Victor Pchelkin

"Bandit's wife"—that label already belonged to her, guts and all. She was Pchyolkin's wife—the authority figure, the bandit, the one whose name resounded and was published throughout Moscow and St. Petersburg. He, the one everyone feared; and she, the one he feared. She, and only she, could influence him. She was his priority, not an option.

A long, floor-length mink coat; heeled boots that almost reach the knees, gold chains and rings with stones on his hands, black smoky eye makeup, and a leather bag—only the best for his "darling." More gifts that are considered apologies for his absences "on business trips." But she understands that he arranges these business trips for others. Into the woods to bury them.

"My little fish," "darling," "little one," "mouse"—these had become familiar nicknames for her. When he came into the apartment in a good mood after yet another scrape, or when he, with an irritated expression, held her close possessively, whispering these saccharine nicknames in her ear.

💔🧸

Quarrels were common in the Pchyolkins' marriage (as they were informally called in Moscow's criminal underworld), but they often ended with a passionate kiss that cut off her scream, or with hugs afterwards, in the kitchen, which speak louder than words.

The apartment smells of potatoes, powdered sugar, and melancholy—a kind of Soviet, feminine melancholy. Pchyolkin is lounging on the couch while some TV show hums in the background, just to keep things going.

"Kitty, I'm telling you this again. You won't stick your nose into your job. The last thing you need is for your 'audience' to grope you there." "Yeah. It's hard being an actress. But it's harder being Pchyolkin's wife." "You need money? Take as much as you want. Gifts, fur coats, restaurants. What else do you need?"