Rita began to clear an impressive pile of grimy crockery, her mood very sour. There were indeed few reasons for joy. How had she come to be in such a murky place in life? Where had her sanity gone? At first, her mental faculties were completely paralyzed by the romantic feeling that had suddenly overwhelmed her. Vadim had instantly won her over with his charm, attentiveness, and his skills in communicating with the fairer sex. Honestly, for her—who had never considered herself a fatal seductress of men’s souls—the unexpected attention from this confident young man, clearly popular among women, was extremely pleasing. What did he see in her? It’s hard to say. Perhaps he was tired of girls with artificial eyelashes and beauty injections, or perhaps he was indeed looking for something more genuine, something unlike the standards imposed by society.
Rita took the proposal to live together as an unexpected miracle. In the heat of her romantic feelings, she hadn’t even raised the question of legally formalizing their relationship. Why was that necessary? Outdated customs from the last century. But as it later turned out, these old-fashioned rules had their own iron logic. Although a stamp in the passport was not an absolute guarantee of a successful marriage, it at least partially protected the interests of both spouses in the event of a separation. It provided a chance to defend one’s financial rights. And what did she have now with her great passion? A rented apartment and a ten-year-old Arina in her care, who urgently required expensive surgery. How had it come to pass that the little girl had climbed that tree with its slender branches? Perhaps, having been impressed by her mother’s stories of childhood, when they used to taste fragrant flowers, the result now was a malunited fracture and a limp that might become permanent without timely surgery during the growing years. Rita blamed herself both for her tales of childhood pastimes and for her indecision over formally registering her relationship with Vadim. What was she so afraid of? Losing Vadim? In any case, she had already lost him, unable to withstand the competition from the new manager, Ella—a lady who was very attractive, intelligent, and independent. Ella would surely not let her chance slip by, ensuring herself on all fronts. And Rita, having lost on every front: Vadim’s house (to which she had no rights), no money for lawyers to prove paternity and obtain alimony. She had achieved nothing with her fear and submissiveness. If Vadim had left earlier, perhaps she wouldn’t have lost her job; she might have started working and, who knows, might even now be standing on her own two feet. And now… Which employer needs a diploma from twelve years ago? Only Zhora, who gave her a job washing dishes in his restaurant, because he believed that all his staff should be engaged in intellectual labor. The thought of Zhora made her stomach churn unpleasantly. His nickname was “Koshak” (Cat), earned from his friends because of his unrestrained and constant attraction to every woman in his sight—a trait usually seen in cats during their spring mating season. However, unlike cute animals, Zhora’s period of desire was constant and did not wane at any time of the year. He had tried to cover Rita with his sticky attention, but when he met her firm resistance, he only disdainfully clucked, “Don’t think too highly of yourself, you’re not the only proud one here,” and immediately switched his attention to a passing waitress. Zhora the Cat had one indisputable advantage over other ladies’ men: he was good-natured and non-confrontational, so, not receiving reciprocation, he never wasted time on harassment or revenge.
Rita looked over at Arina, who was studying a bright Spanish textbook at the table of the perpetually busy administrator. In some way, she had been somewhat lucky. Management allowed her to bring her daughter to work, and even the kind-hearted chef Mikhail Kuzmich treated the girl to various homemade delicacies in the boss’s absence. Kuzmich had become another bright spot in Rita’s life. Desperately missing grandchildren, taken away by their parents to far-off prosperous Western countries, the chef had become emotionally attached to another child and created real culinary masterpieces for her. Arina, laughing, alternated between devouring egg boats with scarlet tomato-sail “ships,” cheese appetizers shaped like little mice, and a salad decorated with a playful sausage piglet. In return, Arina—who had shown early talent for languages—sang Spanish songs for Mikhail Kuzmich and taught him how to count in Spanish up to ten. Kuzmich tried very hard, but apart from “uno, dos, tres,” he could only remember “ocho,” so their counting always ended up sounding like “one, two, three, eight.” At that moment, Kuzmich was busy preparing a dessert for the arrival of important foreign guests, while Arina was absorbed in the whimsical tangle of Spanish words.
The pile of crockery was gradually coming to an end. As she removed the last plate from the dishwasher and anticipated a short rest with a cup of coffee, Rita unexpectedly heard some noise and saw Zhora—animated, unusually friendly—leading a whole group of dark-haired, brown-eyed men, very businesslike and impeccably dressed, into the dining room.
“Investors, he’s luring them, scoundrel,” spat Kuzmich through gritted teeth as he suddenly appeared, “so that he can get a chunkier piece from their money on a full stomach.”
“Who else, really?” Rita inquired.
“Not enough of his own?” Kuzmich smirked. “Girls, you know, demand money—and not a little.”
“I know,” Rita replied sadly, recalling the golden Swiss watch Vadim had given to Ella, capable of paying for more than one such operation that Arina needed.
Meanwhile, the guests had taken their seats at a table and a lively conversation had begun, with one of the guests—who spoke Russian fairly well—acting as the translator.
“Mom, mom,” Rita heard her daughter whisper urgently, “they’re speaking Spanish! I understand so much already, Mom! I even realized they came from Argentina!”
“Well, you really do!” Rita exclaimed in surprise. “Or maybe their translator helped you?”
“I understand even before José translates everything,” Arina said with a frown, “and he doesn’t always translate accurately—I just can’t figure out why.”
“Because everyone has their own interest in this matter,” Rita nearly blurted out, but quickly stopped herself.
“Mom, I’ll go back to my table,” Arina trembled with excited anticipation, “when else will I have the chance to listen to live Argentinians?”
The conversation carried on. Zhora was obliging, the foreigners were animated, and Rita even felt annoyed that he was trying to squeeze money from such pleasant gentlemen, clearly not expecting to bring them any reciprocal benefit. Kuzmich’s dessert was a hit; the foreigners expressed complete approval. Their lively temperament came through, disrupting their businesslike reserve, and soon one of the guests, raising his glass, began to sing the opening strains of “Cumparsitas.”
Suddenly, a clear, girlish voice picked up the rhythm, and Rita was amazed to see Arina like never before. The girl’s eyes burned with an unfamiliar fire, her eyebrows furrowed in a tragic crease, and her hand movements were passionate and impulsive, clearly expressing an adult passion still unknown to her. Arina sang with great feeling, yet she didn’t dare move actively, aware of her limp.
“My poor little girl, how she must long to dance that passionate Argentine tango,” Rita thought, barely holding back tears, not noticing how the Argentinians had first quieted, then revived, and how the last words of “Cumparsitas” were drowned in their enthusiastic exclamations and applause. But Zhora quickly regained his composure. As soon as the ovation subsided, he leaped up, bowed with his hand over his heart, and introduced Arina as his own daughter—an ardent student of Spanish and a lover of Latin American songs.
“Truly, we do have one problem,” he added, tenderly embracing the girl, “the little one needs an expensive operation, and our project is primarily aimed at obtaining funds for the restoration and rehabilitation of Arina and other children with similar problems.”
Faced with such insolence, Rita was left speechless and didn’t even have time to utter a word before Zhora the Cat—now grown before her alongside Arina—threateningly hissed:
“Don’t you dare say a word! If you utter even a peep, I’ll throw you out on the street after a good rinse in the dishwasher!”
“Did I sing well, Mommy? They seemed to like it!” Arina said, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks, oblivious to her mother’s anxiety.
“Yes, my dear, you did very well,” Rita whispered, bending to pick up a fallen napkin while hiding tearful eyes—tears from herself, from the watchful Zhora, and from the increasingly glowering Kuzmich.
Zhora undoubtedly secured the funds for opening his own restaurant. He was literally flying around the room, whistling merrily and anticipating the joys of life. Rita, on the other hand, felt an extra weight in her heart. She felt like a stranger among this throng of tenacious, intrusive businessmen—ready to do anything to achieve their goals and living life solely in pursuit of personal gain.
“Why am I so unlucky?” she pondered as she arranged the endless stack of plates. “Both my husband—even if he were to be—and my employer lack moral principles and decency; they only care about cold calculation and their interest in the opposite sex. Or is it me, if instead of decent people I keep encountering these sorts of individuals? Perhaps such people have already become extinct as a class? Disappeared like dinosaurs or mammoths due to environmental changes?” There were no answers to these questions, no money either, and only the cheerful little Arina—despite everything—served as a source of comfort for Rita.
Thus passed several months filled with tension. Rita toiled from early morning until late at night, surgeons hurried her on, rising rent consumed her last funds, and Zhora—having profited thanks to Arina’s efforts—didn’t even bother to pay her a modest fee.
One day, on a sunny afternoon, Rita, desperate to dispel the gloom and despair that gripped her throat like an iron vise, decided to take Arina to the city park of culture and recreation. The journey was long, crossing nearly half the metropolis, but the walk was worth it. Colorful attractions spun around, the sun’s rays illuminated blooming flowerbeds, and black Australian swans swam near the banks of a small pond, begging for food. Incidentally, they were not the only connoisseurs of treats. With loud, insistent clicking, fiery-red squirrels leaped along the branches; their keen eyes spotted a little bag of nuts in the girl’s hands. The squirrels proved to be very tame creatures. They descended along the trunks right into the girl’s palms, carefully taking a nut—adorably stretching out their little faces as they did—then swiftly flew upward, devoured it, and immediately returned for another. The bag was emptied, and Rita and Arina laughed heartily, watching the cute creatures, when suddenly a velvety bass began singing in Spanish behind them, startling them into a sharp turn.
It was José, smiling gently and tipping his hat in greeting.
“How is the charming young señorita?” he politely inquired, his words tinged with a slight accent. “I’m very pleased that such a beautiful day has become even more wonderful thanks to our meeting.”
Rita smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. The walk continued with the three of them.
“And how come you speak our language so well?” Rita decided to steer the conversation with a neutral question.
“I once studied here, then went back home to Argentina. And when our company began expanding its international contacts, my knowledge of the language came in very handy,” José replied with a charming smile. “Your daughter is doing the right thing by studying languages—it will definitely be useful to her in the future.”
“Well, she hasn’t given it much thought yet. For some reason, she just likes Spanish and… that’s it. Besides, it comes very easily to her.”
“With such an enterprising parent, Spanish has already proven its worth. By the way, why are you out walking without her on such a fine day?”
“Without a parent…” Rita choked with hurt and anger. “Do you know that her parent… Well, what do you care about her parent? And Zhora… Zhora isn’t her parent at all—I just wash dishes in his restaurant.”
“What am I doing?” Rita thought to herself. “What have I done? Koshak will now have me shown the door! He’ll never forgive such a terrible act!” But it was too late to change anything. The accumulated resentments overcame her caution, and now a perplexed José, furrowing his brows, asked for an explanation of the situation. There was no way to escape, and Rita, stammering and deeply upset, briefly recounted her entire difficult story. At the end of her tale, the man became extremely agitated. His eyes shone angrily, his hands clenched into fists, and in his excitement he switched to Spanish, passionately and emotionally saying something while repeatedly using the words “mentirosos” and “deshonrados.”
“What is he saying?” Rita asked her daughter, completely bewildered by the torrent of unfamiliar language.
“He’s swearing—very strongly swearing,” Arina said seriously and intently, “calling Zhora a cheater, and her dad an unworthy man, and not understanding how one could treat women and children like that. Abandon them, completely cut them off…”
Gradually, José regained his composure and switched back to Russian:
“I deeply sympathize with your grief, Rita,” his voice still slightly tense, “but I am very glad that we met today.”
“And I’m not very glad,” Rita admitted honestly, “now my employer will be left without Argentine funding, and I’m left without a job.”
“Perhaps I can help you too. Although I don’t manage finances—that is the prerogative of my half-brother Miguel. He, as the legal heir, has the right,” José said, his voice growing more excited, inadvertently revealing the complexities of Argentine family relations. “I am merely at his service, but I know Miguel. He is fair and knows how to be grateful to those who help him. In this case, you prevented his further useless expenditures, because from your story I see that your employer is not at all who he pretends to be. I will speak with Miguel to help you both with work and with your daughter’s treatment. Such wonderful girls should not suffer because of the baseness and selfishness of adults.”
With these words, he took Arina by the hand and went to see them off all the way home.
The next morning, Rita arrived at work early to collect her things. Kuzmich was already there. After listening to Rita’s disjointed story, he merely clucked, rubbed his hands together approvingly, and said:
“Well, now our Koshak will get what he deserves. Likely, he’ll have to sell the restaurant too. He’s probably already squandered their money on his whims. And you—your noble Luis Alberto won’t deceive you, do you think?”
“I don’t think so, he won’t deceive me. Only his name is José,” Rita shook her head.
“Ah—damn it,” Kuzmich waved his hand, for whom all of Latin America had merged into images from Mexican soap operas, “the main thing is that little Arina gets help. Will you at least visit the old man?”
“I will, for sure,” Rita said, pressing a kiss to Kuzmich’s stubbly cheek, “Arina never finished teaching you Spanish counting.”
Miguel indeed turned out to be a fair man. A couple of days later, José stopped by Rita’s place and brought an enormous plush dog along with good news.
“Rita, we are offering you a position in our office. Nothing complicated: you’ll take calls, make coffee, send correspondence. For now, that’s it; later, if everything goes well, we’ll figure out something more. I think you’ll manage just fine—and you might even be able to rent a better place. Miguel will also pay for your daughter’s operation, so come on, gather your documents and make arrangements with the doctors.”
“And why would Miguel show such care for me?” Rita asked skeptically, not used to anyone taking her difficulties to heart.
“Oh, the Slavic soul—everything is so complicated and grand with you,” José shook his head. “Everything is very simple, Rita. Thanks to your intervention, my brother avoided useless expenditures and even gained a certain advantage. Now he can demand that the current owner compensate for the costs and pay a fine for the misuse of investments. Apparently, the current owner doesn’t have the necessary funds, and will have to pay with the restaurant. Thus, Miguel gets a beneficial deal, and you—your recompense for your help and cooperation. Now, are your doubts gone?”
“They’re gone,” Rita said thoughtfully. “I hadn’t looked at the situation from that angle. You are different from us—your way of thinking is different.”
“That is not always a bad thing,” José smiled. “Now I must go.”
When the door closed behind José, Rita sank into a chair, overwhelmed by strange emotions. She was very drawn to this charming man with an open, slightly sad smile; his support had come at a most timely and crucial moment, yet the impending changes frightened her with their uncertainty, and her past experiences prevented her from nurturing rosy hopes.
“Alright, enough idle musings,” she finally snapped to herself, “Tomorrow, a new job, preparing Arina for her operation, and I must dream. I need to act—then there will be fewer doubts.”
Rita liked her new job. Her colleagues were friendly, the duties manageable, and even fellow countrymen were present in the office. “I should ask Arisha to give me Spanish lessons,” Rita thought by the end of the day, “and I mustn’t forget to purchase a textbook on the way. Welcome, Margarita Sergeyevna, to your new, unexplored life.”
Seven days later, Arina was hospitalized for surgery. José visited her together with Rita, and increasingly she noticed a special expression in the depths of his dark, bottomless eyes—a look in which thoughtfulness, a slight sadness, and a hidden inner fire were intertwined.
A month later, they were taking the girl home. Ahead was still a difficult period of recovery, but the doctors unanimously assured them that no unfavorable surprises were expected. At home, they were met by Kuzmich, who scooped Arina into his arms and, trying to hold both her and the three-tiered sponge cake specially made for the occasion, hauled his precious burden into the apartment. José and Rita remained in the car.
“A wonderful old man,” José remarked as he watched Kuzmich leave, “Miguel considers him an outstanding specialist and an equally outstanding person. I do too.”
“Yes, Mikhail Kuzmich is a true gift of fate for anyone. He has become as dear to us as family.”
“Only him?” José suddenly looked at Rita intently, and she blushed and lowered her gaze.
“Rita,” José said very seriously, “perhaps it’s time to say it. You and Arina have long become close to me. I have come to love the little girl, and I care very much about you. I cannot guarantee you a luxurious life or even the level of comfort that Arina’s father might have provided. I am merely a hired worker in my brother’s company—by various reasons I do not have inheritance rights. But I have something else. I will never leave you or her in a difficult situation. I want you to ask yourself: could you fully accept me into your life and live it with me?”
“I think so,” Rita whispered softly, not daring to raise her eyes.
“Well then, we are now going to celebrate not only Arina’s return but also our engagement,” José declared firmly, producing from somewhere behind the seat a huge bouquet of tea roses, …
