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Chapter 15:
The Road to the Castle — April 23, 2020
At the end of March 2020, I became seriously ill. It was the Epstein–Barr virus. I already wrote about it. Where exactly I caught it is unknown. At that time, I temporarily slept at work because I didn’t want to infect anyone. I thought it was COVID-19.
I was dying. The weakness was so strong that it felt as if I was constantly falling downward. When I fell asleep in the cold office on the cold floor, it seemed to me that I would never wake up again. I had severe tonsillitis, bronchitis, and sinusitis all at the same time. Some symptoms would disappear, and new ones would begin—such as intense joint pain. The veins on my hands turned a greenish neon color. I had absolutely no appetite. At the hospital they told me: “You just have a sore throat. Go home.” But then heart problems began, and I realized something had to be done.
One acquaintance, a nurse from another city, once told me: “Come here, or you’ll die there.” And I went. I had to strain myself just to hold the steering wheel. My legs felt like cotton. I spent four days in the hospital. They took every possible test and found nothing. On the third day, without any medication, I suddenly felt better—as if it passed on its own. The final test showed that cursed virus. A very kind Frau Doctor came and said that I already had antibodies and could go home.
But at that moment, I had no home. Or rather, I did—but I wasn’t allowed to enter it. My wife had taken my children and the home from me. I gave away the furniture and everything else. I couldn’t return to the office—I would have died there for sure.
Without thinking long, sick Denis booked apartments in Solingen. At first, I thought it was a regular apartment and paid the money. I contacted the owner—a very nice woman named Vanessa. She said that where I was going, a Ukrainian woman worked there and would show me everything. I immediately understood that it wasn’t an apartment, but at that moment anything suited me, as long as I didn’t have to return to the car dealership.
I entered the address into the navigator, said goodbye to my hospital roommates, and drove toward the unknown. A woman opened the door. At first glance, a nice one.
“The Whore”
Her name is Nastya. She is probably still wandering somewhere around the castle. A not-young blonde with blue eyes, a pretty face, and a good figure. A Luhansk–Donetsk accent, though she immediately told me she was from Kyiv. Her clothes were village-style by our standards. A strange headband didn’t add any charm. She led me to the third floor of our magical castle. Showed me one room—I didn’t like it. Then another—this one worked.
Through three small windows, I saw a gloomy part of Solingen, a completely new city for me. She explained where the bathroom and kitchen were and what I could use. As she was leaving, I glanced at her ass and thought: I got lucky. Once I recover a bit, I’ll take care of this woman.
Our first conversation in the kitchen was awkward. We were from the same country but from different worlds. I kept fixing my hair—I hadn’t bathed in a long time. She told me: “Don’t try to impress me.” At that point, I didn’t want to impress anyone—I just wanted to sit upright on a chair. I was still very sick.
The first night. After the car dealership and the hospital—it was paradise. She came upstairs, offered food, cooked. Now she was trying to impress me. She said she wanted to get married, was looking for a husband. When I asked how she ended up here, she avoided the question and quickly changed the subject. She said her husband had cheated on her and she ran away, leaving him with their 13-year-old daughter. From her eyes, I could see it wasn’t him who cheated—it was her, and more than once. And it wasn’t really about cheating.
Nastya was looking for a free paradise—a place where someone would feed her and she wouldn’t have to do anything in return. Back in Ukraine, she wandered endlessly. I later saw this in the photos she showed me, not realizing that from photos alone I could reconstruct her real image. The image of a martyr searching for happiness and unable to find a partner collapsed before my eyes within two days.
On the third or fourth day of my stay in the Castle, I met an interesting man in the kitchen. It turned out the kitchen wasn’t just mine. Residents from other floors of the mysterious castle could use it as well. A castle where an interesting story would unfold.
We sometimes jump in time. I am consciously writing this book in this style. It is early 2020 now. About six months remain until my meeting with Denisa in the brothel.
“Dominik”
A handsome man. By local standards, he had everything. German. Fit, tall. Everything neat, a tidy haircut, good posture, communicative, Hollywood smile. In short—a macho.
Two hours before his arrival, our cleaner—who later forgot that she was just a cleaner, Nastya—was nervously ironing a red village dress and shorts that looked like floral underwear worn by elderly strippers in post-war Moulin Rouge. She said that a guest was coming today, though she “didn’t know who.” But she knew perfectly well it was Dominik. He had already been here, and I think they had already had sex.
We talked in our shared kitchen and got acquainted. By the way, he is now my best friend—one of two, the other being Sayud. Dominik had just divorced and was renting a room here. He had two daughters. We never discussed the reason for his divorce. I think it wasn’t the same as mine.
We found many common topics and drank, though at that time I drank very little and only warm wine. He was very surprised by that.
Homeless men meet in the communal kitchen of a cheap hotel because they no longer have a home. Everything they have built up over many years disappears like mist at dawn. A new life full of uncertainty lies ahead. The warm home remains with the feminist, who “earned it over many years of her life.” Ahead lie only theft of money, manipulation in court, and propaganda against her father.
We were sitting at the table when, to the music from the TV series Santa Barbara, the most sexual cleaner in Solingen burst into the kitchen wearing the red unbuttoned dress and Moulin Rouge underwear, arms spread wide for hugs. She looked like a cheap whore from Horlivka—a village in Ukraine, from that region. They immediately started dancing. She always thought she danced well and sexy. The groom tried to copy her movements but failed.
In reality, Dominik wasn’t interested in dancing. He came for intimacy with her. To win over the cleaner, he pretended to be fascinated by her “dance art.” They got very drunk and went to have sex in the sauna.
It was all very ugly. Before the sauna, the dancer came into my room and invited me along. She was very drunk. Probably planning a threesome with her tiny brain. Through the unbuttoned dress, her small, age-sagging breasts were visible. I didn’t see them again that day.
In the morning, I met the cleaner in the kitchen. She looked like the destroyed Donetsk airport. Dominik had bombed her and left early in the morning. Nastya was sure I understood everything. She started talking nonsense about how nothing had happened between them, emphasizing that she would never do anything with a married man. When she lies—and she lies constantly—she always looks straight into your eyes.
I told her she had disappointed me greatly. But she didn’t care at all. Nastya had drunk herself senseless and fucked herself into exhaustion. She felt great. I had breakfast and went back to my room.
Strange relationships developed among the three of us. Dominik and I became friends. She was between us. I want to emphasize—nothing ever happened between Nastya and me. There were several moments when Dominik wasn’t around, but nothing happened; we didn’t attract each other for different reasons. She wasn’t my type. Besides, I knew she was sleeping with the hotel owner and with Dominik at the same time.
I became their third friend—the translator. That suited me. Better than being alone. I filled the fridge, she cooked, Dominik brought wine, and we had fun late into the night. Then they went to a room. A Russian nurse would sometimes come to see me, and the four of us drank and smoked on our favorite terrace with a beautiful view of Solingen. By the way, if you looked carefully, you could see Düsseldorf, Leverkusen, and Cologne.
The cleaner from the Luhansk region began to lose control. Denis was sponsoring food at the hotel. My friend was having sex with her with particular ferocity, as if for the last time.
Here I want to pause.
For Dominik, this was a perfect arrangement. A woman in Germany who gives it for free is a great rarity. I already wrote that local prostitutes are calculating and interested only in money. Nastya gave herself for a bottle of wine. Dominik could no longer be chased away from here. But we were all happy in our own way.
The nurse began to assert her claims, and we parted ways. Now the three of us drank, walked, and even organized a wonderful birthday for the princess-cleaner in a Cologne amusement park. My friendship with Dominik grew stronger, and it became harder and harder for me to hide the fact that Nastya was still sleeping with the hotel owner. Tension was growing. Dominik and I began to meet more often without her—we didn’t need her.
Don’t think badly—we are traditionally oriented and very similar mentally. She was simply not our level. She lied to him and to me. Several times she tried to pit us against each other. It didn’t work. She began to mock me. Impunity and permissiveness stirred her limited thinking. Once, high and drunk, holding Dominik by the pants, she told me that she would never meet a man like me again. I didn’t take revenge—though one shouldn’t joke like that with me.
Soon, the hotel owner took her away from us—brought her to Poland. My friend understood everything without my help. It disgusted him. When the dancer returned to try to keep her beloved, she invented a pregnancy. Dominik is a professional and, of course, didn’t react to this nonsense.
Our union of three lonely hearts was falling apart before our eyes. Nastya began living with me in a strange way—without sex. She showered on my floor, all her razors and makeup were in my bathroom. In short, she turned into my wife who had two lovers.
It had to end. And I ended it.
Cinderella was expelled from Paradise. I forbade her to go up to the third floor and stopped feeding her. As for Dominik—we were sitting at his place one day, and I told him everything. Dominik took my side and left our “friend.” For deception and cheap games, she received the harshest punishment—she was left alone. Silence settled over the castle. And I was running out of money.
