Page 17 of Night So Silent
I suppose feminine rage resulting in a bloodbath tends to have that effect.
“Thoughts? Criticisms?”
Sergei pauses at the counter, gazing across the living room thoughtfully. “Women are supposed to be comfort and security.But if a woman becomes violent, like a man…there’s something wrong with a woman like that.”
God, here we go again. This was most definitely a mistake.
“Even if it’s a result of the violence perpetrated against her?”
Sergei picks up a knife and begins chopping. “A grizzly sow can kill a male twice her size. Lionesses live together and kill invading males.” He stops chopping and looks up with irreverence. “More men need to be afraid.”
“In what way?”
As in leave women alone or just work harder to silence them?
Sergei goes back to chopping. “Isaac Asimov said thatviolence is the last refuge of the incompetent, but men who subjugate women don’t understand anything but violence. Indoctrinate the women and not enough of them will believe they have any power. It’s easier to punish a few rather than all.”
“Alright,” I nod, starting to relax a bit, “so, is violence the most effective response or a last resort for a woman at the end of her tether?”
“I will tell you a story,” he replies. “A long time ago, a man and a woman married their daughter off to the mayor of the neighboring town when she was 14, thinking it would improve their status and they wouldn’t lose their failing farm. This man—Morozov—was a horrible person. And what pedophile isn’t? But for four years, the girl waited, enduring brutality day after day. Then, one night, Morozov came home after a night of drinking with a bureaucrat and his son and beat her like he always did. But that night, after he fell asleep, she took out a 10-inch knife from under the mattress and stabbed it straight through his throat and into the bed. Then she walked out of the house with nothing except the clothes she was wearing, a half a mile to a car where the son of the bureaucrat was waiting for her. They disappeared, she changed her name, married my father, andeveryone thought one of Morozov’s enemies broke in, murdered him, and kidnapped his young wife.”
This has to be one of the most intriguing stories I’ve ever heard.
Sergei pours the boiling noodles out of the pot and looks up at me through the steam. “If more women rolled over and slit a few throats, they wouldn’t have to write books analyzing normal human responses to injustice.”
Wow.
I’m still mulling over his response as he picks up two bowls and heads for the table. He sets one down in front of me and my brow immediately arches in surprise. An intense savory aroma hits my nostrils as I survey the wide bowl brimming with dark broth, curly noodles, sliced pork, Bok choy, and a soft-boiled egg sprinkled with scallions.
Oh.When Sergei said, “ramen,” he meantramen.
We begin eating in silence, the only sound the whistling of the wind outside. Sergei has a perpetual look of contemplation, glancing up at me every so often. This only piques my curiosity. I can easily sit in silence, whereas it makes other people’s skin crawl. But there’s not a shred of discomfort in his demeanor. He only eyes me from across the table, squinting ever so slightly as if studying me. Even after dinner, the only words he utters are in regards to my suitcase sitting next to the sofa.
“You can sleep in my room.” He nods behind him. “It’s down the hall.”
“No!” I furrow my brow with surprise. “I can’t take your room. That’s too much. You’re already doing enough by letting me stay here.”
“It would be highly inappropriate to make you sleep on the sofa when you have nowhere else to go.”
That’s another thing I’ve noticed about Sergei; he doesn’t debate, he makes statements. And as much as I’m prepared to dothe polite thing, it also wouldn’t be the worst to sleep in an actual bed—in this cozy little Scandi house in a veritable snow globe.
I glance over at the hallway, chewing the side of my cheek.
“A shower would be nice,” I admit. “OK, as long as it’s really not too much trouble.”
Sergei gives the slightest of nods, considering the matter closed.
And I’m right; a showerisnice, especially when the water is scalding hot while an icy hurricane is raging outside. The bathroom reminds me of a spa, with its stark white tile and wooden accents. I keep the lights off, save for the one just outside the shower, because it makes the room feel like a steamy cave. Once I finally leave the shower, I spend another inordinate amount of time standing in front of the mirror, wrapped in the softest towels I’ve ever felt, and enjoying the thermal flooring under my bare feet while I dry my hair.
Even my pajamas feel better after I finally slide beneath the crisp white sheets. As soon as I feel the weight of the down comforter on my body, I don’t feel so bad about taking Sergei up on his offer. It’s only for one night, maybe two…I hope. If nothing else, maybe this will turn out to be a good story.
Which reminds me, I texted Brett on the way here and just saw her response as I was settling into the pillows to resume my book.
ME (6:04PM): My flight got cancelled due to the storm. Sergei offered to let me stay at his house since the roads are already bad.
BRETT (6:26PM): You’re staying with SERGEI????
I chuckle to myself as I respond, just imagining Brett’s face when she saw my first text.
