Отцовский инстинкт

"A Father's Instinct, or How We Made Children (a novella) At the age of 49, with three legal marriages, several common-law relationships, and a deep disillusionment with modern women behind me, I decided I would live alone. No more experiments, I resolved. And then Lena happened. Five years younger than me, the same height. Pretty, intelligent, affectionate. She lived in a small town near Prague with her adult son and elderly parents. As I felt myself falling in love with her, panic set in. I had come to enjoy the bachelor life. The freedom of a life without obligations enticed me. Furthermore, I was afraid of getting burned again, as I had been with my previous relationships. But I didn't suffer for long. I was saved by a phone call from an acquaintance, a painter named Tanya. Apparently, she had some plans involving me. "You're urgently needed," Tanya said after exchanging greetings. "Come over. I've sent you the address." "Who needs me?" I asked for clarification. "We do," answered Tanya, a 40-year-old woman. "We're having a competition to see who makes the best borscht. We need a male judge to decide who's the best of all." "It sounds like quite the passionate affair over there," I chuckled into the phone. "How many ladies are participating?" "Five," Tanya replied. "I'm the sixth." "I can't eat that much," I admitted. "I like borscht, but not in such quantities." "Don't worry, we'll give you small portions," Tanya rambled on. "The girls have put in a lot of effort. My kitchen has been a whirlwind since morning. And one friend, who had agreed to help with this, didn't show up. Please help us out. I'll give you one of my paintings as a thank you, your choice." And then she fell silent, breathing heavily into the phone. "Okay," I agreed. "Wait for me, I'll be there in half an hour." And so I went on a borscht tasting adventure. In Tanya's spacious apartment in Barrandov, there were indeed five women ranging in age from 20 to 45, and a skinny, bearded man in jeans and a dirty shirt. "Here he is," I gestured toward the man. "There's your judge. Why did I have to travel all this way?" "I'm a vegetarian," the man sadly explained. "I don't eat the flesh of our smaller brethren." "Poor you," I muttered and went to the table. The table groaned under the weight of food: Olivier salad, herring under a fur coat, a variety of vegetable salads, chicken wings. And in the middle of this abundance, a sweaty bottle of vodka. "Are vegans allowed to drink?" I asked for clarification. "He doesn't drink," sighed Tanya, "but he's been devouring the carrot salad." "Good for him," I said, and went to the table."