Their family had three sons—almost like something out of a folk tale. Only the youngest wasn’t named Ivan, but Nikita.
“It’s a shame,” his mother chuckled. “Ivanushka would have sounded more respectable.”
The older children stood out from an early age. The eldest, Sergei, was already finishing his residency and was confidently heading toward a career as a surgeon. The middle child, Slava, was studying at the conservatory, winning prizes at international competitions, and playing the trombone masterfully.
But Nikita… Nikita was “ordinary.” He studied without fanaticism, didn’t demonstrate any particular talent, strolled around the city, read books, and lived a relaxed life.
“At least he doesn’t lose himself in games for days,” his mother consoled herself after parent-teacher meetings.
Toward the end of eleventh grade, he suddenly announced that he would be an archaeologist. His parents shrugged—an archaeologist, so an archaeologist.
Besides his sons, the house also had a cat with the characteristic name Zlyuka. The name wasn’t accidental. Her mother found her one day in the rain—wet and shivering, in a soft cardboard box at a bus stop. She didn’t like cats and had no intention of getting one, but she couldn’t pass it by. Her plan was simple: rescue her and give her to a good home.
The children were delighted. They petted the kitten, arguing about her name and gender, until Slava decided to scratch her behind the ear—and promptly got bitten.
“Hand! I have to play tomorrow!”
“What a meanie…” her mother muttered, carrying the kitten into the kitchen and setting down a saucer of milk.
And so the name stuck. The cat grew up—and her character was, to put it mildly, difficult. She wouldn’t accept affection, play, or even hands: she hissed, scratched, and kept her distance. No one ever dared take her. Her mother sighed and kept her—she couldn’t throw her back out on the street.
That summer, Nikita went on his first real excavation. He looked forward to it like a holiday, marking the days on the calendar. His mother was worried: the youngest was going away for a long time, and all the other children were leaving. Sergei was going to Turkey with his fiancée, Slava was going to a sanatorium to treat his nerves: competition in the orchestra had really taken its toll on him.
The excavation turned out to be even better than expected. The heat, the hard work—none of it frightened him. He slept there as soundly as he had ever slept.
But one night, sleep wouldn’t come. Nikita had a strange vision: Zlyuka was thrashing about, meowing loudly and reaching for him, as if begging for help. He tried to pick her up, but the cat seemed to be falling into a swirling void. The creepiest thing was that she was wearing her mother’s earrings: blue forget-me-nots with a tiny stone. His heart was pounding madly, for no apparent reason.
At dawn, he started calling. His mother didn’t answer. My father said everything was fine—they’d talked yesterday, she was probably just sleeping.
Slava lost his temper: his nerves were already on edge, and now he was dealing with “dreams and cats.” Sergey was abroad.
The only option left was his neighbor, Aunt Lyuba. And she was the only one who took everything seriously. She promised to stop by and check.
The call came while Nikita was digging. An unfamiliar number. His heart sank.
Mom didn’t answer. Aunt Lyuba’s son climbed over the balcony—the door and window were open. They found Mom unconscious in the kitchen. The ambulance arrived quickly. The doctors couldn’t say anything concrete, but they didn’t take her to the intensive care unit.
At that moment, Nikita felt small and completely alone. Fear for his mother squeezed his chest so tightly that it was hard to breathe. He longed to go home. The head of the practice understood his situation and sent him back three days later.
My father arrived early. At the hospital, they explained: a microinfarction, a fall, a head injury. The danger had passed, but treatment was necessary. When Nikita arrived, Mom was already smiling and calling him her savior. He waved her off:
“It wasn’t me. It was Zlyuka. She called me.”
“By the way,” Dad chuckled, “your Zlyuka is going crazy here, screaming and running around. She’s probably worried too.”
At home, Nikita picked up the cat, hugged her, and kissed her cold nose.
“You’re a smart girl, you hear?”
Zlyuka didn’t hit him with her paw—a rare occurrence. She simply broke free, demonstratively washed herself, and lay down on Mom’s slippers. Wait.
