“Fabergé? Oh, please…” — Darya’s First Battle with Isolda Karlovna— That is a Fabergé necklace! — my future mother-in-law boomed across the dining table. — And you… you’re basically nothing more than a milkmaid’s daughter!
Calmly, I took out a magnifying glass, leaned closer to the “masterpiece,” and gently pointed to the tiniest stamp:— Price: 3 rubles 50 kopecks.The air froze.— A milkmaid’s daughter will not be my daughter-in-law! — her voice snapped, sharp as a bell ringing at dawn.
Zinaida Yegorovna… who insisted everyone call her Isolda Karlovna… threw her words down so loudly even the neighbor’s dogs fell silent.I stood there on the doorstep with an innocent bouquet of chrysanthemums, and only one thought kept pounding in my head:
Is this really about me?Edik, my fiancé, hovered awkwardly beside me, as if his body could somehow shield me from his mother’s attack.— Mom, please… quieter… the neighbors can hear… She’s Darya, an art historian…
— An art historian?! — Isolda Karlovna scoffed, adjusting the enormous brooch on her chest, which screamed glass imitation. — Oh, I know your kind! Provincials hunting for a Moscow address! In the Sheremetyev family, there is order! We do not mix our blood with the proletariat!
I inhaled slowly.Edik had warned me that his mother was “strict and loved etiquette.”He forgot to mention that in her own apartment she imagined herself an empress, and her throne stood right in the middle of the living room.
I glanced at myself:Italian shoes,a simple linen dress,a restoration degree,three years of museum practice.A milkmaid’s daughter, huh?Of course.— Good afternoon, Isolda Karlovna, — I stepped forward, gently moving Edik aside.
— I’m honored to meet the guardian of such refined family traditions. Edik has told me so much about your taste.The woman stiffened.Flattery worked on her like a spell.She lifted her lorgnette — on a gold chain! — and nodded with dignity.
— Come in. But take off your shoes. Parquet flooring. Venetian.The “Venetian parquet,” in reality, was swollen laminate.The apartment looked like a museum that had been looted by a traveling circus… and then rearranged in complete chaos.
“Tapestries” on the walls — plastic rugs.Furniture: gold-patterned sofas, lion-footed armchairs, curved side tablesLuxury… with a faint discount-Chinese aftertaste.— To the living room! — she commanded, rustling in a velvet skirt in June.
— Edik, tea! Champagne only for special occasions. Today is just… an ordinary Tuesday.We sat down at a glittering, lurex tablecloth.Isolda Karlovna took the head seat as if she wore a crown.
— So, Darya from Tver. How do you survive in Moscow? Hunting for a rich husband to escape the cows?
Edik turned red as the burgundy curtains.— Mom… Dasha works at an auction house, she does appraisals…— Appraisals? Of what? Old samovars?— Antiques, — I answered calmly. — Paintings, jewelry, furniture.
I can tell an original… from a copy.At the word copy, my eyes flicked involuntarily toward her brooch.She immediately covered it with her hand.— Hmm. Theory. Taste is inborn.Lunch itself was a survival show.“Julienne” — chicken drowned in mayonnaise.
“Crab salad” — where the crab was played by potato sticks.Isolda Karlovna ate with her pinky raised, watching my every move.— Girl! — she snapped when I reached for bread. — Bread is taken with the left hand! Only the left! And a small piece, not half the loaf! Edik, where did you find her? A tractor-driver cafeteria?
I calmly set the bread down.— Isolda Karlovna, — my voice was academically composed — the bread plate is on the left. That is why we take it with the left hand. But you placed the breadbasket on the right, beside the glass… that is a setting mistake.
Silence.Only a fly buzzed near the chandelier.Isolda Karlovna opened her mouth… then closed it.She turned crimson.She didn’t know.Her etiquette came from TV dramas.— You… you dare teach me?! In my own house?! I am noble blood! We have it in our veins!
Then suddenly she shrieked:— EDIK! BRING THE JEWELRY BOX!Edik returned with an old velvet case.Isolda Karlovna held it as if it were the key to the kingdom.— Here! Fabergé! Lagerfeld! Who knows what else!I leaned closer with my magnifying glass.
The “Fabergé” was a Chinese craftsman’s misspelled signature.The pearl was plastic.The rings… some unknown alloy.— Hmm… an interesting collection, — I said diplomatically.— INTERESTING?! These are family heirlooms! My great-grandmother wore them at imperial balls!
I gently set one brooch back down.— They are certainly valuable… as memories. But professionally speaking, modern inserts are visible. The stamps are fake.She looked ready to cry and scream at the same time.
— Are you saying… they’re counterfeit?!— Not counterfeit… more like… “restored beauty,” — I smiled. — The essence remains, only modernized.Her voice rose again:— You milkmaid’s daughter!
That’s when I took a deep breath.— Isolda Karlovna. These are your family stories. I can help preserve them properly, so you won’t face unpleasant surprises… at visits or auctions.Silence.Then a quiet, almost fragile voice:
— Perhaps… perhaps you really do understand.Edik exhaled as if a war had ended.I only smiled.The first victory was mine.And I knew:the hardest part was only just beginning.
