Chapter six

That year, the Entrepreneur’s Day gala was held at the "Victory Gardens" concert and entertainment hall. In keeping with tradition, the event drew not only top officials from the regional state administration but also high-ranking representatives from the tax department. The premise was simple: fostering close, "on-a-short-footing" relationships between those who generate wealth and those who appropriate it would surely stimulate local business activity and advance market relations.

Throughout the evening, the "high" rostrum yielded an abundance of optimistic, grand promises regarding the “eternal” alliance between tax officials and entrepreneurs. The official segment was followed by a buffet reception, set to the background music of the local conservatory’s chamber orchestra.

For me, this was where the evening truly began. To the strains of Brahms and occasional jazz improvisations, representatives of the “opposing sides” ate, drank, and rubbed shoulders in a "relaxed and cordial" atmosphere.

Normally shy and self-conscious, I had consumed enough of my least-favorite tequila to feel completely liberated and uninhibited. By the time the orchestra struck up the "Dog Waltz" in the flamboyant style of Liberace, I had grown bold enough to court danger. I decided to invite a girl from the "enemy camp" to dance. Her name was Dunya Hermes, and she happened to be the deputy head of one of the tax departments.

 I took a liking to the brown-eyed blonde fiscal, whom I internally dubbed Dulcinea. To my relief, she didn't seem repulsed by me either.

Against all odds, we hit it off. Making quiet fun of our tipsy colleagues while wisely steering clear of professional topics, we actually had a wonderful evening. After the reception, I walked Dunya home. We exchanged office numbers, said our goodbyes, and parted ways. As a low-ranking supervisor with zero ambition, I knew better than to hope for anything serious with an official from such a formidable department. So, I tried to put her out of my mind.

On New Year’s Eve, one of our coworkers was turning thirty-three—a milestone birthday. Everyone in the department chipped in for a gift, and the task of buying it fell to me, being the youngest and the only one unburdened by family responsibilities.

Leaving work early, I headed to Deribasovskaya Street, straight to Europe, the city’s most expensive shopping mall. Finding myself in this temple of petty vanity, I wandered the floors in utter confusion. I drifted from one boutique to another, staring at counters packed with European brands that were mostly made in China or Thailand, yet I couldn't find a single thing suitable for the birthday girl. Suddenly, a familiar face flashed through the motley crowd of shoppers.

“It’s Dunya! Dunya Hermes, the fiscal!” I rejoiced. “Who better to help her pick out a gift?”

Wasting no time, I closed the distance and, pretending it was an accident, lightly nudged her elbow. A small parcel slipped from under her arm. Reacting like a goalkeeper diving for the ball, I caught it in midair and, offering a gallant apology, handed it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said reservedly, turning to go about her business.

“Is that really you, Dunya?” I blurted out, matching my tone to the sheer emotion of the moment.

“What can I do for you, young man?” she replied coolly.

"Don't you recognize me?" I pressed on.

 "I'm Leonid—Leonid Petrenko, the supervisor. We met back in September, at that corporate mixer for entrepreneurs and tax officials."

"Oh?" she murmured uncertainly.

Then, retreating into her professional armor, she asked in a thoroughly official tone: “How can I help you?”

“You see, Dunya, I have a bit of a dilemma.”

 I was hoping that, for old times’ sake, you might help me solve it,” I pleaded, looking ingratiatingly into her eyes, practically wagging my tail like an eager one-year-old puppy.

"Are you seriously upgrading our fleeting acquaintance to 'old friendship'?" she teased, casting an ironic glance through brown eyes heavily lined with blue mascara.

"Well, fair enough. Let's not quibble over words."

Some fifteen minutes later, the perfect gift was safely tucked into my bag.

Step by step, Dunyasha and I made our way out of the Europe mall and onto the chilly street. She shivered, burying her face into the high collar of her mink coat.

“Dunya, you're freezing!” I urged. “Let's grab a hot cup of coffee. We can celebrate our successful shopping trip while we're at it.”

We ducked back inside the mall. Down in the basement, right next to the supermarket, was a cozy little cafeteria. Minutes later, Dunya and I were perched at a high bar table, nursing coffees laced with cognac.

 As the warmth spread, Dunya slipped off her mink coat to reveal a finely knit, sky-blue woolen pullover and a perfectly tailored, mouse-gray skirt. From beneath the hem, her round, charming knees, clad in anthracite-colored tights, peeked out altogether appetizingly.

“I honestly don't know what I would’ve done without you. Choosing a gift for a woman is harder than sinking a tricky bank shot in billiards,” I said, my eyes lingering on her flushed cheeks.

"Is this your first time doing this?" Dunya asked, casually switching to the informal ty.

“To be honest, I don't get much practice,” I admitted.

Seizing the momentum, I ventured: “New Year’s Eve is just around the corner. Have you decided where you'll be celebrating?”

“A girlfriend and I are heading up to Bukovel to ring it in there,” she said.

“And I’ll be staying home. It’s a family fete...”

Following those words, Dunya locked eyes with me. Her gaze was suddenly so soft and enveloping that it made me nervous; I actually fidgeted in my chair.

“Do you know why she’s looking at you like that?” Brain chimed in instantly.

“Why?”

“She’s cooking up some interesting plans for you. They’re still half-baked, but they’re there.”

“What plans? What are you making up now?”

“The girl just decided you have excellent husband material,” Brain reported to me, leaving me stunned.

“She wants to marry me?!”

“It's a bit early to plan the wedding. Dunya thinks you're still a bit of a fixer-upper, and after that...” Brain refused to shut up.

“What do you mean, a ‘fixer-upper’?” I was indignant.

"Well, the lady believes that step one is weeding out your friends, and step two is getting you checked into a solid rehab clinic. She already has a specific place in mind—her direct boss was treated there."

“Is that all? You can’t be serious!”

"Oh, I am. Dunya is convinced that a man must be properly broken in and educated before you marry him, not after."

“This is something new! Where are you getting this from?”

"It runs in her family. That’s exactly how her great-grandmother, grandmother, and mother all operated. But those three blundered: they tied the knot first, and only then, having come to their senses, did they try to re-educate their husbands. But by then, as they say, that ship had sailed." Brain was getting uncomfortably specific.

“Leonid, a penny for your thoughts?” Dunya’s teasing voice reached me, sounding as if she were many miles away from me.

I snapped out of it like a drowsy Basset Hound, blinked dazed eyes into Dunya’s, and blurted out as if hypnotized: “I was thinking about marriage.”

“How strange,” she murmured.

“What’s so strange about that?” I asked.

“The strange thing is... I was thinking about it too,” she said, her gaze unwavering.

“You, see? Our Dunyasha is the most honest girl you’ve ever met,” Brain noted. “She actually says exactly what’s on her mind.”

We left Europe and walked down Ekaterininskaya Street toward the Church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. As we crossed Grecheskaya Street, we encountered a lady with a dog.

She was carrying a smooth-coated Chihuahua, tucking it inside her coat to shield it from the biting cold. Catching sight of us, the little "Mexican" tried to sound off, but choked on his own bravado and sneezed instead of barking.

“Bless you!” I said warmly, smiling at the pup comfortably nestled against its owner's chest.

“Oh God, I want a dog so bad!” Dunya said with a sudden, almost childish pout.

“One exactly like that?” I asked.

“Any dog!” she sighed.

 We rang in the New Year apart: Dunya in Bukovel, and I in Odessa, desperately missing her. But we celebrated the Old New Year together at the Gardens of Semiramis restaurant, attending a corporate holiday bash—or a "party," as the fashionable crowd likes to call it.

Everything followed the usual script for an "insiders only" event. Tipsy men and women, shouting celebratory toasts, engaged in a full-blown shouting match. Everyone was talking over one another, interrupting, and completely tuned out. Yet, somehow, it seemed everyone managed to hold the floor for exactly as long as the alcohol in their system permitted.

I was a total outsider in this crowd. Observing the chaos from the sidelines, I realized that if I didn't want to be branded an alien or a complete idiot, I had to keep pace with my partying colleagues in every single way. Which is precisely what I did.

In a word, the corporate holiday bash was a resounding success, wrapping up only as dawn broke. Deciding to clear our heads in the crisp morning air, Dunya and I strolled slowly down Genuezskaya Street.

 As we passed the Odessa Regional Institute of Public Administration, she remarked: “I trust that this year you’ll enroll as a student at this prestigious academy.”

“Why on earth would I do that?” I asked, caught off guard. “I already have a university degree.”

“To climb the career ladder, obviously,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“But I’m no high-altitude construction worker,” I tried to joke.

“No, of course not. But you will secure a highly paid position. Let's say in one of the regional customs offices. They have money to burn!”

“And who came up with this brilliant master plan?”

“I did.”

“But I have absolutely no desire to be a customs officer!”

"If you love me, you will," she said, sealing her verdict with a cold kiss on my lips.

Just as predicted, Dunya had set about re-educating me, determined to guide me onto the "righteous path." It felt like a systematic psychological campaign, borderline harassment, really. And yet, I didn’t resist. After all, I couldn't spend the rest of my days toiling away as a low-level supervisor. I’ll do a stint as a customs officer, and then we’ll see, I reasoned, comforting myself with the memory of Saint Matthew—he, too, started out as a publican.

Granted, I was unlikely to become an Evangelist like him, but a blogger? That was highly possible. Though, who knows how I would truly behave if I ever heard that voice calling out: “Follow Me...”?

 Meanwhile, another holiday was creeping up: International Women's Day. Once again, I plunged into deep reflection, growing frantic over what kind of non-trivial gift to get Dunya.

“Get the girl a dog. She’s been dreaming about one for ages,” my ever-helpful Brain prompted.

Taking his advice, I headed to the Starokonny Market. After sizing up about a dozen puppies of various breeds, I settled on one of the most expensive options—a Pomeranian.

The breeder, a woman who looked distinctively like a mangy lapdog herself, solemnly assured me that this fluffy white ball of fur traced its lineage directly back to the legendary Spitz named Marco.

Yes, indeed—the very same dog adored by Queen Victoria, who reportedly refused to part with him even at night.

Dunya was absolutely thrilled with the puppy. And seeing her that happy gave me some of the most exhilarating moments of my life.

In the south, summer makes everyone a little mad. Dunya and I were no exception; we spent our nights "moonbathing" on the beach, feeling like creatures born into this world for the sole purpose of share your happiness and mutual bliss.

That June night, we swam in a phosphorescent sea and lounged on sand that was finally cooling from the daytime heat. Later, we had a midnight supper of Danube oysters washed down with light Bessarabian wine. It felt as though nothing on earth could spoil this enchanting Ukrainian night. Dunya talked enthusiastically about her Pomeranian, whom she had modestly named King.

“You know, my King had an upset stomach yesterday. I had to rush him to the vet. And imagine—the doctor actually gave him an enema! My poor little baby, he whined so pitifully…” she lamented.

Packing up our things, we left the beach and climbed back up toward the city, stopping to rest on a coastal street that overlooked the panoramic expanse of the Odessa Gulf. At night, it looked even more romantic than by day. I swept Dunya up in my arms and, treading carefully, carried her across a lawn turned blue by the moonlight.

 Reaching the canopy of a young maple tree, I gently lowered her onto a bed of soft grass.

“Oh, what’s that?” she whispered suddenly.

“Where?” I asked, instantly alarmed.

“Right there, underneath me,” she said, her voice laced with confusion.

“Probably a hedgehog,” I offered uncertainly.

She slipped her hand beneath her backside and immediately yanked it back, letting out a piercing shriek: “What hedgehog?! This is dog shit! You did this on purpose, didn't you?!”

“Are you out of your mind, Dunya?!” I stammered.

“You planned this whole thing! You set it up in advance!” she yelled, tearing off her sundress, which had just abruptly lost all of its "kosherness." Left in nothing but her bikini, she bolted into the night.

I chased after her, finally catching up on Lidersovsky Boulevard. But before I could utter a single word of defense, a taxi rounded the corner and screeched to a halt right in front of her. Dunya ripped the door open and threw herself into the back seat.

I lunged toward the car, intending to slide in next to her, but she delivered a sharp kick straight to my groin, screaming: “Scoundrel! You haven’t just insulted my maiden honor and my feelings—in my very person, you’ve dragged our entire tax department through the dog shit!”

The door slammed shut, and the taxi sped away into the darkness. I was left completely alone on the sidewalk, shaking with a volatile mix of anger, helplessness, and utter despair, knowing I couldn't undo what had just happened or bring Dunya back.

I was ready to literally bash my head against the nearest lamppost. And I probably would have done it, too, if it weren’t for Brain.

With its usual calm wisdom, it dryly noted: “To prevent such unfortunate incidents from happening in the future, humans and canines urgently need to reach a consensus…”

I chewed on that for a second and had to agree.

Brain, meanwhile, pressed on: "There are roughly six hundred million dogs on Earth. And they would easily outnumber humans if you people didn't keep forcibly castrating them."

“The planet is overpopulated as it is,” I pointed out.

 "Be that as it may, you humans—whether you like it or not—will eventually have to grant dogs the exact same rights you enjoy yourselves. Furthermore, you must officially introduce the term 'Doggyism' into both scientific and everyday discourse, with all the legal and social consequences that follow..."

“What about cats?” I interjected.

“They’re not any dumber than dogs. I once saw a cat hop onto a toilet seat to relieve itself. And then, believe it or not, it actually flushed the damn thing all by itself, without a shred of help.”

"A rare exception, perhaps," Brain shot back sarcastically. "But cats have never claimed to be the chosen species. Nevertheless, if one were to weigh which civilization—human or canine-feline—has inflicted more damage upon planet Earth, I’m afraid the scales would tilt heavily against the former..."

Yeah, you certainly can’t get bored with a Brain like mine, I mused. But what if the bastard actually turns out to be right?