It was the woman sitting behind him.
She looked about thirty, dressed in a blue daisy-print dress, holding onto him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The bike sputtered along slowly, sometimes forcing them to push it with their feet as if the engine itself was tired of working.
By the time they stopped in front of Stepan’s house, neighbors were already gathering along the fences.
“Oh dear… he’s lost his mind,” Baba Nina whispered.
“Is that his granddaughter?” Grandpa Kolya wondered aloud.
But Stepan ignored the murmurs. He took off his helmet, helped the woman down, and said simply:
— This is Lena. My wife.
For a moment, the entire street fell silent—even the chickens seemed to stop clucking. Then the whispers began.
Some laughed. Others shook their heads. A few openly declared that the old man had gone crazy after losing his first wife.
“She’s forty years younger than him!”
“She must be after his money.”
“Let’s see how long she lasts.”
Lena heard it all. Yet she only smiled politely and greeted everyone, as if nothing about the situation was unusual.
For the first couple of days, the village waited for drama.
