The Natashas

by Yelena Moskovich

  Eto ya.

  The policeman looked closer at the woman.

  “Eto ya,” the woman repeated. Or maybe it was the little girl who said it.

  “Ya cibya nashla. That’s me. I found myself.”

  The woman pronounced it so finely and fluidly that it confused the policeman. By the looks of her, she was no doubt from the west, and yet the voice which came out of her was right at home.

  He squinted and went into his office.

  The woman pulled the photo off the bulletin board, folded it, and put it in her pocket. The little girl had been found. Then she walked out of the train station, found the nearest grocery store, and bought a bottle of milk.

  She couldn’t have proved much anyways, since she didn’t have any ID, her wallet had been stolen. As it turns out, it’s not that difficult to live without any ID in the Ukraine. Whenever anyone asked her her name, she’d reply, “Natasha.”

  6

  “Telo, Nomer, Chiffre, Youpka …” Polina repeated

  Telo

  Body

  Nomer

  Number

  Chiffre

  Code

  Youpka

  Skirt

  Yulia

  The name of her ten-year-old sister.

  Pamyat

  Memory.

  Stoyimost

  Price

  Imya, Name

  Pizda, Cunt

  Yvette, was her name

  Istiyourum, I want

  Attends ici, wait here

  Hier zitten, sit here

  Viktoria, was her name

  Halt die Klappe, shut up

  “Irina,” was her name.

  7

  Young woman, in the window, from the waist up, hair undone and brushed.

  “Pogulyaem?” A man’s voice calls up. “Let’s go for a walk,” he proposes to the woman with no legs.

  X

  Is that your fish?

  1

  César ran, side-stepping all obstacles, feet, stroller wheels, car bumpers. He had to get himself to Marcel’s. He had no time to think about direction. He knew that if he just ran, his body would figure it out. His cheeks sponged up the cool air.

  He ran down rue Condorcet then turned right on rue de Rochechouart. His ribs pulled him east, then veered him north until his feet slowed on a narrow street called rue des Petits Hotels.

  He looked at the buildings on either side of him. The principal structure was a stone-faced middle school, College Bernard Palissy. After that, a pedicure boutique with hazed windows, closed for the weekend already. Then a couple of broad, disappointed-faced buildings which held property or offices for sale signs. Then again, this time to his right, another pedicure boutique, this one with its blinds drawn shut. Was this street inhabited by residents with feet in need of constant maintenance?

  At the end of the street, on the corner, was a Stationery & Gift store, also closed. Through the windows, César could see packets of cards arranged geometrically, and pens and pencils packed into plastic containers. The paper selection was in a spectrum of pastel colours. Dim and peaceful, it looked like the newborn baby ward of a hospital, all those greetings waiting to be expressed.

  César hadn’t remarked on the name of the street when he turned on to it. If he had, he might have wondered why there wasn’t a single hotel (little or big) on it. This, of course, would have lost him even more time.

  His thoughts had already slowed his pace to an idle walk. REEL IT IN, GECKO, a voice sergeanted in his ear and whipped up the soles of his shoes. César took off once more in a sprint.

  2

  His feet were humid and the shirt beneath his zip-up was sticking to him. He was standing still on a busy street, panting, looking for a street sign.

  An African woman walked towards him. Her violet dress was scattered with bright traces like orange peels. She had on a thick headscarf which was the same fabric, and knotted in bulk, on her forehead. Her breasts were pressed down by a piece of fabric with a different pattern, dark etchings, piles of grasshopper legs.

  As she passed him, he noticed the baby wrapped upon her back with the scarf. The baby’s cheeks spread like dough, eyes closed, as if he was listening to the creaking of his mother’s spine. Just before crossing, a man came out of a fast-food shop wearing a long white cotton robe. The woman greeted him, her French words rolling in and out of another language.

  César spotted it. Rue du Faubourg St-Denis. This was the street where Marcel lived. He hurried past an approaching couple to cross the street, but got intercepted by an Indian man holding a big bouquet of white and red roses. The man stopped straight in front of César and levered the bouquet into his face.

  “No thanks,” César quickly replied, trying to shoo the roses out of his nose. The Indian rose seller did not budge. César repeated “Non merci,” again, then again “Non merci.” Then someone turned around and bumped into the Indian man and like a pinball, he was set on his way, to offer roses elsewhere. Eager to cross, César lifted his foot, but it was pushed directly back down to the concrete. His toe was stubbed. “Sorry, Pardohen,” an American-looking girl said as she pulled her rolling suitcase after her. César got a glimpse of her face. She must have played the clarinet as a child and sided with her dad during the divorce.

  Héy-O, César,

  Ramène le poisson!

  Marcel’s voice bounced around in César’s head. He looked back at the street, which was streaming with passing cars.

  HÉ PUTA.

  CARRETE dat FISH!

  This voice was his brother Raul’s, compact and gritty.

  Then, in the elastic voice of his younger, fatter brother, Alonzo.

  Puuuuta, carrete ese pez!

  “Estoy tambaleando! I am!”

  César (Rosa’s voice. It sounded disappointed in him.)

  “I’m waiting for the cars to pass …”

  César (Rosa’s voice was smoothing out now, as if freshly ironed)

  “Yeah?”

  ¿Es tu pez?

  ¿Qué?

  Is that your fish, Julio César?

  “Sí, si, esa es mi pez.”

  Dunt looz it, César. You get onlee wone …

  “I won’t.”

  Grampa got bahreed with hiz fish under hiz two crossid hands …

  “¿Qué?”

  Juan-Miguel the hothead was growing impatient.

  REEL IT IN YOU PEESOV SHIT! he spouted.

  “I’m reeling I’m reeling!” César exclaimed, opening his arms wide to the world.

  His upper arm ran into something cushioned. He turned his head and searched for the source. It was a prostitute’s large breast.

  3

  “Hello,” the prostitute said ironically.

  This big-breasted woman seemed at first glance old enough to be his mother. But when César looked closer, her eyes had dilated and her pupils were glossy like a mesmerised baby’s. As soon as she blinked, though, her eyelids lifted back up, revealing the drooling vision of an elderly woman trying to remember.

  César quickly pulled his elbow back towards his gut and excused himself. The woman lifted her finger, on which she was wearing a key-ring. Off the metal ring was one big bronze-coloured key which looked like it was meant for a castle. The apartment buildings in this city were so old that it was not uncommon to have such a key. Next to that long key, other smaller, more modern keys hung, perhaps for a mailbox or a storage space. She jingled the keys to show César that she had a room upstairs where she could take him (unlike some other prostitutes who don’t have a room of their own and have to use the street as their oyster).

  “Uh, oh, no thanks,” César said and stepped in closer to the street curb, eyeing the passing traffic for gaps. None of the spaces aligned enough to give César a pathway across. As he waited, he could hear the discreet metal clink of the keys hanging from the prostitute’s finger behind him.

  4

  The light flashed red and the cars screeched to a halt in a bristle
d line. One motorcycle managed to slip through the congestion and peel off just before the crowd of pedestrians ebbed in. César stepped into the street with the others. He crossed with them, away from this prostitute who could have been his mother, or an infant, or an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s … He heard her rattling keys following after him. He could feel her, standing somewhere behind him with an arched chest, jingling her keys, her body morphing between ages like a girl growing up in front of a funhouse mirror.

  As he walked, the keys jingled in his ear on loop. They were beginning to sound like the voice of a man being fast-forwarded to repeated flashes of giddiness. César listened closer to the chirping, trying to decipher the words. With every step, it chirped again. And again. Notereconoces? Notereconoces?

  No te reconoces?

  Don’t you recognise yourself? the jingling keys seemed to be saying to him.

  XI

  Very nice

  1

  Béatrice went home with the dress in a plastic bag.

  Jean-Luc, her sister’s boyfriend, was in the kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, holding the refrigerator door open. He closed the fridge and turned around with a plastic bottle of Perrier in his hand.

  “Oh. Hello,” he said to Béatrice and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

  “Hello,” she replied, and went into the living room.

  Her mother was there, turning an oriental vase towards the light. Her father was on the sofa reading the paper. He lowered it and glinted at Béatrice.

  “Whatchyou got in the bag?” her father asked.

  “A dress,” Béatrice replied.

  Béatrice looked through the living room doorway to the flight of stairs that led up to the first floor. She longed to go upstairs with the dress and to be alone with Polina’s voice, which was still floating around in her head. She wanted to feel the lace on her body and to look at herself in the mirror and think about the stories Polina had told her.

  “Try it on,” Emmanuelle said, from the top of the stairs. She was wearing tight jeans and a loose silk shirt which hugged the smooth cups of her bra beneath. As she bent forward, the silk shirt hung down and showed her breasts, which were pushed gently together like two hotel pillows.

  “Yeah, honey, give us a show,” her father added.

  Béatrice turned. Her mouth was open and a voice was already leaving her.

  “Okay,” the voice said meekly.

  It was quieter than Béatrice’s voice, smaller because it was coming from far away. Years back. Twenty-some years back. From a sandy dune where her hands are holding a girl’s ankles.

  2

  In her room, Béatrice rummaged in the drawers for something black to wear underneath the dress. She found a black tank-top and skirt, and covered her body with the thin, tight cotton. She pulled the dress out of the bag and slid each arm in carefully, then pulled its length down. Telo, Nomer … She bent her arms back and pulled the zipper all the way up her spine. Chiffre …

  She went to the small mirror above her dresser, only low enough to reflect her face. She could feel where her chignon had come undone. Hier zitten. She smoothed the loose strands of hair up, until they were all together and sleek like a highway at dawn.

  She looked down. Her feet were bare. Sofia. She found the black heels she wore for concerts. They were highly arched, but with a strong base that she could use to tap the rhythm as she sang. She could feel the coarse black lace on her body. She stepped her foot into each heel slowly, as if into bathwater.

  Imye. Yulia. Istiyourum.

  3

  Béatrice stood at the top of the stairs, with her father, mother, sister and Jean-Luc all gathered together to look at her. From below, she was a wartime ghost or the mistress to a politician.

  “Oh la la la!” the father said.

  Jean-Luc inserted a bravo and let his chin nod.

  Emmanuelle and her mother remained quiet, giving the first round of words to the men. The women took their time to listen and observe, using their silence strategically.

  “Come on down, Marilyn!” the father burst out joyfully.

  The mother glanced over at her husband’s grin.

  Béatrice lifted one side of the dress which parted at the slit, her white knee emerging from the partition. Emmanuelle looked at her boyfriend, then at her father, then back at Béatrice. She came up to Béatrice and stroked her forearm, feeling the ripples of lace.

  “It’s really – very – nice – the dress,” Emmanuelle said, her fingertips running over the weave-work of the lace.

  Her mother reached over, sliding a set of three fingers down the lace.

  “Not too itchy?” the mother asked.

  Béatrice shook her head. Jean-Luc reached out his hand hesitantly and touched the black lace on Béatrice’s collarbone.

  “It is – very nice,” he pronounced.

  Emmanuelle’s eyes dropped straight to where Jean-Luc’s fingertips were placed on her sister’s collarbone. The father shot a look at Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc pulled back his hand and stepped closer to Emmanuelle. The father took a large step toward Béatrice and reached out his hand, confident, bold, as he too wanted to tell his daughter that the dress was very nice. He placed his hand on Béatrice’s shoulder and squeezed it mildly.

  “Very nice,” he affirmed.

  The mother glanced at the father. Emmanuelle glanced up at Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc tried to meet Emmanuelle’s gaze. But as his eyes descended they tripped and fell on to Béatrice’s throat. As soon as they realised where they were, they scrambled back, trying to correct the error, but stumbled again and landed straight on the father’s back. Upon feeling the ocular attention of someone behind him, the father glanced back and spotted Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc quickly pulled his eyes back, hovering them vaguely in space, suspicious of their destination. The mother turned her head towards Emmanuelle. Emmanuelle now peered at her father, who was peering at Jean-Luc, whose eyes were swarming around Béatrice’s feet, in search of discretion.

  Emmanuelle looked up at Béatrice. Their mother looked at her husband. He did not see as he was watching Jean-Luc. Jean-Luc looked up at the ceiling, then down at an oriental rug in front of the couch, then finally at a glimmer of light shining off a ceramic vase on the coffee table.

  Béatrice’s eyes followed the movement of everyone else’s eyes, jumping from one another like children playing in a minefield. Her sister moved in to Jean-Luc and nudged her head on to his shoulder. Jean-Luc drew his eyes off Béatrice and put his arm around Emmanuelle, who in return said under her breath: meow, meow.

  XII

  Marcel

  1

  Outside Marcel’s building stood a tall, young black man, Nigerian maybe. He held a cell phone in his hand and was rolling his eyes from left to right, as if reading the street. César stepped into the doorway and the man peeled his back off the building wall and walked into the text of bodies he had just been reading.

  2

  On the right-hand side of the doorway was a flat steel-coloured plate with rows of buttons, 1 to 9 and 0, and the options A and B. This was the building security system. No matter how shabby the residence or neighbourhood, every building in Paris has one of these door-codes. Type in the secret code, and voilà the door beeps or the lock clicks and just push to open. However, there is a more impressive option. Type in the code, beep, click, and just as you lift your hands to push the door open, it cuts away from its frame and opens all by itself before you. Automatic. To César, this was indeed quite impressive, so impressive that every time he visited Marcel he completely forgot that the world had advanced to this level of innovation and would raise his hands up and push in every time, nearly falling through the automatically opening door.

  This time it was no different. César typed in the code and raised his hands to push just as the door clicked and moved open. He grabbed the side of the door frame and his elbow scraped against the wall’s side as he tripped his way inside. He heard someone calling out to him and turned, s
eeing the Nigerian man across the street pointing at him and saying something like “Kana a’ya ka fito.” César liked the way it sounded. Kana-aiyeka-fee-too, he almost wanted to call back in solidarity. But then the automatic door hit him on the side of his head as it closed.

  3

  César hit the button for Marcel’s apartment. After a moment, the door to the stairway buzzed. His excitement began to rise, and his legs found their bounce. He hopped up the first stairway, up the red-velvet slap of carpeting that was matted down over the stairs. One floor, turn up, another floor, turn up, he skipped up the stairs with long strides. On the fourth floor, he took a right and went down the hallway, passing a door with a scratched-up lock. Marcel had told César that someone had broken into his neighbour’s place in early August and in Marcel’s words, “picked the crumbs off the floor”. This made César imagine the burglars as a line of organised ants.

  Marcel’s door was the one next to it. No one had broken into his apartment in the twelve years he had lived there, Marcel made it known proudly. His door was painted a deep forest-green. Towards the top was a small metal ring holding what seemed to be a glass marble. This was the eye-hole. Just below the eye-hole, etched into the wood was an X, scratched in two crossing slivers of light brown wood. Below this X was another, similar in shape and size, also etched in with a blade of some sort. Below that X was another. And another. The Xs descended in a totem line down Marcel’s door, with the last X just above César’s knee.

  4

  Marcel was not religious, nor spiritual, nor particularly sensitive to nature or human beings for that matter, but he believed strongly in the power of confusion.

  “The more you don’t get it, the closer you are to it. As soon as you start understanding, making sense of things, well César, that’s where the real idiocy begins …”

  Marcel had told César that he had etched each X himself with a kitchen knife. The first one when he moved into the place after his wife and daughter moved to Germany to make a family with another man and his teenage son.

  5

  After he had carved his first X just below the eye-hole, Marcel would sometimes spend a good amount of time standing outside his door, admiring the new etching as if it was his very first tattoo. One day, his neighbour happened to come home during one of these moments of contemplation. Marcel’s focus on the X afforded the neighbour a level of anonymity as he discreetly approached his own door, but just as the neighbour was turning the key in his door, Marcel looked over, transferring the intensity of his eyes on to him. The neighbour felt obliged to say something.