5. Artistic Mooing
The list of suitors was intriguing, to say the least. First up was a man named Dmitry Havrysh, thirty-six years old, never married, no children. It was written out like some kind of dossier. He worked at a well-known bank called “Plutus”*. His exact position wasn’t specified, but I immediately pictured an office clerk, all prim and proper in a crisp white shirt and a stiff business suit—the kind they call “white-collar workers”**, if I’m not mistaken. I imagined a snob, an arrogant type.
Next to each name and surname, there was information about their age, marital status (married or not), address, place of work, and, oddly enough, their hobbies.
Hmm. Why on earth do I need to know that Mr. Dmitry collects stamps and… fruit stickers from supermarkets?
Good grief, the things people collect! I remember when I was a kid, I used to collect candy wrappers. I’d store them in a little box, even picking up bright ones off the street, though that was unhygienic and, as my mom put it, downright tacky. According to her, it made me look like a homeless person scavenging for cigarette butts.
“I hope you’re not digging through trash cans!” she’d say sternly.
Honestly, I did sometimes. But I was just a kid back then. And anyway… Still, I remember the thrill and the pull of collecting. I wonder why fruit stickers, of all things? This quirky hobby softened my view of the haughty, disdainful banker I’d pictured… If he collects such oddities, maybe he’s not as boring or stuck-up as I imagined?
Second on the list was a fitness trainer. Oh! Now that’s interesting! Muscles, chiseled chest, thick neck, strong arms and legs… My imagination ran wild, but I reined it in. Fitness trainers are often good-looking, no doubt about it. But what’s going on in their heads? Usually, people in that line of work are former athletes. Maybe he was a boxer who took too many hits to the head? Could his poor brain be a bit scrambled?
I once knew a fitness trainer. Nice guy. Even interesting in some ways. For instance, he proudly admitted to having read exactly one book in his entire life. As a kid. And he loved it. He considered himself well-read and knowledgeable about literature. That book? *Tarzan*. I’m guessing that somehow influenced his career path too…
So, Semyon Krotovsky, fitness trainer, thirty-eight years old. Previously married, now divorced. No children. A typical type, you could say. Oh, and in his free time, he does pottery. Huh. I never would’ve guessed! Well, look at that! You glance at someone, anyone, and you’d never suspect they have such an interesting hobby. It’s a shame I don’t have any hobbies myself. I don’t collect anything. Reading about the passions of my potential suitors and husbands made me feel a bit deprived…
Now, the third one, whom Grandma Olisava knew, piqued my interest too. A head chef at a well-known restaurant in town called “Golden Nest,” Oleg Pavlyuk.
“Aha!” Grandma exclaimed. “He’s pushing forty! Thirty-eight, to be exact. But he looks like he’s twenty! What a man! You should see him! We stopped by his restaurant with the girls! Oh, Fro, he cooks like a dream! No wonder he’s the head chef at such a fancy place! You love my cutlets,” she nodded toward the plate with about a dozen cutlets still waiting to be put in the fridge, “and even wrote down the recipe! But this man’s cutlets are so good, you’d bite through the fork along with them! Fro, he’s handsome, single, no kids, and… What?!”
Grandma adjusted her glasses, pushing them closer to her wide, astonished eyes, and peered at the list more intently, practically holding it up to her face.
“He’s into…”
She looked at me, bewildered, and I snatched the list from her hands to see for myself what had left Grandma Olisava so stunned.
Oleg Pavlyuk, in his spare time, was into… artistic mooing***!
I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I’d misread the words on the paper. What in the world? He moos like a cow? To say I was surprised would be an understatement! Holy cow! Mooing! Artistic mooing!
I let out a quiet giggle first. I couldn’t hold it in— this mooing business was the final straw on this weird, exhausting day.
Soon, I was laughing out loud, and Grandma joined in.
“It’s fine, it’s not like he’s into drinking or smoking cigars!” she comforted me later, after we’d laughed ourselves out. “At least he cooks well!”
“I’m not getting married just so a man can cook for me,” I said. “Honestly, I think men are meant for other things…”
“And what, in your opinion, are they meant for?” Grandma asked, intrigued…
_______________
*Plutus - meaning “wealth” - the ancient Greek god of riches. The bank is a fictional creation of the author.
**White-collar workers - professionals engaged in intellectual labor, such as office workers, bureaucrats, managers, and technical staff.
***In the UK, there’s an entire community dedicated to imitating cow mooing, even holding competitions for the best performance in this unusual genre of vocal art. Americans aren’t far behind either. In Wisconsin, they also host artistic mooing contests. The youngest winner was ten-year-old Austin Siok, who outdid not only over 80 competitors but the cows themselves!
6. Mr. X
“Well, I think, first and foremost, a man is supposed to make a woman feel like she’s the best in the world!” I began to explain. “He should give compliments, know how to joke tastefully, have a sense of humor… And earn a good living too. But money isn’t the main thing for me!” I shot a glance at Grandma, who was listening with a skeptical purse of her lips. “I also need to understand him, and he needs to understand me. We should share similar interests, solve problems together… And honestly, men are for…”
“Stop right there, Fro! Do you hear yourself? The man you’re describing is straight out of a fairy tale or some romance novel! That doesn’t exist! What about dirty, smelly socks? What about coughing and sniffling in the bathroom while he washes up and brushes his teeth? What about stuff scattered all over the house that you have to pick up while grumbling? I’m just giving examples,” Grandma Olisava clarified, noticing my surprised look. “What about beer nights with his buddies? Or fishing trips? Or coming home late while you’re losing your mind with jealousy?”
Hmm. Grandma Olisava had quite the experience and memories. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t making this up but drawing from her own life, which was very… uh… colorful…
“Perfect people, let alone perfect men, don’t exist!” she declared with finality.
“Then I’m looking for the perfect one!” I insisted. “Oh, Grandma, he has to love me, carry me in his arms, shower me with compliments, be a fit, athletic hottie, well-read, intelligent, and make a lot of money,” I said dreamily, staring at the ceiling as if a portrait of my ideal man hung there. “Fine, forget the money, I’ll earn it myself… That’s the perfect man I’m after!” I winked at Grandma.
“Then marry an imperfect one and turn him into your ideal!” Grandma concluded, ending our debate before it could escalate.
These kinds of arguments happened often between us, especially when Grandma brought over yet another suitor for my hand. I always found something negative in their personality or appearance, and no one ever appealed to me…
“I’d rather get a dog or a cat and clean up their fur all over the apartment than deal with the hair from that guy you brought over! My own mane is enough!” I’d tell Grandma about the latest suitor with a long beard or long hair…
“I’d rather chat with ChatGPT and discuss various issues. Sure, it might get things wrong, but at least it provides interesting info! This guy hasn’t read a single book! When I tried talking to him, he turned out to be completely shallow! How can I discuss deep topics, literature, art, or anything meaningful with him? And you want us to live happily ever after?” Those were some of my other arguments.
The older I got, the more I realized I wanted to stay single. I couldn’t stand having someone around with traits I despised… or someone who wasn’t educated enough, who didn’t meet the standards I’d set in my head. I think this is a problem for many women who’ve built a career, achieved something in life, and now have their cozy little nest they don’t want to share with any man. Maybe just keep a guy on the side for physical needs. I’ve had short-term flings like that… But afterward, I always felt awful inside…
“Oh, Fro, you’re such a fool! Even if you’re my granddaughter!” Grandma shook her head disapprovingly. “Keep reading! Who else is on the list?”
The fourth contender was Mykhailo Fedorovsky. He worked as a math teacher at one of the schools in our city. It’s a pity the list didn’t include photos because I instantly pictured a math teacher: a nerd, glasses, a bookworm who occasionally yells at kids in class and is always buried in his formulas, oblivious to the world. He was forty, previously married, now divorced. And, by the way, he had a child from his first marriage. He was the first suitor with kids. His hobby, which didn’t surprise me at all, was chess. I played chess too, though poorly. And whenever I lost, I’d cry my eyes out… Yeah, the math teacher didn’t appeal to me from the get-go…
But the fifth one caught me off guard. Where his name should have been, it simply read “Mr. X.” And there was an address. That’s it. This both intrigued and irritated me.
I recognize Roman’s style. We were married for two years back in the day. During that time, I learned he was unpredictable and, in some ways, cruel. Cruel in the sense that he had a penchant for mean-spirited pranks. And that he could be cruel in real life and actions—I learned that the hard way, so to speak. That’s why we eventually divorced. And I thank God for giving me the sense to stop putting up with it and walk away from that man…
But he kept me in his web for a long time afterward, until he moved on to other women and other, more interesting pursuits. Still, I knew he never fully let me out of his sight. So I was always, always on guard!
And now this creep was reaching me from beyond the grave…
The fact that his ridiculous will was just another way to torment me was already clear. But could this Mr. X also be one of Roman’s pawns, someone meant to humiliate, shame, or set me up?
7. Shall We Go?
“Well!” Grandma looked up at me. “Shall we go?”
“Go where?” I asked, surprised, as I reread the list.
Honestly, this list was more like a freak show! One moos, another plays chess (who even plays chess in this age of high tech?), and another fondles fruit just to peel off the stickers!
“To the restaurant! To ‘Golden Nest’!” Grandma waved her hands in front of my face. “I just got my nails done yesterday! Pretty, right?”
“Uh-huh,” I agreed, inspecting her purple nails adorned with tiny rainbow butterflies. They were indeed pretty, though, in my opinion, a bit over-the-top and… not quite age-appropriate. They’d look more fitting on some teenage girl’s hands. But that was just my personal take. My grandma is a walking masterpiece, so I always supported and praised her endeavors. She’s the best! The most modern grandma in the world!
“Gran, we just ate,” I nodded at the empty bowls and leftover cutlets. “What restaurant?”
“So what? We’ll get dessert!” Grandma decided and flitted down the hallway to her room.
“Wear that dress with the deep neckline! You look like Marilyn Monroe in it!” she shouted to me.
“Gran!” I groaned. “That’s an evening dress! It’s noon! That breaks etiquette rules!” I threw out my last argument, knowing full well it wouldn’t work. Once Grandma made up her mind, she’d wear me down.
“Fro,” Grandma peeked out of her room, dressed in a long floral blouse and blue capris that hit just below the knee. “Who’s going to wait for evening when your fate is being decided at midday? You’ve got to be ready for battle twenty-four hours a day!” She wagged a butterfly-manicured finger at me. “Don’t argue! I know best!”
“Uh, maybe I’ll go alone, since you’re so eager to push me to that restaurant?” I asked, tucking the list and keys into the envelope and shoving the envelope into my purse. “I’ll be quick.”
“That’s exactly the problem, Fro, that you’re quick!” Grandma emerged from her room in full regalia.
Smoky sunglasses covering half her face, blue hair teased into an elegant mess, and dangling earrings down to her shoulders made her look like some mysterious, eccentric fortune teller. On top of that, she’d slipped into high-platform sandals and now strutted like a peacock, slow and graceful, one arm extended for balance. With the other, she clutched a long, fabric eco-bag stuffed with something, featuring a large drawing of a wide-open eye with long lashes. “Look at the world and marvel!” was written on the bag.
“You need to take it slow! And savor it! So that he, your chosen one, understands you’re not going anywhere without him. And he’s not going anywhere without you. You need to show up and stay there for a long time! And when I say a long time, I mean a lo-o-ong time! Got it?”
“Grandma, what are you talking about?!” I said, alarmed. “I’m just going to meet this… uh… Oleg, I think. I’ll explain the situation, what’s required of him, and ask him to come to the party. We’ll plan the first one for Saturday. Today’s Tuesday, so by Saturday, I’ll have everything arranged and will have met all the suitors on the list.”
“Are you clueless, or just pretending to be?” Grandma gave me a withering look. “Fro, under no circumstances should you mention the will! If you do, those suitors will start competing with each other and fighting for you not because of who you are, but for the money!”
“I don’t need their competition!” I waved my hand dismissively. “If one of them agrees to a quick, formal marriage right away, I’ll be thrilled!”
“And then there won’t be all four parties! Which you’re required to host according to the agreement! You ninny!”
Grandma shook her head in disapproval. And she was right. That’s true. If I strike a deal with one, the others won’t have any reason to show up to the parties I’ve got planned for this month. Hmm. What to do?
“What would you do without me?” Grandma nodded triumphantly. “That’s why you need to make all these suitors from the list fall for you! And then…”
“Fall for me?” I burst out laughing. “Gran, how do you imagine that happening?”
“Yes,” Grandma Olisava agreed. “Falling in love might be an overstatement. Make them interested! Make them chase after you! Fight for you! For real! And they’ll all come running to your party like eager puppies. By keeping them intrigued for as long as possible, you won’t show preference for any one suitor, but you’ll hint that you’re choosing… Oh!” Grandma looked up at the ceiling dreamily. “It’s just like in the show *My Precious Lost Soul*! There was this…”
“Grandma, that’s not right,” I tried to protest. “I’d be deceiving these people. I mean, these men…”
“Listen, Fro,” Grandma grew serious. “In love, all’s fair, that’s number one. And number two, why do you think you’d be deceiving them? What if all the suitors on this list turn out to be absolute catches, the kind you’d have to search high and low for?! And you genuinely like them all? And they like you! I have no doubt about that! What if you really can’t choose? Could that happen in life? Absolutely!”
An hour later, Grandma and I climbed into a taxi headed for “Golden Nest,” the fanciest and most expensive restaurant in our city. While in the taxi, I opened my purse to grab my phone and noticed a lone egg sitting at the bottom, camouflaged by a handkerchief. I nearly laughed out loud. I glanced at Grandma but kept quiet. It was funny, though: here I was, heading to “Golden Nest,” but with my own egg in tow…