For her sixty-eighth birthday, Tamara Sergeyevna, as usual, set a festive table: Russian salad, breaded herring, and duck with apples. Her father was particularly fond of this menu. Marina and Ilya brought flowers and a cake. Kirill brought wine and a box of chocolates.The conversation was going nowhere. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery, curt requests for food, and the birthday girl’s tense tales of neighbors and store prices. No one knew what to say to her.
“Remember when Dad built the banya?” Ilya asked suddenly, not taking his eyes off his plate. “He used to come here after the night shift and stack the wood until evening.”
Kirill put down his fork.
“Besides, the real estate agent said the banya can be sold separately. We’ll get a good price for it.”
Ilya raised his head. Marina immediately realized that her brother was having trouble controlling himself.
