They headed to a restaurant in a small town surrounded by numerous guesthouses—some large, some smaller, but all at least two stories tall with steeply pitched roofs, cozy little courtyards, wooden fences, and vibrant flowers. Among them, Agatha could only recognize the roses. Each property also had its own well.
They walked, rather than drove, and Agatha mentally cursed a hundred times over the endless “up and down and up again” over gravel and puddles that, according to the locals, never dried up, even in summer.
Just a few minutes before they set off toward the restaurant, the rain had finally stopped pouring from the sky. As it turned out, all the showers here were sudden. One moment, the sun is shining, forest birds are singing, roosters are crowing—or “koguty,” as they’re called locally… Agatha hadn’t heard such sounds since childhood. Then, out of nowhere, a cloud would settle over one of the nearby peaks and release countless gallons of water it had been carrying, apparently growing tired and deciding to dump it right here. In this place, current events seemed to fade from memory with astonishing ease, while the past—both joyful and painful—came rushing back. It depended on what baggage each person carried. And with it came an unbearable urge to analyze old events, to uncover the reasons behind certain actions, to somehow justify them.
Why was she dwelling on this? Wasn’t she supposed to be heading out to have fun? The guesthouse owner had promised as much.
“Agatha, in a town like this? Are you out of your mind? They probably don’t even have decent music or suitable company here.”
Still, she forced a smile as she stepped over yet another puddle of unknown depth on her sky-high heels, a depth she’d rather not measure, even by accident. Fanny, who calmly supported her by the arm and tried his best to prevent her genuine Gucci sandals from getting ruined, had already stained his light pink trousers. Agatha, meanwhile, had dressed in a bright chiffon jumpsuit and eye-catching, expensive costume jewelry. This time, she hadn’t brought any real valuables on vacation, and she was glad she hadn’t. Agatha always trusted her intuition. Well, she did now, at least. Back in her youth… She could have avoided a mountain of mistakes if she’d used her head just a little.
“Stop it, Agatha, right now. What’s done can’t be undone.”
“Vas… Mr. Vasyl,” she corrected herself. Why not make a kind gesture to these good people if that’s the custom here? “Is it much farther?”
“Not at all, my dear! Nothing’s far around here. Everything’s close by. If it’s not over this hill, it’s over the next one,” the guesthouse owner replied cheerfully. He was a short, stout, but jovial man in his fifties.
“This little hill… is that a mountain?” Agatha asked, nearly sinking her heel into yet another pothole.
“Exactly!” Vasyl chimed in, grabbing her other arm to steady her, then quickly letting go with an apology. Polite, at least.
Agatha caught Fanny’s gaze, filled with tragic resignation, and sighed.
“I see.”
She also thought to herself that at the first opportunity, she’d leave for somewhere else, a place where she could move around without all these ups and downs.
As they neared their destination, their little procession drew more and more attention. First, neighbors peeked at them from behind their fences. Then, market vendors forgot about their wares and customers, openly sizing up the colorful group. Finally, a small child asked their grandmother, who leaned on a walking stick:
“Is there a holiday today?”
“No, dear,” the old woman replied just as loudly. “Must be guests from the ‘capital.’ Or some important visitors. Maybe from the district center, or something like that?”
“From the district center? I’ve really hit rock bottom!”
When they finally crossed the threshold of the wooden building, Fanny pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. Vasyl reacted instantly.
“Shall I ask them to turn on the air conditioning?”
Despite the bright sunshine, it was barely sixty-eight degrees outside, and Agatha felt less than comfortable in her chiffon outfit.
Why hadn’t she just worn jeans? Who in a place like this would appreciate her Valentino ensemble? She must have been thinking of the Maldives when she picked out her outfit for tonight’s outing.
“I think we’re fine for now,” Agatha replied. “But thank you for offering.”
“Madam, you have such a refined accent!” A young man with unexpectedly pleasant features appeared nearby. He seemed to have been sitting at a table close to the one Vasyl led them to. The young man looked younger than Agatha but was worth a second glance as a potential interest. Tall, handsome, well-dressed. Polite—at first impression. What else? “Are you an actress?”
“Interesting. Did he recognize me, or is he just guessing?”
* * *
Blond hair, almost like Agatha’s—though hers came at a steep price—slim, a bit taller than her, which was a plus given her considerable height, a pleasant face, a bright, toothy smile, though perhaps a tad too wide… Maybe she’d been too quick to judge this man. Young man, rather.
“Not everyone can look like Nedan.”
“The lady is here to relax. That includes taking a break from suitors. Stay at your own table; we have our own company.” Vasyl nudged the stranger aside and offered Agatha a chair. “Pay no mind to him. I promised you peace and quiet, and Vasyl Hopko keeps his promises. You can ask my wife. Oryся, tell her?”
“That’s right,” his quiet “better half” spoke up, a woman who seemed to only open her mouth when the conversation turned to stray dogs and cats. “Peace and quiet are the most important things,” Oryся concluded her brief statement. She was a plump woman in a blue dress, adorned with colorful beads and a thick braid coiled into a crown on her head.
For some reason, at that very moment, Agatha vowed to herself to engage in charity work only anonymously from now on. She had nothing against these generally pleasant people, but she also didn’t want to feel like an exotic museum exhibit, dusted off and kept under glass.
“Agatha, dear, you’ve forgotten something!” Fanny whispered in her ear.
“My common sense?” she guessed, smoothing the fabric of her jumpsuit to avoid too many wrinkles while stealing glances at the blond young man shooting looks her way. “Do you think he recognized me?”
“That peacock—if not something worse—in angel’s clothing?”
“You don’t think he’s an angel?”
Agatha often relied on Fanny’s uncanny ability to read people. But this time, she hoped her secretary was wrong. Finally, someone had appeared on the horizon who might entertain her, and Fanny was saying he wasn’t suitable because he wasn’t trustworthy. Then again, for something like this, an angel wasn’t strictly necessary.
“Definitely not.”
“A gigolo?”
“Probably not, but that’s still up for debate.”
“A con artist?”
“That’s also a possibility. There’s something in his gaze…”
“And would he make a good lover? I’d like to know in advance if he’s selfish.”
“I get what you’re asking, dear. With your permission, I’ll keep observing.”
“Fine. So, what did I forget?”
“To wear your best accessory—your smile.”
“You’re a flatterer, Fanny.”
“Of course. That’s why you put up with me.” Fanny inspected the table, casting a skeptical glance at the paper napkins before tucking his own handkerchief into the collar of his blue floral shirt. “What’s this dish called?”
“Deruny with mushroom gravy,” Vasyl announced loudly, pouring a shot of vodka for his guest.
Agatha couldn’t hold back a smile as she watched Fanny. Her secretary eyed the guesthouse owner’s actions with growing suspicion, his eyebrows climbing higher by the second.
“Deru… Do they serve wine here?”
Over the years of working for Agatha, Fanny had learned her native language, though he spoke with a much more noticeable accent than his employer. And in Agatha’s presence, he never drank anything stronger than wine.
“Chasing vodka with wine? Better to go with beer!” Vasyl couldn’t hide his surprise. Agatha nearly choked on her laughter but then decided it was unfair to Fanny. He was only here because of her whim.
“I also prefer wine. I’m sure, Vasyl, you’ll figure something out.” Mr. Hopko bowed and disappeared toward the kitchen. “You owe me,” Agatha whispered to her secretary.
“As always. So, what do I need to do for you?”
“Find out everything you can for me.”
“About this blond boy?”
“You guessed it.”
“Agatha, dear, since when are you interested in young men?”
“He’s not that young. Maybe a few years younger. Let’s say…”
“Seven. Or maybe eight.”
“Wow, such precision! So what? Is that really a big deal?”
Fanny sighed and peered into the pot of deruny. He was definitely seeing such a culinary creation for the first time.
“Is this edible?” he asked, barely audible.
“My grandmother made delicious ones.”
Fanny sighed again.
“Alright, you’ve convinced me. I’ll try to dig up something.”