The Viper

“When Olga Vyacheslavovna appeared, in a calico dressing gown, uncombed and gloomy—on the kitchen everything would go quiet. Only the primuses would hiss: properly cleaned, full of kerosene and hidden fury. Danger seemed to emanate from Olga Vyacheslavovna. One of the residents said about her:

— There are such bitches with a cocked trigger… Keep away from them, my darlings…

With a mug and a toothbrush, dressed with a fluffy towel tied around her, Olga Vyacheslavovna approached the sink and washed up, rinsing her dark, neatly shorn head under the tap. When only women were in the kitchen, she would pull her dressing gown down to the waist and wash her shoulders—barely formed breasts like those of a teenager, with brown nipples. Stepping onto a stool, she washed her beautiful, strong legs. Then you could see a long transverse scar on her thigh; on her back, above the shoulder blades, a pink, shining indentation—the exit wound of a bullet; on her right hand near the shoulder, a small bluish tattoo. Her body was slender, swarthy, with a golden hue.”