Greta
by Alexandra Diorditsa
My name is Jessica Bockl, and I work in a hospice for the dying elderly. The hospice is located in the forest, in a remote, bright place. Tall spruce and pine trees hide it from prying eyes. Not that there are many such eyes to begin with. Few are willing to watch others preparing to cross over to the other side.
The story I want to tell did not happen to me, yet it changed me profoundly. It happened on an early autumn morning, when a shiny black car pulled up to the hospice doors.
If only you had seen her stepping out! Like a queen! She was wearing a peach-colored trouser suit and light patent leather shoes with a high elegant heel. Her hair was impeccably done. She had well-manicured hands, a wedding band and a signet ring gleaming on her finger. She didn’t look a day over fifty, but the truth was that she had turned seventy-five.
All her life, Greta Vudkiss had been a model. Her early work was in glossy magazines, a career built on stunning beauty and a slender frame. And even now, one could see the ghost of that beauty behind the wear of time and her wrinkles. She had been in demand by all the leading magazines worldwide. Later, when the years began to take a toll, she was invited as an ambassador in the world of fashion and beauty. Advertisements for watches, elite furniture, and expensive accessories — through all of this, the name Greta Vudkiss ran like a transparent thread.
I struck up a friendship with her. Before, I had always been very cold towards our guests. As a rule, they didn’t stay long, departing for the other world without saying goodbye. Old age is merciless. It takes people away suddenly and quietly. I walled myself off from them, shielded myself from their passing away. Otherwise, it would have become too heavy a burden.
But with Greta, it turned out differently. From the first day of our acquaintance, her aura, sophistication and grandeur drew me in. I spent almost all my free time with Greta, immersing myself more and more in the tragedy of a single human life.
Almost from her birth, the beautiful girl Greta dreamed of becoming famous. After travelling a difficult path full of treachery, humiliation, and injustice, she became the leading model for an agency with a global reputation. When the time came to think about marriage, Greta chose a quiet, unassuming man five years her senior. Paul was French, a well-mannered, intellectual art historian. By Greta’s standards, he was a weakling who had achieved nothing in his life. But he didn’t hinder her career. He looked at his wife with admiration, as if he couldn’t believe such a woman had noticed him. He hung on her every word, approved of her every choice. He had a unique ability to justify her every action.
“Oh, of course I had lovers!” Greta recalled as we were sitting on a park bench. She was wearing a flowing silk cloak the color of melted milk and an emerald scarf of fine velour. “The first men of the city, famous artists, musicians... They showered me with jewels and flowers. And I would carry it all home with a proud air. Paul never once asked where it all came from. He would just smile his sad, wise smile and dutifully put the flowers in a vase.
“When I got pregnant with Louise, I wanted to have an abortion. And only then did Paul, perhaps for the first time in our marriage, show some firmness. He promised that the baby would be no trouble, that he would take all care of the child upon himself, leave his job, and that I could continue my career after the child’s birth.
“Louise was born weak. I had kept to a strict diet throughout the pregnancy; I was so afraid to gain extra weight. I took synthetic vitamins and, of course, that affected the girl. But Paul nursed her back to health, sat by the crib of his screaming daughter day and night, read fairy tales and sang lullabies for her. A month after giving birth, I left for a shoot.
“When Vivienne was born, I left the newborn baby with the nanny Paul had found by then and flew to China for three months. It was a very lucrative contract. Vivienne’s first word was ‘Dada.’ She called the nanny ‘Mama.’ But my career was skyrocketing at the time...
“When the girls grew older, I insisted on sending them to London, to a private school. They were seven and nine. They came home only for holidays and, even then, my shooting schedule was so packed that I might fly out on the day of their arrival and return only when they were already leaving back for school.”
Greta lit a cigarette, a long, brown one, and the scent of menthol and tobacco drifted through the park. Our guests aren’t allowed to smoke, but the hospice owner made an exception for Greta; it was impossible to refuse her.
She looked at me intently, pausing as if deciding whether to continue, and finally sank back into her memories.
“When the girls finished school, we had two adult women in our house, with their own views on life and experience gained anywhere but within their home’s walls. I had a hard time with them. They were complete strangers to me. They didn’t take anything from me. In appearance, the daughters took after their father: plain little gray mice. They had no ambitions or aspirations. Louise studied to be a philologist; Vivienne enrolled as a teacher. Dull.
“I spent less and less time home with the family, intoxicated by my fame, notoriety, and the love of admirers. Once, having arrived from a tour a day early, I found Paul in bed with a woman. I felt a sense of relief and disgust at the same time. My quiet, compliant husband had been a burden to me, standing between me and my career with a silent reproach. He had cheated on me with our neighbor, Marie Renée, a lonely old maid. All she was interested in was the rose garden blooming in the front yard and, as it turned out, my husband.
“I let Paul go to live with her without a second thought and, over time, we even got on friendly terms. I felt no jealousy, perhaps because I had never felt any love for Paul. The daughters got married and had sons: Anatole and Nicolas. I saw my grandchildren for the first time when the boys were four and five years old.
“I liked the eldest, Nicolas, though. You could see our breeding in him. He was proud, independent, a true fighter. By the way, he’s the one who brought me here. Anatole took after his mother and grandfather. He’s just as weak-willed and spineless. I had practically no contact with him or my daughters, having once again plunged into an affair with a famous director. We had breakfast in Nice and dinner in Florida, filling each other’s lives with an eternal celebration of passionate nights, champagne, and self-adoration.
“Nevertheless, over the years, I began to need something more than a career and a revolving door of lovers. I invited Nicolas to stay with me during the holidays; there was a break in my shoots, I was recovering from another plastic surgery and I was glad to see my grandson. I strictly forbade him to call me Grandma. He called me ‘Darling’ or Greta. We had a wonderful time! I was surprised at how well-read and educated he was, what pleasant manners he had. And his looks! I decided this boy was cut out for the modelling business!
“After contacting my agent, I arranged Nicolas’s first photoshoot. He caused a sensation! The most prestigious magazines and runways wanted him. I could only smile modestly, unable to hide my pride in my grandson. When Nicolas turned nineteen and his modeling career was at its peak, out of the blue, Vivienne turned up on my doorstep. I hadn’t seen my daughter for a long time, her life held little interest for me, but returning from a shoot and meeting her waiting for me at my door, I was even pleased. Let her see what a mother she has.
“Vivienne looked at me with undisguised fury. ‘What have you dragged him into? Is this the life you wanted for my son? Who asked you to interfere? I hate you!’ my daughter said, smearing angry tears across her face, reproaching me for everything.
“It turned out that Nicolas was a gigolo, living off rich ladies. Besides, he’d started drinking. Only then did it dawn on me: his constant attention to me, his calls and unexpected visits. At the end of our meetings, he always asked for money. The reasons were always very compelling: studies, a new portfolio, a gift for his beloved. I was always generous with money. Fortunately, I had it in abundance.
“Glancing at my younger daughter with black smudges under her eyes, I said with disgust, ‘What mascara are you using? It looks like complete crap.’
“Vivienne stopped short and looked at me in silence for a second. Then she hissed, ‘You’re a monster! I hate you!’
“My daughter walked briskly towards the neighboring house, to her father’s. All the better. I’m ill-suited for the role of a shoulder to cry on. Did I feel sorry for Nicolas? Most likely, no. Everyone chooses how to ruin their own life. Who am I to forbid a grown boy to live as he wants?”
I listened to Greta and I was astonished. There wasn’t a drop of regret in her words, just a dry statement of fact with a tinge of light, elusive bitterness. After lunch, Greta and I settled on the balcony. Pouring herself a glass of white sparkling wine, she smiled slightly and continued her story.
“I found out I was ill a year ago. The doctors gave me a couple of months, six at most. Twice that has passed, but someone up there isn’t taking me. Apparently, even He doesn’t want me. Back then, sitting in the doctor’s office and listening to him explain the inevitability of my death, I was scared for the first time in my life. And I started thinking: you never love life as much as when you’re being deprived of it or when the timer is set.
“Why don’t we notice how mornings smell when we have countless ones? I realized that, at best, I would wake up one hundred and sixty-two more times. And I choked on the thought of how I had spent my life. We don’t believe it will end.
“Only children, being braver than adults, actively wonder about death for the first seven years of their lives or so. And then they realize that, in the adult world, it’s not customary to talk about it. And they start playing by our rules.
“We live as if we are immortal. As if everything can still be rewritten clean. And then we die. And it turns out... we never even started living. I came here because there is no one left in my life. The only person who still loves me is myself. I left everything I had to my daughters and Paul. Although no amount of money in the world can atone for the fact that I deprived my daughters of a mother and my husband of a wife.
“I came here because, as a person, I died long ago, or perhaps was never even born. I’ve lived my whole life only for myself, and on the threshold of death, only emptiness surrounds me. I’m like an annual flower that will die after blooming, leaving behind nothing that could help anyone remember it.”
She didn’t cry. This amazing woman! She was lashing herself with her own whip, steadfastly enduring the pain she deserved. I left the room as dusk settled on the tops of the spruce trees. I cried all night. I sincerely felt sorry for Greta. I mourned her life and thought about how little time we are given. Someone might simply not have the time to figure things out, to learn to play by the rules.
Greta died in the morning. With her makeup on and her hair impeccably done, she was still sitting in the wicker chair on the balcony of her room. On the table stood a glass of unfinished sparkling wine, in the ashtray was a burnt-out cigarette.
No one came to collect her body. Her relatives simply did not respond to the news of her death. The star of runways and magazines, a successful and beautiful woman, was buried at the expense of the hospice where she had spent the last weeks of her life.
The cemetery was deserted. Only a lone, gray-haired old man stood over the fresh grave, his head bowed low. From a photograph, a young, beautiful woman looked back at him, the woman who had turned his soul inside out and burned away all the life in him. Once, he couldn’t believe that such a woman could belong to him. She never did. All her life, she belonged only to herself.
Copyright © 2026 by Alexandra Diorditsa
