Chapter 5 : Resigning
865 Words
KARIM'S POV
The boy was small. Small, in fashionable jeans, a cute, curly-haired kid. The strange thing about him was that he was in my office.
He stood right in the middle, holding a sheet of paper with something that looked like a Rorschach test to his chest, and he was looking at me. And I was looking back at him.
I gave myself ten seconds, realizing that the boy wasn't going to disappear on his own. Anger woke up inside me. What if I wasn't alone? What if I had an important meeting? What good are a secretariat and security if children, not even my own, come into my office as if it were their home?
However, I knew whose child he was almost immediately. We studied each other in silence for a minute, and then Dasha burst into the room.
I remembered. She was on maternity leave, damn it. For childcare. And this must be that very child.
"I don't remember which clause of the employment contract implies being in the workplace with a child," I said sharply.
"Probably the same one that guarantees maternity leave," Dasha replied.
"Dasha," I said, raising my eyebrows in surprise. "Motherhood has made you much bolder than before, and it's only been a couple of days."
I was used to her always being there. Quiet, inconspicuous. With her hair pulled back into a tight bun, wearing a shapeless jacket and a skirt that hid any hint of femininity. And also—obedient. In all the years of working for me, Dasha had never said a word against me, and I didn't expect to meet resistance.
It was... wrong.
And now she was wearing the same jacket, the same bun, but she was looking at me differently. She picked up the boy, and he buried his face in her neck, as if hiding from me.
"This is not part of my job," she said calmly, stroking the boy's back. "My job was to compose your daily schedule, make sure you didn't starve, schedule appointments with the barber, and also choose gifts for your mistresses."
"How did it happen that now I'm doing half the work of your secretary? Are you going to make me do the accounting too? How many thousands of people work for you? Do you want me to calculate their salaries, taking into account all the vacations, sick leaves, and overtime?"
I was silent for a minute, studying her. Now she looked different.
"Can you do it?"
"You're incorrigible, Karim balkov," she sighed. She put the child down on the floor. Only now I noticed that she was holding a thin folder, which she placed on my desk. "Here's your contract."
She took the child by the hand and walked away. I opened the folder—it was the original contract.
"Dasha, wait!" I stopped her. "Come to work four days a week."
"No."
"Three days, and I'll pay for a nanny."
"No. My son hasn't gotten used to me enough to trust me yet. And he's already been abandoned in this life. I'll be at home for my entire vacation."
They stopped and turned around. The boy didn't let go of Dasha's hand, but he looked at me.
There was hostility in his eyes, even though we had met only a few minutes ago. Perhaps he thought I was hurting his mother.
I didn't want to seem better than I was or try to please an unfamiliar, strange child at any cost. Rather, I wanted to appease his mother, without whom it was too difficult to work.
I crouched down in front of the child so that we were about the same height.
"Hello," I greeted him. "Let's start over? I'm Karim, and what's your name?"
"His name is senya and he doesn't talk."
In my family, we always spoke two languages. And I absorbed both from infancy. By the time I was a year and a half old, I was already speaking both languages well.
My mother was prouder of this fact than of the fact that I had created a huge, incredibly profitable company, and to this day, she told everyone about it at every opportunity.
"And I was speaking two languages at a year and a half," I decided to share.
"Congratulations," Dasha replied dryly. "Goodbye."
I suddenly thought about the fact that my son was about the same age. As an infant, in the only photo I had of him, he looked like me as a child. He was probably just as active.
He didn't know how to be shy. Loud. Confident. He probably already spoke well, and considering that my ex-wife was taking him all over the world, he probably spoke more than one language.
I would have easily found a common language with him. But Dasha's boy looked straight into my soul, and his gaze made me feel restless and uncomfortable.
When she was closing the door, the boy looked at me again.
Our eyes met. His eyes, dark brown, surrounded by fluffy light eyelashes, looked very serious, and I suddenly felt a dull longing for my own son, whom I didn't know when I would see again.
- Writer
