The Natashas

by Yelena Moskovich

  “Alrighty, César, you ready?” the director shouted.

  “…Yep,” César replied quickly.

  “Gérard …?” the director said to the actor playing the detective as he was finishing his mouth exercises.

  “BA BA BA ZA ZA ZA …” the actor inhaled deeply and his shoulders rose. Then he exhaled and his shoulders lowered and opened. “Brrrrrrrr rrrrrrr rrrrrrrr” he did his last tongue rolls.

  “Prêt,” the actor pronounced in a solid, clear voice.

  The director rubbed his hands together then claps twice.

  The man behind the camera shouted, “Rolling” and the assistant clacked the scene-marker in front of César’s face.

  Just as César’s nerves begin to rise, he feels a warm pressure on his back press gently in. Te quiero, César.

  4

  The actor playing the detective turns around. He is holding a beige file in his hand. He takes a step towards César. César’s shoulders are hunched forward, his hands locked to the back of the metal chair. Bitch. Honda. Hormiga.

  “We all have big ideas,” the actor says in an even, controlled tone.

  He leans down towards César’s lowered head. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr Rodriguez?”

  César can feel the metal rings of the cuffs pinching his wrists again. He tries to move his shoulder blades to adjust the position, but no matter which way he twists, they press into his bone.

  “Now, now, Mr Rodriguez. No need to dumb yourself down. You’re a smart man …”

  Bitch. Honda. Hormiga. Bitch. Honda. Hormiga. César is trying to focus despite the pain coursing up his forearms.

  “As a smart man, I know you’ve had a big idea at least once in your life. And what did you do when you had this big idea, well, you wrote that idea down. You wrote it down because you were sure it was an extraordinary, even brilliant idea. But, sometimes – and this happens to the best of us – when we go back and read our brilliant ideas later, we see that some of those ideas are in fact a little stupid. This can be very humiliating. What is one to do in these cases, Mr Rodriguez?”

  César blinks again to diffuse the pain.

  “Well. We take that idea and we crumble it up and we throw it away, don’t we? We have to get rid of this stupid idea to make way for a brilliant one. This is called having superior awareness and self-discipline. I highly commend anyone who can throw away a stupid idea.”

  César’s eyes are starting to water. Relax, César. Your line’s coming up. Come on, you can handle a little pain … !

  “… It’s the same way with people. Wouldn’t you agree? Some people, we think, are extraordinary, brilliant! But then we look again, and with an admirable self-discipline, we see the truth. That they aren’t worth a thing. And so, we crumble these people up and we throw them away. Isn’t that what you’re going about doing, Mr Rodriguez? Getting rid of the world’s stupidity? Making room for brilliance.”

  The detective opens the beige file he has been holding and pulls out a photo. He throws the photo on to the blank metal table, it lands like a flimsy slap. It’s the body of a young woman, her face turned to the side, her mouth open. On her throat smudges in violet, midnight blue, and gas-yellow. A landscape of toxic waste. Her skin is the colour of diluted olive oil. Around her smooth, lifeless ear are strands of hair. The strands are thin, but long, and stick to her collarbone. Some even reach her ashen breasts.

  César looks at the photo, then back up at the actor in the detective’s uniform.

  “Look familiar?” the actor playing the detective says. He throws down another photo. It lands on the edge of the first, diagonally. It’s closer, more intimate, the woman’s face turned to the left. Her cheekbone protrudes, and a hollowness falls sharply to her jaw. The bones beneath her eyes are wide and the sockets are deeply set. The sides of her lips are whitish blue.

  “Take a good look,” the detective says.

  He walks around behind César and places a hand on his shoulder.

  César is looking deeply into each photo. The pain around his wrists is fading away.

  “Well,” the actor says.

  He pauses then throws down another photo. Kodak. The woman is in the street, wearing a short puffy jacket. It is zipped up, but ends at her waist. Her hair is parted in the middle, and hangs apathetically down either side of her face. Same face, those sharp cheekbones, and sunken eyes. Even with the make-up, she looks quite tired. Or else just Slavic.

  “Like I said, Mr Rodriguez, I commend you for seeing something for what it was really worth and crumbling it up and throwing it away. Now how about you tell me her name …”

  César bends his torso forward, peering closer at the Kodak photo. It can’t be.

  “Wait, how … did you get this?” He whispers to the actor playing the detective. The actor raises his eyebrows and repeats his line.

  “… her name …”

  “I … I know her …” César whispers a little more pronounced.

  The actor playing the detective glances at the director, then back at César.

  “…yes …you do know her.”

  “She was going to my school … then um … her grandfather died … he was Jewish so—”

  The actor playing the detective coughs to cut César off, then raises his eyebrows at César. César squirms his back towards the director and whispers. “… She wasn’t … garbage … she was going to be … important … she wasn’t garbage—”

  The actor playing the detective clears his throat.

  “Wait.” César stops. His eyes grow wide. “Oh!” He begins to whisper again, “Is she in the show …? She’s in the show, right? I knew she would—”

  The assistant sighs loudly, then mouths, “YOUR LINE …”

  Bitch. Honda. Hormiga. César, get a hold on yourself, for fuck’s sake!

  “Oh. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” César mumbles and lowers his eyes.

  The actor takes a step in, opens his chest and picks up the script.

  “You want to tell me her name, Mr Rodriguez …”

  Marta? Marilena? Mariya?

  Olya? Masha? Irina?

  BITCH. HONDA. HORMIGA!

  César raises his head and looks directly at the actor playing the detective. When their eyes meet, they hinge together. The two men stare at each other in silence, pushing deeper and deeper into each other’s sockets. Suddenly, it is not two actors in the room any more, it is a highly specialised detective and a Latino criminal. César tightens his jaw and pulls his chin towards the detective.

  “Don’t know diz bitch,” Manny says.

  5

  The detective laughs with his mouth closed like he’s trying to unplug his nostrils. When he’s done, he cranes over to Manny’s ear.

  “You see, I think you wish she was just some bitch, to borrow your wording, Mr Rodriguez, that’s not the type of language I would use, but I’m quoting you, of course … I think you wish this bitch’s face didn’t ring a bell … but the thing is, Mr Rodriguez, it does, doesn’t it? This face right here, I bet it’s ringing loud and clear…. ring … ring … ring …Well, aren’t you going to answer it?”

  Manny lifts his eyes to the detective. The detective frowns at the sight of him, like butter melting in the microwave. He starts pacing around the table, then stops at the wall of the audition room and lifts his chin, perhaps in an effort to look like Socrates. Indeed, with a Socratic air, he gazes into the wall as if contemplating the vastness of a sky held back by prison bars. (Very nice, the director notes.)

  Manny snorts and the detective’s contemplation on a man’s freedom is interrupted. He turns around, keeping his head elevated.

  “Anyway, Mr Rodriguez, it’s too late. Too late for what, you might be asking. Too late for you, Mr Rodriguez. To put it briefly. To answer your question. So why don’t you give me her name, and we can both stop playing dumb—so to speak. Of course, I’m sure you are a very bright young man … Do you understand what I’m telling you? Do you need a translator, Mr Rodriguez?”


  Manny flares his nostrils.

  “Nah, man I’m multi-lingual — just ask yer sisterz pussy HA HA.”

  The detective frowns. He goes back to the table and slides an open beige folder towards Manny. Inside, there are several documents. The detective slides them apart with his fingers.

  “Take a good look …”

  Manny lowers his eyes to the documents. The one on top is a form with a photograph stapled in the right-hand corner. The photo is of the same woman, except her eyes are open and darted forward as if trying to memorise a long number. There are words huddled together in some areas, then open spaces with clues printed in italics like whispers, address, date of birth, social security number …

  “Can you read that name out loud for me?”

  Manny cocks his head to the side.

  “Are you literate, Mr Rodriguez? I mean, can you read? Vous pourriez me lire ce qui est écrit là-dessous? Mr Rodriguez. ¿Puedes leer?”

  “Ya, I can LEER, hombre. Peez-a-shit like me can even LEER LA BIBLE, Put my derty tongue all ova God’s werds mmmm. Ain’t dat FUNNY? Why you ain’t laffin, bitch?”

  Detective drops his chin. “It’s about time you show a little respect, Mr Rodriguez. You’re speaking to an officer of the law …”

  “Yo, hombre, no problem, I gotchya. Officer … BITCH! HA HA!”

  The detective’s face remains unmoved.

  “Wazamadder, you ain’t got no senzo humour, DEE-TEK-TIV?”

  “No, I suppose I don’t, personally, but I’ve always appreciated a good sense of humour in others.”

  “Like yer mama?”

  “Yes, my mother also appreciated a sense of humour, God rest her soul, of course.”

  “Dat why she had you?”

  “Excuse me …”

  “’Cause you so busted, I mean dat why she had you, so she could laff all day long lookin at yer busted face.”

  The detective approaches Manny. Their eyes meet, and they smile at each other. The detective chuckles. Manny gets ready to laugh his lungs dry. The detective’s hand reaches around the back of his neck and slams Manny’s face into the table. The chair Manny’s cuffed to tilts forward, then thumps back down. Manny’s cuffed hands flinch from the shock, then ball up into fists. He shakes his fists in the confines of the metal circles, bruising a ring around his wrists. Blood from his nose stains the documents of the nameless woman.

  6

  César’s nose throbbed. He turned back around him to the camera on its tripod, behind which the cameraman looked at César annoyed. As a boy, this cameraman had looked through the lens of a coin-operated telescope for the first time while visiting a state park in California. He saw, as close as his own nose, a cliff-side full of crying sea lions. Now, he sees the same crying sea lions piled upon a rocky isle. He calls them actors.

  César glanced past the cameraman over to the assistant. She was holding the script at her side and staring at him with the same eyes his mother had when she thought he would say the word “homosexual” out loud. César could see behind her, like an echo of her mood, the other crew people, all looking on with lukewarm interest. Everyone except the director, that is. The director had a wide grin on his face, showing off his two twisted front teeth.

  The director began to nod enthusiastically, then he lifted his hand and added a quick-spinning wrist. The zest made César flinch.

  “GOOD. GOOD. KEEP GOING,” the director mouthed.

  César licked a droplet of blood off his top lip. Iron and lemon rind gathered on his tongue.

  “But … I’m bleeding,” César whispered.

  Yer doin good … a gritty voice said. Keep goin, César. Yer da only one I have in diz world.

  7

  “Ring … ring … ring …” the detective yells into Manny’s face.

  The detective flaps the folder against Manny’s nose.

  “Ring … ring … ring … ! It’s for you, Mr Rodriguez. Aren’t you going to pick it up …?”

  Manny twists his face away from the slapping folder.

  “What’s the matter, Mr Rodriguez, cat’s got your tongue?”

  “Cat ate my tung,” Manny grits.

  “I suppose there it is again, your fine sense of humour. I do appreciate it, except the problem I have here, Mr Rodriguez, is that you seem to be looking for trouble. Am I correct? Are you looking for trouble, Mr Rodriguez?”

  “Nah man, I’m cool.”

  “It doesn’t appear that way … On the contrary, it appears that you are looking for trouble. Didn’t your mother teach you …? As they say in your culture: No andes buscándole los tres pies al gato, Don’t go around looking for the three-legged cat. Remember your culture, Mr Rodriguez? The language you spoke to ask for a drop of milk. Didn’t your mother tell you then not to go looking for the three-legged cat?”

  “I was lookin for da GATO who ate mi lengua.”

  “Oh Mr Rodriguez, it’s time you take responsibility for yourself. Don’t you think your mother would be ashamed to hear you blaming cats for what you, yourself, have done …”

  “Shutdafukkup ’bout my ma.”

  “Okay, okay, easy. I think I understand.”

  “You dunno shit.”

  “Hear me out, I think I do. I see how it is … Maybe as a kid you weren’t given what every kid deserves to get. And that’s not fair. You reached out for your mother’s breast, and it wasn’t there. Why did some kids get a breast full of warm milk, and you, just cold air?”

  “Why you talkin ’bout my ma’s titty?”

  “I’m talking about more than your ma’s titty so to speak—again that’s not language I would personally use, but—circumstances permit. I’m speaking of love. You know what love is, Mr Rodriguez?”

  “Sure do, hombre. Love is when da chica don ask fer money at da end, HA HA.”

  “You see, it’s perfectly natural that you provide me with such an answer. It only goes to further prove the point I am trying to make. So let me be the first, and I am sure that I am indeed the first to tell you this. I’m sorry, Mr Rodriguez. I am sincerely very, very sorry that you never got your mother’s breast when you reached for it. You were only a baby, with a little, dry throat.”

  “Fuck, man, you talkin extra-nada-bullshit now.”

  “Every baby mouth deserves their mother’s teat. It’s only natural. But you pursed up your baby-lips and got nothing at all. It was not your fault, Mr Rodriguez. You needed your mother’s breast and you didn’t get it. So you continued grabbing. Pure instinct. Any animal would have done the same. Your mouth and your hands were only part of nature, weren’t they? That’s why you kept on grabbing. Because you were still that baby thirsty for your mother’s milk. And to me, that is a very sad image. I tell you, when I think of it, I am almost moved to tears.”

  “Whachou talkin about deetektiv, I got my ma’s titty.”

  “You mean you were breastfed, Mr Rodriguez?”

  “Sure waz, and ma wazent shy neither. She gave it away to a buncho oder babies fore me. I got broders and sisters even uglier dan me, HA HA.”

  “I see. Well.”

  Just as Manny tries to add a smart word, the detective grabs his chin and squeezes his jaw open. Manny jerks his hands but they are handcuffed to the back of the chair he’s sitting on.

  “Le-g-ovme” Manny jumbles between the detective’s hand.

  “Now, listen to me, Mr Rodriguez. I know this must hurt, my thumb, pressing in the hinge of your jaw like this. I have to resort to these semi-barbaric ways, because there is quite simply no other manner with which to make you understand. You took milk from a good woman and made it bad. Do you understand the repercussions of such an act? There are babies who deserved to have that milk. These babies could have grown up to win the Nobel Prize … You’ve done something unforgivable, Mr Rodriguez. You’ve spoiled good milk. So now, we are going to leave the gato and your jokes out of it, and you are going to pay your dues, Mr Rodriguez, you are going to say her name.”

 
Manny’s face is turning red. The veins in his neck pulse and he releases a muffled whimper.

  “You’re going to say her name now, Mr Rodriguez, because you were the one who took this name away from this world.”

  The detective squeezes the points of his cheeks in so they splurge into Manny’s teeth.

  Ah’wa—“Yes Good”—aaaa—tishhh—“Good very good”—Aaawaawawa- A A A – AAAAAAA – Achachach- ASH! “That’aboy”—ashashashnash—“Yes?”—Shashashasha—“Yes?”—Tatatatata—“Yes yes yes?”—NnnnnnnnnATaaaaSHa, NNTTAshhhhhhA—

  “NATASHA IS HER NAME!” César is screaming.

  The detective purrs in the back of his throat.

  8

  “Shhh, César …”

  César stopped screaming. He looked blankly at the actor playing the detective.

  “You … mean … Manny,” César whispers to the actor playing the detective.

  The detective reached out to César, touching his shoulder, smoothing his hand down to César’s bicep, then down to his twisted forearm. His voice was as soft as a boiled fish as he whispered to César, “Marcel was right about you.”

  “He was?”

  “Yes … you’re perfect for this.”

  9

  In a room with no windows, the young woman stands with one hand on the wall, her fingers delicately touching the concrete. The cheap satin nightie she is wearing is rolled down to her hips, leaving her chest bare. Her breasts are small and firm, as if holding resentment. Her skin is a faded tea colour. She is looking at the concrete wall as if looking through a window. Her eyes glide slowly back and forth across one sharp crack within the cement.

  Behind her, a woman stands holding a purple plastic hairbrush. The woman is brushing her hair and singing. “¿Qué he sacado con la luna ay yai aye…”