That was how Andrei found her: kneeling on the floor, roller and spoon in hand, and a can of paint jammed between her knees.

“Surprise,” she said, trying to make a joke of it. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Andrei wasn’t in the mood. He first sought somewhere to hang his jacket, scrambling his brain for something to say. If he said nothing, would she be offended or think that he didn’t care either way? And if he made a remark, would she sulk?

He’d be to blame come what may. He was always to blame.

“Do you want me to give you a hand?”

She nodded.

“Please.”

Andrei went with a sigh into the bedroom to change. “Don’t throw your jacket on the bed, please,” came her voice from the hallway. Coats, jackets and scarves had been hung on cupboard doors. “Even her mess is kind of . . . tidy,” he thought, throwing his clothes onto a chair, and pulling on his faded, wash-worn camo trousers and T-shirt. Maria was already applying the first coat to a spot near the door.

He looked at the wall, then at the can, again at the wall, and at Maria, who was by now energetically levelling the drying paint.

“White?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s the same shade as before.”

Maria turned to him, amazed.

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. I can’t see any difference.”

“You can’t?”

“No.”

“The old shade was cold. This one is warm. You can’t see it?”

“Nope.” Andrei stood up. “We painted the flat three months ago. And now you’re redoing it all over again? Are you actually planning to repaint the whole flat?”

Maria dipped the roller into the tray and returned to the painting.

“Yes, that is what I am planning to do. Look, you said you wanted to help, and now you’re just looming over me and nagging. Either help or don’t. I can handle it myself.”

He picked up the roller and paused for a moment, expecting her expression to soften into approval. But she didn’t even look up, she poured paint into the tray with the only soup ladle in the flat.

Andrei took a deep breath. He wanted to grab her and crush her until her bones cracked. “What are you doing to us? At least I’m trying,” he wanted to say.

All that came out was: “This is my home. If you don’t like it, there’s the door.”

Maria went pale, got up and looked him in the eyes. Paint dripped on the sheeting.

The doorbell chimed, then chimed again.

“I’m going to disconnect the damned thing,” thought Maria. “I’ll cut the wires and attach a shocker to the doorknob. Visitors can call in advance or go to hell. Then again, what visitors?”