THE MERRY WIDOW ON THE MARKET
Wanda Treasure
A clever lady, quick and spry,
Hardworking, diligent, full of try,
Cheerful, lovely, with dignity high,
Poor soul – a widow, left to sigh…
"Aeneid" by Ivan Kotliarevsky
1. The Will
“This is exactly what your husband wrote in his will!” the notary declared, sliding a laminated piece of paper under my nose. He gave me a look that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure I could read. With a condescending glance, he repeated what he’d already made clear the first time he read the document aloud. “The entire estate will go to whichever of his wives remarries within a month of his death.”
“Well, then let Caroline tie the knot and claim her inheritance,” I said with a shrug. “She’s his wife, isn’t she? Or has something changed since yesterday? I don’t see why this involves me. Roman and I divorced seven years ago. He forgot all about me, and frankly, I haven’t exactly been dwelling on him either…”
“The thing is, dear Ms. Euphrosyne Benedicta, the document explicitly mentions both of Mr. Roman Bezuhly’s wives: the former, meaning you, and the current, meaning Caroline Sergeevna. It states quite clearly that the heir to all of Mr. Bezuhly’s wealth will be either his ex-wife or his current wife, whichever one fulfills the main condition: remarrying within a month of his passing.”
“Uh… doesn’t that strike you as a rather odd condition?” I asked, genuinely puzzled.
“You know, in my years of practice, I’ve seen conditions far stranger than this one. This is actually quite tame by comparison,” the notary replied with a smirk.
“But why am I even involved? How does this make sense?” I insisted, not wanting to get tangled up in anything related to my ex-husband. I could smell a trap a mile away—I knew Roman too well when he was alive. “I’m not his wife anymore! Look, here’s my passport. It’s written in black and white…”
I started rummaging through my purse, which, as usual, was a chaotic mess. I dumped a pile of stuff onto the notary’s desk: wet wipes, a tube of lipstick, a pair of scissors (you never know when you might need them), a jumble of keys, my wallet, a few blister packs of random pills (not for me, but hey, someone might need them), a pen and notepad, a half-eaten chocolate bar (with crumbs spilling out of the torn wrapper onto the notary’s pristine, polished desk), a pack of new tights (sometimes a girl’s gotta be prepared), an adjustable wrench (why is this even here?), a box of matches, a neatly folded (at some point) beige scarf (what’s this doing here?), a handful of sticky hard candies, and… a boiled egg.
Huh. That’s probably Grandma’s doing. What a character she is. At the very bottom of my purse, disguised as the lining, was my passport in a black cover, blending into the dark fabric.
“Here, take a look,” I said, flipping open the document and handing it to the notary over the mountain of clutter I hadn’t yet stuffed back into my bag. “I’m divorced from Roman Bezuhly!”
He took the passport, eyeing the egg with a slightly bewildered expression, scanned the pages for a moment, and then looked at me with what seemed like genuine curiosity for the first time.
“You know, Ms. Euphrosyne Benedicta, I’ve never met someone so eager to turn down a chance at several million dollars. That’s the estimated value of your late husband’s estate…”
Ugh! I hate being called Euphrosyne. And don’t even get me started on my full name with the patronymic—it sounds like something dusted with mothballs. Fro! That’s what I’ve trained everyone to call me. And heaven help anyone who dares call me Frosya! I’ll make them regret the day they were born!
“My late *ex*-husband,” I corrected the notary, barely suppressing a giggle at how absurd my own words sounded. “And I don’t need his money. I’m not exactly struggling. Let Caroline have it all—she’s earned it, the little gold-digger! Sure, she lived in luxury,,but I doubt she was happy. Putting up with Roman for seven whole years? She deserves a medal for bravery!”
“Here’s the situation…” the notary hesitated for a moment before continuing. “Caroline Sergeevna has received a lucrative offer abroad and is urgently leaving to shoot a film. She faced a choice: forfeit the inheritance or pass up a role in Hollywood. With a rather well-known director, no less. So, she made her decision and chose Hollywood. Honestly, I can’t blame her. If the role is a hit and the movie does well, she’ll make not just a few million, but tens of millions…”
“Always chasing the bigger prize,” I said with a wry smile. “Typical. But what’s stopping her from entering a sham marriage to secure the inheritance and still take the role?”
“The Hollywood contract stipulates that the actress must be unmarried.”
“Oh, I see,” I said as the gears in my mind started turning. “So, maybe she’s the one who bumped Roman off? To snag the role? Husband’s gone, she’s single, and the part is hers for the taking…”
“How can you say such a thing?!” the notary exclaimed, waving his hands in outrage, the inheritance document flapping along with them. “The police have conclusively proven it was an accident. The driver lost control. And Caroline Sergeevna has an alibi—she was at a charity gala at the time.”
“Sure,” I nodded skeptically. “Caroline knows how to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes. I know her well. Anyway,” I decided to speed up this conversation, which was starting to wear on me, “let’s cut to the chase. Can I refuse this inheritance?”
“You can,” the notary nodded. “Write a formal refusal right here and now, and the matter is settled.”
“Second question: where does the money go if both of Roman’s wives refuse it?”
“In that case,” he waved the paper in front of me again, “everything is accounted for. All of Mr. Roman Bezuhly’s wealth is to be converted to cash and burned in a crematorium.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, stunned.
“Unfortunately, I’m not,” he shook his head. “So…”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” I interrupted. “I’ve been backed into a corner. Refusing means letting several million dollars go up in smoke… literally. Huh, funny how that old saying takes on a whole new meaning. ‘Throwing money to the wind’—or rather, the ashes from the crematorium…”
The notary stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
Yeah, I tend to overthink and philosophize a bit.
“Fine, what do I need to do now?” I asked, starting to pack my scattered belongings back into my purse.
“Sign a document agreeing to comply with the terms of the will.”
“Hand it over, I’ll sign it. I’m not promising I’ll follow through, but I’ll give it a shot,” I nodded.
The notary handed me the prepared agreement, and I signed it. He snatched the document from my hands, rushed to a safe, locked it inside, and slammed the door shut.
“It’d be better to put that money toward a good cause. Donate it to an orphanage or buy a new bus for a school,” I mused aloud. “I’ll find some decent guy, we’ll get hitched, bring you the marriage certificate, and you’ll transfer Roman’s money to me. That’s the deal, right?”
“Essentially, yes,” the notary nodded, settling back into his chair. “But there are a couple of tiny little details… two tiny details, to be precise.”
“What details?” I asked, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
I’d just finished packing my purse and was holding the infamous egg in my hand.
“Uh… the suitors…” the notary averted his gaze.
“What suitors?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Well, your potential grooms, the ones you’ll choose to marry… Attached to the will is a list of suitors from which you must select your future husband…”
The egg slipped from my weakened grip and rolled across the floor. Both the notary and I watched its trajectory. I couldn’t hold back and let out a string of colorful curses…
2. The Merry Widow on the Market
“Sorry about that. You know,” I said, pulling myself together, “I’m not even surprised by these so-called ‘details’ of yours. Not one bit! And you didn’t need to rush to lock that agreement in the safe. Were you expecting me to back out once I heard about the list of suitors? Demand to tear up the contract and take back my signature?” I squinted, piercing the notary with my gaze.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his eyes darting around. So, I was right. That’s exactly what he thought.
“All your extra precautions are pointless!” I stood up from my chair, picked up the unfortunate egg from the floor, tossed it into my purse, and sat back down. “Once I’ve made up my mind to do something, I don’t go back on my word! But the fact that there are these additional, supposedly ‘tiny’ and insignificant conditions in the will—you could’ve told me about them upfront! Isn’t it standard practice to disclose all the details of a document before asking someone to sign it?”
“I was bound by specific requirements and restrictions regarding the disclosure of the inheritance terms,” the notary explained in a convoluted way. I had to give him some credit for that. Talk about spinning a phrase! It was impressive and utterly confusing, effectively killing any desire to ask further questions. But he wasn’t dealing with just anyone—I pressed on.
“I recognize Roman’s handiwork. He probably wrote in the will that his wives should only learn about these ‘tiny details’ after signing the agreement. And he knew me well enough to predict I’d stick to my principles! He calculated everything, the jerk. I know you’re supposed to speak well of the dead or not at all, but I bet wherever Roman ended up—heaven or hell—he’s watching us right now and laughing his head off. He was always like this,” I explained to the notary, who looked stunned by my bitter rant. “His whole life was about schemes, intrigues, and cruel jokes. Nowadays, they call it a ‘prank.’ Ever heard of that term? Anyway, to heck with him and his agreement. I’ve committed to this, so I’ll see this absurd plan through to the end. Now, hand over that list of suitors! I’m sure you’ve got it ready, don’t you?”
“Well, yes,” the notary nodded, immediately pulling open a drawer and placing a large brown envelope in front of me. “It’s all in there.”
“And what about the second condition? Care to share?” I asked, grabbing the envelope and folding it in half without a second thought. I shoved it into my purse with a bit of force—unfolded, it wouldn’t have fit in my not-so-spacious bag.
“You’re not going to look at the list now?” the notary asked, clearly intrigued.
“I’ll check it out at home,” I grumbled. “Need to cool off first. Don’t dodge the question! What’s the second condition?”
“Once a week during this month, you must host a party at Mr. Roman’s house, and all your potential suitors must be invited. The keys to the house are in the envelope,” the notary informed me, likely waiting for my reaction to yet another ridiculous condition.
But this was classic Roman, so I wasn’t even surprised. If anything, I was relieved he hadn’t demanded something crazier, like taking all these suitors on a round-the-world trip on camels… or, knowing him, forcing me to sleep with each of them in turn. His twisted mind could’ve come up with something like that.
Roman was unpredictable. He was also brilliant and wildly creative (to the point of madness!) as a video game developer. A hacker, programmer, artist, designer, stylist, avant-garde couturier, and, as they say these days, an “influencer.” He had millions of followers on every social media platform, earned massive sums of money, and could blow it all in a single night (just like he wanted to do with that crematorium stunt!). Then, by morning, he’d make even more. A total wild card. That’s how I knew him.
But I also knew him in his early days, when he was just an unknown IT developer, prone to deep depressions and aggressive outbursts. And who had to deal with all of that? His quiet, already unhappy wife—me.
The notary snapped me out of my reverie.
“So, will you comply with this condition?” he asked.
“Of course, no problem,” I replied with a shrug. “It’s a bit inconvenient that I have to host the party at his house instead of, say, a restaurant or a nightclub. But it’s manageable… I was expecting something even weirder… uh… another ‘tiny detail.’ How will you verify that the party actually happens?” I asked.
“You need to provide me with the date and location, and I’ll come to confirm that the event you’ve organized is indeed taking place,” he explained. “I usually send my staff for such inspections. Sometimes my employees handle rather unusual assignments…”
“But people who write wills like this in the prime of their lives also seem a bit odd to me,” I said, giving the notary a questioning look. “Nothing hinted at Roman’s death… yet he wrote this will. And now he’s forcing me to throw parties after he’s gone! Pretty eccentric, if you ask me. He’s turned me into some kind of ‘merry widow,’ even though I’m not technically a widow—I’m divorced. But now I’ve got a late husband. And somehow, I’ve become a bride-to-be, a woman on the market! Or rather, a merry widow on the market! Isn’t that just hilarious?” I snorted. “He knew full well I hate parties and swore I’d never marry again! What a brilliant, unmatched prank from my ex! Did he really hate me that much?”
I huffed indignantly and decided it was time to leave. Enough shocking revelations and quirky ‘details’ for one day!
“There’s an operetta by that name, isn’t there?” the notary suddenly recalled. “It’s called *The Merry Widow*. My wife and I saw it once.”
“Yes, there is,” I remembered too. “Perfect association! So, in a month, I’ll come back here married and claim my money. That’s the plan, right?” The notary nodded. “Alright, if that’s everything, I’ll be on my way. Goodbye!” I stood up, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.
“Uh… excuse me,” I heard a question behind me. “May I ask? Why do you carry… uh… an egg in your purse?”
“Oh, that? It’s to help me get married!” I replied and walked out of the office...
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*“The Merry Widow” - one of the most popular operettas in the world and the best-known work by composer Franz Lehár.
3. The Egg Worked!
I was riding the bus, clinging to the handrail with one hand, and nearly choking with laughter. It only just hit me how comical that whole scene with the egg was. I mean, come on, what normal person carries a boiled egg in their purse? Maybe around Easter, sure, if you’re toting around painted eggs. But even then, people usually carry Easter bread and eggs in special baskets for convenience and presentation. And here I am!
A young, fairly attractive woman carrying a boiled egg in her purse!
What’s wrong with that? I’ve always considered myself pretty, charming, and stylish. I’m not one of those women bogged down by insecurities! I hit the gym once a week, visit the esthetician now and then, and keep my nails on point, as my grandma would say… There are plenty of women like me in the city, but I’m probably the only one lugging around boiled eggs in her bag...
Every time I find one in my purse, I toss it out right away. Who knows what Grandma’s been doing with them—casting spells, smearing them with something, or sprinkling them with who-knows-what. And yet, she keeps sneaking them back in. I’ve figured out she secretly checks to see if I’m still carrying her silly eggs…
It all started with a conversation we had about happiness.
Grandma Olisava, by the way, was named after Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain in her day. She moved in with me from the countryside a few years ago when she suddenly decided to shake up her life. She’s quite the character. But I love her for her eccentric style, her endless quest for life’s meaning, her nonstop chatter, and even for her relentless efforts to meddle in my life. Specifically, to get me married. She’s always dragging questionable guys over to our place to introduce them to her potential granddaughter-in-law—me.
After we had a bit of a falling out over this, she switched tactics to esotericism, folk magic, and superstitions. She joined several mystical-occult-esoteric clubs that taught how to influence fate and people through energy flows, incantations, or specific actions and objects.
Her latest obsession was folk magic involving eggs. They did something with those eggs—chanted over them, made gestures, or sprinkled them with stuff. The Great Mistress of Destiny’s Power, as their leader called herself, promised that carrying these eggs with you at all times would solve all your problems...
I got off the bus and couldn’t help but laugh out loud. But hey, that egg did work its magic and solved my problem, just as Grandma believed. I’m getting married, aren’t I?
I stepped into our three-bedroom apartment and inhaled the delicious aroma. Grandma must’ve been frying cutlets— it smelled amazing.
“Gran! I’m home!” I called out from the doorway, and there she was, appearing in the kitchen entrance.
She was wearing an apron with a giant Mickey Mouse printed on it, long earrings dangling down to her shoulders like some Eastern beauty. Her short hair was dyed bright blue, her manicure was flawless, and she held a teacup delicately with two fingers, pinky extended. She peered at me over the top of her trendy round glasses.
“You’re early!” she pointed a manicured finger at me. “Something’s up! I hope everything’s okay? You’re not at work? Why? Did Mikhailenko pull something again? Or did you finally meet the man of your dreams? I bet you ran into him at the park, where you went to admire the blooming roses, and he was standing there with a single rose in his hand. He walked up to you and said he’d been waiting for a woman just like you. And you replied that yes, you’re the one he’s been looking for. Then you both rushed off to make it official! And then he…”
“Gran! Your cutlets are burning!” I interrupted her inspired monologue. With a quiet gasp, she dashed back to save the cutlets, while I hurried to change into comfy clothes.
She’s always like this. Grandma used to work at the village library and read every single book there. When I say every book, I mean *every* book. From classics to scientific journals, from romance novels to myths and folktales from around the world! Everything they had! So, she loves making up little stories, weaving fantasies for herself and for me...
I walked into the kitchen and saw that Grandma had already rummaged through my purse. She was standing by the stove, her lips pursed in offense.
“Where’s your egg?” she asked angrily. “See, because you threw it out, that man in the park didn’t wait for you! Some other woman got the rose instead! And she’s the one who got married, not you! Always alone! Forever alone! You need to find your other half! Love rules the world! You can’t die without knowing it! That woman who got the rose, she got married, and you…”
“Grandma, I’m getting married too,” I said wearily, plopping down on the little couch in the corner of the kitchen. “And very soon…”
“No way!” she exclaimed, not quite believing me but perking up instantly. “And who’s the lucky guy?!”
“You won’t believe this, but there’s a whole list of them! And right now, you and I are going to pick the best one!”
Grandma fell silent for a moment before declaring,
“I knew it! The egg worked! Folk magic is a powerful force!”
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*Olisava - a variant of the name Elizabeth.
4. You’ll Marry Him!
Grandma Olisava and I were having lunch, and I was telling her about my visit to the notary. I’d called earlier to cancel all my business meetings for the day and asked my deputy to handle things at the office in my place.
I worked at a company called “Map of Your World.” I’d bought the business from someone who was moving abroad. It was a quiet, somewhat unnecessary little venture. A geographic and cartographic business, if you will.
Before I took over, the company produced maps and various plans “based on a digital vector map of Ukraine and detailed city layouts.” I’m using this dull terminology because it’s written everywhere in our documents, and I’ve memorized it by now.
Anyway, I took a look around, let go of nearly the entire staff who did nothing and earned peanuts for it, and hired a few people who actually worked and had creative ideas. I tripled their salaries. Now, we handle both traditional map production and custom map orders of all kinds. Our company’s advertising catches the eye from the first glance, and sales are climbing.
It was my bold ideas, brought to life by my deputy Mikhailenko in our marketing campaigns, that started turning a profit for the company within just six months. But more on that later...
I’ll just say that Grandma didn’t care for Vasyl Mikhailenko, whom she stubbornly referred to by his last name, Mikhailenko, or sometimes simply as “the Viking” because he was a tall, burly man with a solid build. The first time she visited my office, which consisted of two large workshops, my modest office, a tiny reception area, and a long, spacious hallway, she was taken aback.
“Fro, you’re like Samantha from that show *Tough Gals Don’t Cry*,” she said. “In the eighth episode, she ends up in an office and starts working with a handsome boss who later seduces her, gets her pregnant, and leaves her with a baby… But that’s not the point. The office looks so similar! I like it! Though I’d hang some abstract art in the hallway and lay down a black carpet on the floor.”
“Why black?” I asked, puzzled.
“Black, like a black hole,” she replied mysteriously. But then Mikhailenko distracted her, and I still haven’t asked what she meant by that black hole comment.
So, about Mikhailenko. When Grandma saw him for the first time, she didn’t start matchmaking him to me, as she usually did with every unmarried man who crossed her sharp-eyed path. Instead, she suspiciously and quietly—so he wouldn’t hear—began grilling me about how he worked, whether he broke any rules, and just generally…
“He looks like the maniac from the book *Pink Tigress Never Says No*. Same beard, same muscles, and lips like dumplings! And that nose! Fro, has he shown you his ID? Does he have a criminal record?”
“Gran! His ID is with HR, and everything’s fine with him,” I assured her.
“Hmph, sure!” she muttered, then flashed a wide smile and greeted Vasyl.
That’s when they met. And Grandma, in her not-so-subtle way, asked him point-blank, nearly making me burst into uncontrollable laughter.
“Vasyl, you’re not a maniac, are you? Because if you are, I’ll put a curse on you, and your beard will fall out! I can see you’re quite proud of it, aren’t you?”
Mikhailenko froze, mouth agape, unsure how to respond, while I winked at him from behind Grandma’s back, signaling him to take it in stride and stay calm. I mean, my grandma’s a bit of an eccentric lady. I explained it to him privately later, but that first encounter was a tad awkward…
“An inheritance from that scoundrel Roman? To heck with him!” Grandma started ranting after hearing my story about the notary visit. “But you did the right thing by not refusing the money! No way! Sums like that don’t just fall into your lap! Oh, my gut tells me something’s fishy here! But if this inheritance gives you a chance to get married, I’m all in to oversee everything and be your bodyguard for the month,” she nodded. “Hand over the list, let’s take a look!”
Her eyes lit up with excitement and curiosity.
I opened the large envelope, slightly creased in the middle, and pulled out a clear plastic sleeve containing a sheet with the list of my potential suitors. A set of keys also fell onto the table, presumably to the late Roman Bezuhly’s estate. That’s where I was supposed to host weekly parties to meet the men on the list. I set the envelope aside and started reading.
There were five contenders, so to speak, for my hand and heart. And I didn’t know a single one of them. This complicated things a bit: first, I had to meet all of them, and second, I had to explain this whole inheritance fiasco. Then, logically, I’d need to arrange a sham marriage. Get the marriage certificate quickly, take it to the notary’s office, and that’s that… But these parties were slowing me down...
I was already thinking I could pick one of these men from the list, strike a deal with him, and wrap this up. But the notary made it clear that the parties had to happen, and I had to show up in a month...
“Fro!” Grandma Olisava snapped me out of my thoughts with an excited shout. “I know this suitor!” She jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at number three on the list. “That’s it, I’m not even reading about the others! You’ll marry him!”
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*All books and TV shows mentioned in this book are fictional creations of the author. They do not exist in reality. Any resemblance to real books or shows is purely coincidental. After all, there are countless titles out there, and I can’t know them all.