The Natashas

by Yelena Moskovich

  “Bonjour,” he said politely.

  His neighbour waited patiently, leaving space for Marcel to say Bonjour back, but after the momentum of his own Hello waned, the neighbour began to turn back to his doorway. Suddenly, Marcel spoke up.

  “I marked my door,” Marcel said proudly.

  The neighbour pulled his neck out of his doorway and peeked at the X carved on Marcel’s door. “Oh, I see,” he said.

  Marcel’s grin held solid. The neighbour felt obliged to compliment Marcel’s effort. “Very nice,” his neighbour said, then stepped into his apartment and closed the door.

  About eight months later, the neighbour saw that the door had two Xs on it.

  One evening when both Marcel and his neighbour came home at the same time, the neighbour’s eye lingered on the second X.

  “The landlord …” Marcel inserted.

  “Pardon?” the neighbour asked, caught off guard.

  “Yeah, I know, the landlord insisted I carve another one in … ’cause he heard that the first one was so nice.”

  Marcel’s sentence went into the neighbour’s head like a piece of bread into water. He couldn’t help but feel the obligation to compliment the second X, as he had complimented the first.

  “Very nice,” the neighbour said.

  During the weeks that followed, whenever Marcel passed his neighbour, the neighbour avoided eye contact. Then the third X appeared. Not long after, the two bumped into each other on the stairs. It was just before Christmas, and the wooden stairway seemed to be charged with a silent childhood.

  “Hey there,” Marcel said.

  His neighbour almost tripped over his step, his hand caught the railing.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “Crazy, right?”

  “Sorry?”

  “My door, I mean. You’ve seen it.”

  The neighbour looked at Marcel silently.

  “… I mean, you leave two nice-looking Xs alone for one minute and what do you know, you come home to a third!”

  His neighbour stood still. His mouth opened, then closed, bewildered.

  “Happy holidays,” Marcel said and jumped down the stairs robustly.

  6

  After five years, there were five Xs in a line down Marcel’s door. The sixth X was considerably lower than the rest.

  “My daughter did that one!” Marcel boasted to his neighbour, who at this point did his best to avoid engaging in any conversation with Marcel.

  His neighbour had never seen a little girl coming in or out of Marcel’s place. And the thought of giving a young child a sharp object to carve into a door with did not seem like good parenting. But above all, his neighbour did not want to get himself tangled in whatever was going on with Marcel and that door. So he said the thing that to him seemed to close the conversation the quickest.

  “Very, very nice …” the neighbour replied and slipped into his own apartment, quickly shutting the door behind him.

  7

  Not too long after that, someone broke into his neighbour’s place, and, like Marcel described, picked the crumbs off the floor. They even took the pens on the counter. Oddly enough, they left the objects of true value, the furniture, the electronics, the marble chess set untouched. In the end, Marcel was not sure why his neighbour even complained. It just looked like someone came in, cleaned the place thoroughly and left.

  “If they would have just taken something …” Marcel had overheard his neighbour saying on the phone in the stairway, “… if only they would have taken something valuable, well maybe then I could sleep at night!”

  8

  Marcel’s neighbour filed a complaint concerning what he was calling a robbery. Although the list of missing items included: four pens, two to four various-sized scraps of paper containing notes, one teabag wrapping, a couple of stale sugar cubes, one beer-can cap, the broken end of a key-ring, two to three business cards lying around. From subsequent phone calls that Marcel overheard, he understood that the neighbour had gone to file a second complaint, concerning a young man he thought was loitering outside the building.

  “I’ve no idea who this skinny kid thinks he is, standing like that against the tree, just looking at me with his creepy eyes … Yeah, I’m sure as hell he’s looking at me, looking so hard I can see the exact colour of those damned eyes of his…. They’re … these peering eyes, like slivers, like dark marbles … !”

  9

  Now there were seventeen Xs on Marcel’s door. His neighbour no longer complimented them. In fact, Marcel didn’t see much of his neighbour these days. But he knew he was still there. In the evenings, especially if Marcel stood quietly in his shower, he could hear his neighbour talking to someone on the phone through the wall. Sometimes his neighbour yelled into the receiver, which made it easier to listen in. But sometimes he just whispered sloppily.

  There were nights when Marcel was sure his neighbour was talking to an ex-wife, as he spoke with out-dated love like a telescope trying to find that rare star in the constellation.

  “… The hell with it … Now at least we can say Remember me … Good thing you left me … otherwise I would’ve killed you. Haha …”

  Other nights, maybe he was talking to someone else.

  “Yeah, no, I’m okay. No, yeah, I’m okay …”

  10

  César knew Marcel’s doorbell was long broken (maybe it never had worked). He rolled his fingers into his palm and brought his knuckles up to the space below the eye-hole. Before he could touch the wood, the door clicked and pulled open.

  “Just in time for fish!” Marcel said.

  11

  For a man in his sixties, Marcel was in very good shape. Not just physically either, although he did have a pull-up bar bolted in the doorway from the kitchen to the living room. His eyes had a sheen of perpetual delight. The look of a boy who’s hiding a beetle behind his back.

  They walked through the hallway and went into the office room.

  “Take a seat!” Marcel said to César, and hopped over to the other side of the desk.

  On the bookcase behind Marcel sat two framed photos of two girls. The younger girl was on the top shelf, with a thin, smart-aleck smile. Her eyes were forceful, certain. The older girl was on the shelf below, with her lips held together, not smiling. Her eyes now used their strength to push something away. César had always assumed these were Marcel’s daughters, as both strongly resembled each other.

  Marcel had the frames turned outward, so that they faced whoever was sitting in the chair in front of him. This gave the impression that no matter what he said, the two girls agreed with him.

  Marcel drum-rolled with two fingers on the side of his desk. “Manuel Rodriguez!” he announced. “The role of a lifetime!”

  “Manuel Rodriguez,” César repeated shyly.

  “Big fish material, kid! Latino psycho type. You know better than I do, right?” Marcel gave a wink.

  “… Latino psycho like …”

  “Pepe Psicapato! Loco Nacho! Twisted in the head beneath his sombrero, you know …”

  “…Twisted … like … how?”

  “Come on, buddy. He’s tracking down young women, some of them girls, innocent girls, pretty girls … He’s tracking them down and …you know.”

  “What’s he doing to them?” César was suddenly concerned.

  “Oh, awful things. Disgusting things. Areeeeba areeeba, right …”

  César looked at Marcel, trying his best to understand. He glanced up and caught the two faces of the girls, one smiling and the other frowning. He was starting to feel uneasy. Marcel sniffed loudly, interrupting.

  “The audition is tomorrow morning, so you gotta sink into this quick.”

  “Tomorrow? Really?”

  “You think you can handle a macho muchacho like that? You know, a man who would do that … to young, innocent, pretty girls …”

  “… I mean, I’d have to look at—”

  “WOA. Woa woa woa.” Marcel jumped. He grabbed the sides
of his desk and pulled in towards César. “Buddy, please. Don’t let me down here. You can’t let me down on this one.”

  “I won’t—”

  “The thing is, I’ve already buttered up one of the producers about you. We’re dealing with big fish here, for you and for me. You’re my man here. You’re their man. You’re the man! Say it. Say it with me, buddy. Tell me. Tell me you’re my loco nacho …”

  César’s mind began to race. Thirteen episodes. National TV. Wide distribution. DVD. Spanish subtitles. His family could see it in Mexico. His brothers. Tough guy. Scary guy. Psychos don’t take shit. No one messes with a psycho. César suddenly felt so excited, the pinheads in his eyes sparkled feverishly, as if trying to become meteors. Marcel stared at him anxiously.

  “I’M YOUR LATIN PSYCHO!” César roared.

  Marcel smiled with so much tenderness, César almost called him Papa.

  The two young girls stared down at César, one smiling and one frowning at his fate.

  XIII

  Fotos

  1

  There’s a metal rummaging in the keyhole. A click and a clang and a chain dropping like a brass necklace. The door opens and the Head Natasha of the Natashas enters holding a large, padded book. All the Natashas perk up.

  “Okay, girls, who wants to see some pictures?”

  “Oh I do!” “I do.” “I do …”

  Each Natasha shouts out in her own way. Some quack out instantaneously, unashamed of their saliva. Others concentrate when they speak. They are concerned about their dignity and let their words out accordingly.

  “Okay then, come around, come around.”

  The Natashas cluster around the Head Natasha. She crouches down and opens her wide, padded book.

  2

  First photo, full page, colour:

  Marilyn Monroe with her wrists pressed together, pushing up as if coming out of a pool. It is not clear whether she is actually at the pool because the background is completely black. Also, she’s wearing a sleeveless powder-blue bustier of an elegant dress, the kind of garment one does not normally wear if they are at the pool. Her eyes gaze slightly beyond you. They skim over the hairs on top of your head. Her mouth is open but her teeth stay firmly pressed together.

  “She sure looks nervous,” the lanky Natasha says.

  “Well, you’d be nervous too if all around you was nothing but black!” the sleepy Natasha replies.

  The Natashas peer at this photo from all angles, elbowing each other to make room, some hovering on their tiptoes, others levering between ankles. The Head Natasha turns the page.

  3

  Two half-sized photos, colour:

  Marilyn Monroe has her arms up, hands on the back of her neck, as if holding up her hair. She is wearing a black turtleneck. Behind her, the wooden beams of an old barn. Maybe she’s in Tennessee. Maybe there’s a pig poking his snout at her leg. This we can’t see, because the photo is just from her torso up. Her breasts push out in cones. Her mouth is open. She must be in the middle of saying something. Something like, “That light is in my eyes.” Or “The pig’s got his snout on my leg.” Or “I don’t think I like myself today.”

  Second photo:

  Marilyn Monroe is in a black swimsuit, sitting in a chaise longue on a pool-deck. One of her shiny legs is up in the air. She’s holding the straps of a black heel upon her foot. She pulls down on the straps, as if hanging on, so that she won’t blow away. However, there is no sign of wind. She is maybe saying something coquettish, like “Come over here, you.” Or sucking in air because of an acute pain in her uterus. Both produce very similar flirtatious sounds. No wonder the cameraman is confused.

  One Natasha inhales until her stomach pushes over her jeans, then she seals up her lips and leans directly over the photo. The other Natashas watch her. Suddenly, she lets her lips burst open and a gust of breath slaps on to the photo.

  “Crazy, what’re you doing!”

  “I wanted to see if she’d move.”

  “It’s a FOTO. Do you know what a FOTO is?”

  “Yeah I know what a FOTO is.”

  “My cell phone takes FOTOS,” the Natasha with freshly painted nails says.

  “Who cares.”

  Another Natasha with scraped knuckles extends her long finger and points at everyone.

  “There are FOTOS of you and you and you and you and you on the internet and let me tell you, you’re not wearing much!”

  “Those FOTOS are not for the clothes anyways, duh.”

  “Yeah, they are like doctor-visit FOTOS. You know, bend over, slide forward, spread your legs, relax.”

  “I would NEVER let no doctor or whoever take one of those fotos of me … without paying upfront!” a Natasha says proudly. The Natashas behind her nod in solidarity.

  “Um … I don’t think … I want … like, one of those fotos … taken of me … at all.” The new Natasha has watery eyes.

  “O but you don’t even need to be there really,” the blue-eye-shadow Natasha says kindly.

  “A vacant house doesn’t complain of a robbery,” the redhead adds.

  At this, a plump Natasha shifts her hips forward.

  “Forget that. What are you, ashamed of your body? I’m not. I’ve got a delicious body.” She moves in towards the sitting Natasha and circles her hips in front of her eyes. “I’m delicious, dee-lee-sush.”

  “Lemme see.” Sunflower budges through the crowd.

  “Stop pushing!”

  “You smell!”

  The rest of the Natashas start pushing and shoving and pinching each other, until the Head Natasha must interfere.

  “Now, now, girls, let’s not get too excited. It was already nice to look at those photos. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t that nice?”

  “It was really nice,” a Natasha states proudly.

  “Really, really nice!” another adds.

  “But now it’s time for bed.”

  The Natashas huff and pout.

  “Yes, yes, it’s bedtime.”

  “O … kay …”

  “There we go, that’s my girls.”

  The Natashas file towards their spots and plop themselves down. One by one they burrow into their blankets and close their eyes.

  “That was so nice …” they mumble drowsily.

  When the door is closed and the lock is rebolted, the bodies of the Natashas are lifeless, like lumps of laundry. Each one breathes rhythmically, in and out. Between their breaths, odd sounds push out. Each Natasha reverts back to her mother tongue. She mumbles names. Marta. Marilena. Mariya. Ragdolls they once loved.

  The saliva swooshes slowly back and forth in each mouth. One by one their saliva synchronises with the rest. It forms the sound of a crashing wave, crashing on to the shore of a beach.

  On that beach, Marilyn is sitting in the sand. She’s wearing a red-and-white striped bathing suit. Her knees catch the light. Her legs are slightly open. She crosses her arms over her breasts, squirming, right to left, left to right.

  Relax, Marta.

  Relax, Marilena.

  Relax, Mariya.

  You’re only being tickled.

  XIV

  Manny

  1

  Finally back in his small apartment, César sat at his desk with the audition scenes on one side and his notebook on the other. Manuel “Manny” Rodriguez. This season’s Latin psycho. César did have some experience with psychotic personas, even if it wasn’t professional. Poor Estefania who married her sister’s killer, Laura the beautiful grieving widow and naughty Dr Arturo and his facial reconstruction, Doña Carlota, both jealous and protective of her young, horny niece. Enrique. Federico. Then all the men he played at his telemarketing job. Melancholic Andres, itchy-fingered Pablo, and of course Juan-Miguel the hothead.

  César tried to bring Manny to life alongside these past characters, but Manny kept pushing away, standing to the side. He was starting to see it. Manny was different.

  2

  All his life, César had never d
oubted that he was an actor. He was sure of it the way he was sure he desired men even before he had ever kissed one. Although he hadn’t ever landed a professional acting role, he had always thought of his childhood impersonations and his years at the acting school as a lifetime of acting experience. Throughout those years, he felt there was no particular rush for a full-fledged career. He was content to be an actor, to find ways to practise this daily, even if no one else saw. All he wanted was to live as an actor, acting.

  But as he contemplated Manny, he started to see that he had long outgrown these characters of his past. They were mere sketches, catchphrases, and anecdotes. At the acting school, all his work was caricatured, no matter how hard César had tried to give it depth. Whenever César had expressed to his teacher that he’d like to work on a “serious role”, his teacher would lift his hand by his wrist and gesture a limp infinity sign.

  “All roles are serious roles,” the teacher would say as if he were speaking Latin.

  César agreed in theory, but saw clearly in practise that his roles were always the gimmicky part of the scene, and any effort to give these roles sincerity was discouraged.

  “César, are you trying to make a mess of these characters on purpose?” his teacher had once scolded him.

  “I’m just trying to give them a soul …” César replied self-consciously.

  “Well … looks like they don’t want anything to do with your soul …” The teacher smiled, then looked back at his other students. Some of them laughed, and he felt rewarded.

  When he saw the teacher in private and tried to explain more precisely his ambitions, the teacher recited other theoretically impenetrable phrases, then looked at César as if he were in the way of who he was really trying to look at. No matter what César said, he could not break through these universal truths of the profession. The more he responded to his teacher’s definitive statements, the more the teacher grew irritated that this student couldn’t accept his higher wisdom.