, about it gave him the least bit of bother, except maybe his bladder that had to hold five hours worth of cognac, but that was the price he was perfectly willing to pay for his victory, hands down, over us. When Vlada called me the next morning, ostensibly to share impressions, or, as we called it, to debrief, it was already a new day, with new troubles and concerns, and if she had ever intended to tell me anything that would’ve been, in Vadym’s opinion, undesirable, the moment for it was gone, lost forever. Flushed, you could say, down a pipe...)
    I’m coming, Aidy, just a second...I’m trying to wash my mascara off, got a clump in my eye.
    (...because how could anyone ever imagine that a man can replace a woman’s best friend—that’s just silly, and it shouldn’t ever work that way anyhow. And yet every man, in his heart of hearts, holds the opposite conviction most dear: they all believe that as soon as we got one of
them
, we no longer need anyone else in the great wide world. But even when he’s such a sweetheart, and really wants to understand you because he truly loves you, and you love him too—really love him, not just bang him—even then, you can never hope to fall into that perfect and complete sync that exists between two women; and he will always begrudge you that, albeit just a little and in secret even from himself, and that is why love is always and inevitably war. Love is War, how Orwellian—and it is war, a special kind of war, one in which the winner loses it all...I’d rather be dead before I win one of those, that’s what I’d tell you now, Vadym, Vaddy—now you actually use that name yourself; I’ve heard you do that, now that there isn’t anyone else to call you by that name—after you’ve seen your victory dead, quite literally, in an oak coffin with brass handles, so why are you still beating on a dead horse, Vaddy?)
    Just...a...moment! Can’t you wait another second? I can’t hear anything in here, stop talking—you and your habit of hollering across the apartment like it’s the open range or something!
    (That’s another one I can’t seem to cure him of—I’ve pointed it out so many times and all for nothing...Aidy’s just like his old man: when we took the crew to interview him, he didn’t hesitate to bellow at us, myself and the cameraman, from another room—never mind that we were perfect strangers to him. Every man turns into his own father, so does that mean that I—what?—am I turning into my mother, too? Ugh, that would not be good....
    Now Vlada, she never resembled her mother in the least bit; it was more like Nina Ustýmivna was a sort of an aging child for her, an adopted and really obnoxious child—Vlada rarely even left Katrusya with her, only when she had no other choice—butactually she managed her mother rather elegantly, unlike yours truly, she knew what buttons to push. Whenever Nina Ustýmivna took a deep breath to launch—with that heavy, theatrical sigh that instantly made my skin crawl all over—into her favorite oratory about what hard, sad, hopeless lots Vlada and I drew in this life—meaning the absence of certified-and-stamped husbands, because, of course, Nina Ustýmivna’s mantra, “a dead husband is better than no husband,” was her holy and regularly professed creed, and she never did really accept her daughter’s divorce,