Hearts of Cotton

By Uliana Domasheva

When a famous writer steals a manuscript from his daughter and tragically dies after the book is released, Dasha, a young show business reporter from Vilnius, must make a decision that will define her future: to tell the truth about what the author did or hide it to protect his memory. Plagiarism scandal, the war for attention, drug abuse, love, greed, and ambition fuel the hunt for sensations of the young journalist and guide her in finding her own inner compass to navigate the uncertainty and find the way to happiness.

 

If the books of Frederic Beigbeder and Michel Houellebecq were hard liquors, Hearts of Cotton would be a cocktail, where Gossip Girl meets The Ideal and Atomised, leaving you wondering whether all the challenges and struggles are there to remind the characters of their true calling, or perhaps all of us should sometimes recalibrate our inner compasses to reflect on our goals and dreams.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398456495

Uliana Domasheva

Uliana Domasheva is an aspiring expat author living and working in Munich, Germany. Originally from Ukraine, Uliana has been working with fiction and non-fiction genres in Ukraine, Lithuania, Latvia, and Germany. Her non-fiction works have been published in various Russian and English-speaking media in Europe such as Radio Free Europe / Radio Liberty and The Baltic Times. The topics of soul-searching within the expat community, as well as reflection on deep personal matters such as love, happiness and personal fulfilment are prominent in Uliana’s writing. Her writing style brings famous Eastern European writing tradition and legacy into exciting stories that touch hearts and souls beyond borders.

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About the Author

Uliana Domasheva is an aspiring expat author living and working in Munich, Germany. Originally from Ukraine, Uliana has been working with fiction and non-fiction genres in Ukraine, Lithuania, Latvia, and Germany. Her non-fiction works have been published in various Russian and English-speaking media in Europe such as Radio Free Europe / Radio Liberty and The Baltic Times.

The topics of soul-searching within the expat community, as well as reflection on deep personal matters such as love, happiness and personal fulfilment are prominent in Uliana’s writing. Her writing style brings famous Eastern European writing tradition and legacy into exciting stories that touch hearts and souls beyond borders.

Dedication

To all the expats and tireless globetrotters.

Thank you for erasing the world borders from our minds every single day, pursuing those things that truly matter, and showing everyone what being limitless really means.

To all those who lovingly called me lopė and were there for me during the rainy days in Lithuania. You were my inspiration, from the beginning to the very end.

To all those who followed their paths to Munich, the city with character. The diversity of all your thoughts, experiences, struggles and victories made this story finally complete.

Copyright Information ©

Uliana Domasheva 2022

The right of Uliana Domasheva to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398456488 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398456495 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

20230816

Acknowledgement

A lot of people that I’ve met in Ukraine, Lithuania, Germany and around the world have heard about me writing this book for years. Not that I like to talk about writing more than actually write – it is just that the journey of following your passion can sometimes be much more complicated than we would expect it to be.

Now as Hearts of Cotton came to life, I would like to thank the NGO AIESEC in Lithuania, as well as AIESEC International for empowering young people all around the world to discover their passions, dream big and chase those ambitious goals to make the world a better place. Paulius Preikšaitis, Tomas Grigaliūnas and Gabrielė Bernotaitė, Justinas Gecevicius and Karolina Klunduk, Deivydas Šiškovas and Justina Žukauskaitė, Karolis Dargis, Ieva Muliuolė and Julija Vinciūnaitė – I drew a great deal of inspiration from you.

Huge thanks to my first readers, Linja Fraenz and Jonas Kindler, for sharing with me how this story made you feel. Olena Chychykanova and Gennadiy Domashev, thank you for reading this book in a foreign language, sharing this journey with me, and supporting my ideas.

It would not have been the same without love, help, fruitful discussions, and genuine support from Robert Hoffmann, the man who helped me to recalibrate my own inner compass. And of course, a huge thanks extends to the entire Hoffmann family, for accepting me and my ideas with open arms and open hearts.

Robroy Robinz, Ilya Myazin, Anastasia Yakovenko, Alena Kotova, Sylwia Filipek, Kristina Sorochan, Andrey Domashev – thank you for years of friendship and thought-provoking conversations!

I would also like to thank all the wonderful people who joined the crowdfunding campaign to get this book off the ground: Ricardo Maia, Kristina Urbonaite, Tys Bouter, Elisa Broeckx, Dana Sotir, Miguel Escribano, Giulia Pastormerlo, Mariia Ternova, Christina Obolashvili, Asma Amri, Sandra Khalil, Giorgio Frisenda, Marika Simonia, Mouncef Atmani, Malitha Gamage, Asad Sattar, Cayla Machleit, Elizaveta Kozunova, Yoneta Izvorska, Marina Montalvo, Sarah Maroney, Prathyusha Sebastian, Jason Radnor, Michele Danieli, Verena Kellerer, Katarina Garma, Tetiana Romanova, Koen Van der Borght, Tara Kenkhuis, Misha Shvets, Mariia Talanova, María Martínez, Matthias Rau, Chris Helgert, Maximilian Kellert, Luca Trèves.

I feel blessed that I have found Hugo House and particularly Corbin Lewars, who became my greatest support in the editing process and in making sure this story makes sense not only in my head. Olga Grinko, with her fantastic support with the book cover made me feel even more blessed later on.

Finally, I would like to thank Henderson Writers Group for inspiration and motivation for the decision to publish this book, as well as Austin Macauley Publishers’ team for making it happen.

1. Dasha

The city sounded different to me that morning. I know it may sound strange, but have you ever thought about how the city is supposed to sound? Those waves of street buzz, rising above you, above the whole city to cover it and fill with what we call life: restless transport engines, noisy crowds, birds singing in unison with the honking cars, yes, honking cars all around…And the trees, always whispering something incomprehensible, probably to the wind, their only friend. And the flap of the wings of hundreds of birds cruising over the central square…Well, for me, all these things put together sound just like…the ocean. Every time I close my eyes, I hear the ocean waves, mighty and unstoppable. I hear the seagulls. I hear the ships from the faraway lands. It scares me, I am afraid to drown, but at the same time, I am mesmerised. I hear the words of wisdom in the noise of the streets, the city speaks to me through the roar of the ocean. It tells me to keep rising above it all, just like the waves do.

That morning, the city of Vilnius was awfully quiet. Or at least, this is what Dasha thought when one windy Saturday morning, she went out to Old Town wearing a bright-orange coat over light silk pyjamas. It was October, crossing into autumn, yet it was only six in the morning, so Dasha tried to wrap herself tighter into the orange coat to stop the wind from getting under it. As if it could help.

She walked fast, almost ran, not looking around. If you had seen her that morning, her face would have hardly told you that she was about to turn the life of this little city upside down. Her bright-blue eyes looked only forward, her skin might have looked a bit more pale than usual – but you wouldn’t have noticed, anyway. Shoulder-long honey-blond curly hair was a bit more messy than usual, also not a big difference. Only her silk pyjamas underneath the coat and flip-flops would shout out loud that something was not all right with this girl. Only if you had noticed, of course.

But that morning, there was no one on the streets to notice. No cars, no ugly old trams, no people, no birds in the sky. No sounds. Only the Gediminas’ Tower, the lonely remainder from the glorious days of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, a mere memory of an ancient castle on the hill, was watching her silently, compassionately.

When the old tower showed up between the trees, Dasha looked at it and stopped for a moment. This tower was her old companion. From childhood, she remembered that the Gediminas’ Tower was always there for her when nobody else was. The ancient tower was a judge, a counsellor, a friend observing Senamiestis, Vilnius Old Town, from the top of the hill and smiling, with a thousand years of wisdom in that smile. Knowing that the tower was always there helped her whenever she felt lonely. But today, there was no use for the old towers: Dasha had to cope with everything alone.

The souls of people behave like deep ocean waters. People are like waves. They talk to each other like waves do. They love each other like waves do. They strive towards their goals and dreams like waves do. Now it feels like I’m in a desert. This is just not right, doesn’t feel right, Dasha thought as she walked faster.

Soon, Dasha found herself in front of the office building where she worked. Perhaps, too soon.

Around twenty minutes walking distance from the house where she lived, the beautiful, steel-and-glass skyscraper appeared in front of her rather unexpectedly and gave her a broad grin with the hundred suns reflected in its windows. An evil grin, mocking the compassionate smile of the sun reflected in the little windows of the Gediminas’ Tower. Dasha felt goosebumps, and it was not because of the October wind.

Dasha remembered how the same goosebumps crawled over her the first time she came to this office a couple of years ago. She was a new show business reporter, pretending to be confident, and hoped the goosebumps crawling down her spine were perceived as being from the March wind rather than as anxiety.

She grew up surrounded by the sharks of show business reporting, paid by her father and his business partners. She knew this media world from the inside of its swollen and exaggerated body. She knew she would be successful – because unlike all the other reporters, she knew exactly where to look for those scandalous and provocative news stories. And yet, she had goosebumps and sweaty palms.

She wanted to tell people the truth about the spoilt, ugly, broken café society. No, she just wanted someone to need her, finally genuinely need her, even if this someone was the reader, hungry for drama.

That day, years ago, was the start of her new life, independent from her family’s money and their opinion on what she was to do with her life. She wore a red dress and stilettos, but her car broke down the day before, so she had to walk in the wind, stumbling on those cobbled streets.

Luckily, her friend from university times was already working at that office. Nathalie, the pretty girl people never used to take seriously. Little did those people know that Nat used her reputation, and it served her well in her career. Since Dasha knew her, no one ever thought Nathalie had the killer instinct or much of anything but a pretty face. Nobody had ever seen her laser-sharp questions and glances as anything more than banter and flirtation until the day when she became a show business reporter.

On Dasha’s first working day, Nathalie was waiting for her next to the entrance of the office building. Dasha couldn’t help thinking the entrance resembled a wide-open mouth of a gigantic creature made of concrete and glass.

Baby, you look more like a celebrity yourself! The first rule you’ve gotta remember – always stay low-key, do not attract attention – and you will get the juiciest stories! said Nathalie to her that morning instead of a greeting, with this patronising tone she always used with Dasha ever since.

But neither the stilettos and designer dress from five years ago nor the flip-flops and pyjamas today can be considered low-key. Yet, Dasha was absolutely sure that her roaring success was near because she finally held it in her pocket.

Today, when she finally got her first real scandal, the sensation that could possibly turn the world upside down – at least in certain circles – she was not sure anymore if she was doing the right thing. With her deep faith in friendship and loyalty on one side and insatiable hunger for recognition and appreciation on the other, Dasha felt lost. Her hands were shaking, her back was wet from the cold sweat. She was unsure whether it was the right time to choose between such important things. Not sure if she had the guts to do it. And now, the whole world seemed to stop for a moment to watch her making this decision. She hesitated for a second, but here she was, crossing the newly renovated courtyard with a massive fountain in the middle to get into the office building. However, she did not enter it.

There was a tiny coffee shop to the right of the main entrance of the business centre. It has recently opened and was incredibly convenient for quick business meetings or belated breakfasts. Without hesitation, she pulled the door and graciously stepped in.

Her every move was soft, as if she was swimming deep underwater – this snailishness seemed to help with shaking. Her heart was fluttering in her chest like a tiny bird.

One americano, no sugar, please, she said, not even trying to look at the barista, more interested in exploring the pockets of her bright orange coat. She noticed that her voice sounded rather like a paper rustle: so dry, so lifeless.

Anything else? asked the barista, and she finally raised her eyes to him. He was looking at her and smiling. It was a tall guy with kind green eyes, a dark beard and tattoos on massive muscles, so obvious in his tight black T-shirt under the brown apron. He was wearing geeky glasses, and it made him look funny and somehow familiar at the same time. He looked like someone she knew, but Dasha was unsure if she had ever seen him in this coffee shop or anywhere else before.

No, thank you. She tried to smile back, unsure if she had succeeded.

Take a croissant. It’s on the house, said the barista and turned back to the coffee machine.

Dasha’s heart skipped a bit. Just for a moment, for a split second, she heard it again. The roar of the ocean. It was back. And it hid in those simple words of the barista’s offer. The roar of the ocean. Keep rising above it all, just like the waves do.

2. David

I come from a little town at the seaside. I remember when I was little, I often ran along the coast with the other boys, trying to shout at the top of my lungs like a seagull. I could never do that – my voice was weaker, breaking when I least expected it. The sounds I made resembled more of a rusty engine squeak and roar than a seagull’s cry. The boys used to laugh at me, and I started hating first the seaside, then my hometown and everything related to it. Big city life feels so much better to me now. Here the streets sound rather like that old, enormous rusty engine. It squeaks and roars. I think I kind of figured out how to handle this engine – we speak the same language, if you will. It has its own rhythm, a soul deep beneath that can hear me. It does not care who I am and where I come from, it does not judge me. It listens carefully. I think we get along, for now.

David usually finishes his work slightly after the sun rises. And then, in a couple of hours, he has to go to his second job. Because life is not a piece of cake, and you need to work hard to succeed at it. At least, this is what David thinks.

David also thinks that people are full of shit. He recalled the evening at the bar. There was a girl. A beautiful tall redhead. Gracious, like early autumn. Free and careless, like clouds in the sky. And terribly, terribly broken – he could see it from the way she looked at him. Eyes of a haunted animal. Of a tiny caged sparrow.

Every single time she came to the counter, she would make a joke or say something random and inappropriate, leaving David feeling irritated. Why did people assume he wanted to hear their deviant thoughts or be hit on just because he was a bartender? As if he was the last man on Earth to give the drunks this weird validation they all longed for. As the night went on, she looked tipsier and tipsier, the laughter from the girls’ table sounded louder and louder, and sooner or later, they would head off to the nearest nightclub. His irritation turned to despondency when he saw her kissing someone. A man in an expensive suit, in his forties, looking just as drunk. And she left the bar with that man, not with her girlfriends.

David had seen that man in the bar pretty often, and every time the man was hugging a different girl. Usually, much younger than he was. Usually, looking pretty dumb and laughing loudly at whatever the man whispered in her gullible ear. David felt sorry because he was sure that the redhead deserved more than that. She reminded him of the girls from his hometown at the seaside – it was always easier for him to be friends with the girls, who also did not enjoy so much those daily runs along the coast and all the shouts. Beautiful and self-confident, they acted like royalty in their little town until one day, they would visit the capital. In the city of Vilnius, their big dreams and undefeatable self-esteem magically shrank, turned so small or crashed against the cold attitudes of the locals. And that’s how they ended up drunk in bars leaving with men who could be their fathers.

So unjust. The redhead probably also had her dreams, her aspirations, her passions and certainly deserved a better life. A life where she would not need to go to such a crappy bar on Thursday to get drunk with some cheap booze and leave with a stranger. Because it is such a waste of…life.

People are full of shit instead of being full of ideas. When did it happen to all of us? David wondered after he closed the bar and started to stroll away from downtown.

It was a long walk. David lived in a neighbourhood about forty minutes away from the fancy buildings of Vilnius Old Town, on the opposite side of the river. As David was walking, he enjoyed watching the city wake up. Very soon, the first trams and trolleybuses would crawl into the streets, bringing the hungover adventurers home from the late parties. The city would begin its rumble, and everything would start over again.

David lit up a cigarette.

After the old, massive, noble buildings of Senamiestis, there was a wide bridge connecting city's two sides. And after the bridge, the farther the streets were from Vilnius Old Town, the narrower they became. The buildings became shabbier, the cars – cheaper and louder, the people – as well. Even the pigeons looked sick and always hungry, while the pigeons in Senamiestis clearly behaved like kings of the world. And maybe they were, at some point.

These drastic changes amused David. For him, it was great luck to move to the capital, and he did not care much if the building where he was renting a room was old and shabby, if the yards in front of the houses always looked untidy and abandoned or that the neighbours’ children were starting to say swear words earlier than they would say ‘mom’ or ‘dad’. As a rather special kid in his little coastal town, too excited about David Bowie, Cher and his mother’s make-up than a boy should be, he couldn’t wait to grow up and leave. He always felt like a whale trapped in a tiny fishbowl back in his hometown. He knew he could never truly reveal his full potential and become himself there. Now, even in this shabby neighbourhood, he was happy; he had made it out of his hometown. Besides, he loved Senamiestis tenderly and selflessly, and this feeling was worth all the struggles.

However, from time to time, his neighbourhood gave him sad thoughts. Just like the hopes and dreams of the girls from his hometown shrank in the bigger cities, his own dreams crashed and dissolved around these grey blocks while he was trying to prove himself, make a living, working at three different jobs. Perhaps, if he succeeded in what he was doing and earned enough money, his family would finally accept him.

David approached the ugly grey block where he lived. One side of the building was covered with ivy – it looked neglected, just as all the other buildings did. And this morning, he didn’t find the ivy as pretty and romantic as he sometimes did, nor could he relish in the thought that at least he had moved to the capital. In fact, David was in a terrible mood, and it was not because of the redhead girl from the bar.

Alex wasn’t a redhead. Alex had dyed his hair blond as if to highlight those irresistible hazel eyes. Alex had a deep voice and cute dimples that appeared when a smile crossed those lips. Alex was the heaven-sent angel who showed him around when David had just moved to the city. The saviour who cooked the most wonderful scrambled eggs with bacon for a perfect hangover breakfast. The partner in crime who was not afraid to hold his hand in public, despite all the hateful looks. The holy manifestation of the divine, whose lips tasted like cherry yoghurt and whose skin smelled like vanilla, like those baby creams from childhood. The morning star with whom he used to wake up every day for the past three years. The dumb ass who dumped David just yesterday.

Or at least it felt like he did. What else would one think when the person you spent three years with wouldn’t come back home one night and instead left a note in your stuff saying sorry? It wasn’t David who found the note, though. He was so preoccupied with handling his three jobs that it was Alice, his flatmate, who found it while looking for the hairdryer in David and Alex’s bedroom. It may have been there even longer than since yesterday. Because of his messed-up work schedule, David wasn’t even sure when the last time he saw Alex at home was.

David pulled the keys out of his pocket before climbing the stairs; the elevator wasn’t working, again. He heard laughing in the hall. For a second, his heart skipped a bit. Alex? But the laugh belonged to Alice and Arthur, who were probably just returning home from a night out.

They were sitting in front of the flat right on the stairs, eating fries from McDonald’s and drinking Coke. Miniature Alice, with her long chestnut hair loose, dressed in a little black dress, stylish black