The Natashas

by Yelena Moskovich

  The young woman’s satin nightie shifts on her hipbones as she breathes. Her eyes continue to glide across the crack in the parched wall. Through the crack, she is watching a young man. He is sitting down, his hands cuffed behind him to the chair. His head is hung over his shoulders. A drop of blood falls from his nose. It rolls down her cheek like a tear. The woman behind her keeps brushing her hair and singing. “¿Qué he sacado con la luna ay yai aye.” What have I gotten from the moon, aye aye aye.

  “¿Qué he sacado con el lirio ay yai aye.” What have I gotten from the lily, aye aye aye.

  “¿Qué he sacado con la sombra ay yai aye.” What have I gotten from the shadow aye aye aye

  “ay yai aye

  ay yai aye”

  XVII

  Let’s go for a walk

  1

  Béatrice stood at her bedroom window. She looked back across the dark room at her sister, fast asleep, hair streaming across the pillow. She turned back to the window. “Hello?” she said without thinking.

  Something was in her hand. She brought it up to the moonlight and saw that she was holding a cell phone.

  She listened. The static was the sound of pencil lead.

  2

  “It’s Polina,” said a voice through the static. Béatrice felt the velvet and coal tones graze over her neck. She leaned her head to the side, examining the sensation.

  “The dress looks very nice on you, Béatrice.” Polina said.

  Béatrice looked down. She was wearing the black lace dress over her naked body. When did she put it on? Had she worn it to bed?

  Béatrice looked through the window, at the yard below. Outside, the trees jabbed into the air in various directions. The ground was full of shadows.

  “Do you see me, Béatrice?” Polina asked.

  She scanned the shadows for Polina. She saw the darkened flowerbed. The pebble path. The rust-dry earth.

  “No. Where are you?”

  The receiver filled with static again. She pulled the phone away from her ear and lowered it to her side.

  “Polina?” she said into the window. Her breath fogged the glass. “Polina?”

  “Béatrice.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come down, Béatrice. Let’s go for a walk.”

  3

  In the garden, shadows overlapped on the ground like misshapen fingers covering eyes. Béatrice stood between two shadows, in a crevice of light. The moon made her white skin glow beneath the black scales of the dress.

  It was already October and the air was full of moisture. It made Béatrice’s skin feel like clay.

  Béatrice turned her head, peering carefully through the dark for Polina, but everything was as quiet as a pencil drawing.

  She was not sure how long she had been standing there, waiting for Polina to come. A wind blew through the garden and Béatrice crossed her arms beneath her breasts and squeezed in, warming herself. Her breasts rose beneath her forearms as bath water rises when a foot steps in.

  A foot stepped in. Polina’s.

  Polina’s hair was spread over her shoulders and looked almost as dark as her eyebrows now against the beige trench coat. Her lips had a joke playing across them.

  “Well, do you see me now?” Polina said.

  4

  “Touch me. Make sure I’m real,” Polina said.

  Béatrice took a step forward. She extended her hand and grazed her fingertips down the stiff fabric of Polina’s coat.

  “That’s my coat. It’s real. Now make sure I’m real.”

  Béatrice extended her hand again and let it hover in the air.

  Only Polina’s face and neck were uncovered. Even her hands were in her pockets. Polina leaned her head back, stretching her neck towards Béatrice like a bow. Hesitantly, as if asking for permission, Béatrice ran her finger down Polina’s throat.

  “I think you are real,” Béatrice said.

  In the darkness, the two women looked at each other.

  “I hope you’re right, Béatrice …”

  5

  Béatrice followed Polina to the end of the garden. When Polina opened the gate, Béatrice stopped, suddenly self-conscious. She looked down at her own body, her bare skin tightened under the lace.

  “I can’t go out into the street, I’m … naked.”

  Polina reached out and took Béatrice’s hand. Béatrice felt herself surrender and be carried away. She had never given a part of her body like this to someone.

  The streets were empty. No one walking. No one opening a door. No one lighting a cigarette. All the windows had thinly stretched eyelids. Even the parked cars seemed to have their eyes closed.

  Here, outside the city, the suburban sky spread more generously and sagged against the rooftops as if it were longing for news.

  It was no use asking where they were going. The answer didn’t matter. What mattered now was suddenly so simple. It felt good to have her hand held by someone. Her whole body could relax and trail as if it were the end of a scarf, held upon Polina’s neck and the wind.

  She felt her eyelids close, loose and warm, until she was walking in darkness.

  Polina’s hand shifted and swayed as they walked. Gently, solemnly, like a small boat upon the sea. It held her afloat. It floated her forward.

  “Bolina …” Polina hummed.

  “Bolina, Bolina …” Béatrice hummed.

  The two women walked, one leading the other.

  “Have you ever been sailing, Béatrice …?”

  6

  When Béatrice opened her eyes, she was no longer walking, but lying down. Her white blanket covered her body and her head was set neatly upon her pillow. She was in her bed, in her room, in that old storage space at the top of the house. She looked up at the darkness above her and followed the foggy light towards the window. There was a shift in the room.

  Béatrice remembered that evening, her sister’s small voice and frightened eyes, she remembered singing and Emmanuelle’s silky, warm head resting on her neck.

  She rolled her head on the pillow to the other side of the bed and saw that the blanket had been pulled up at the corner, revealing empty, rippled sheets. Emmanuelle had gone.

  She looked back across the room, her focus softening in the dimness. There was Polina, standing framed by the window.

  7

  Béatrice tried to sit up to see better, but felt something constrict her. She pulled back her blanket, and saw that she was still wearing her long, stiff black lace dress. From the window, Polina turned to face Béatrice.

  “Do you want me to help you …?” Polina said.

  Béatrice looked in her direction, but could only see the outline of her body.

  “Help me …?” Béatrice asked.

  “Help you get out.”

  Even in the darkness, Béatrice could feel Polina’s sliding smile. When she came up to the bed, Béatrice could now make out the beige colour of her coat. But when she looked up at Polina’s face, she could only see contours in the dimness.

  8

  “Here,” Polina said. “Turn on to your stomach.”

  Béatrice slid herself on to her stomach, and turned into the white sheets. She lifted herself on to her forearms and her shoulder blades jutted out, against the lace fabric.

  “Relax,” Polina said and gently moved Béatrice back down, flat upon the bed.

  Polina’s hand moved towards Béatrice’s neck. Her fingertips touched the collar of the dress where the zipper was and began to pull it down. Béatrice could feel the ridges separate from each other. Little by little, the dress spread open and curved out.

  Polina put her hand flat on Béatrice’s bare spine. Béatrice closed her eyes and absorbed the feeling of her hand. She inhaled and the air filled her lungs so that her back rose into Polina’s hand, into the highways tracing her palm.

  Polina lifted her hand and took an open edge of the dress with her fingertips. She peeled the dress off one shoulder. Then the other.

  Béatrice turned
over to face her and sat up. The dress sloped down at her collarbone, half-undone, and clung to the tops of Béatrice’s breasts.

  “May I see them now?” Polina said.

  9

  Béatrice rolled the dress down to her waist. Her breasts were glowing white like the sheets, blankets, and pillows on the bed. She lay back down on to the pillow, and turned her head to the side, half-timid, half-alluring, so that only one eye was looking up at Polina.

  “Do you like them?” Béatrice asked.

  Polina reached out and traced their curves. She slid her fingertips down, in a soft rhythm over their petal-like skin.

  “You are real as well, Béatrice,” Polina said.

  10

  Polina reached down to touch Béatrice’s face. She stroked her ear, then brought Béatrice’s face forward.

  Face to face, Polina kissed Béatrice.

  11

  “I want to see your body,” Béatrice said.

  Polina looked up.

  “Will you show me?”

  Polina stood up from the bed. She stepped back into the darkness. Béatrice heard the stiff cotton fabric moving, then she felt the coat fall to the floor.

  12

  Polina stood naked at the side of the bed. Her arms were loose at her sides. Béatrice sat up and moved closer to see. She observed the dark clouds upon Polina’s skin. She grazed her fingers over Polina’s stomach, then the curve of her breast, then down her waist, then her hip bone. Polina turned around, and Béatrice continued. Her back. Her tail bone. The curve of her butt cheek. The plane of her thigh. Polina turned back around.

  13

  The skin everywhere on Polina’s body was bruised. Across her pubic bone, like a constellation, were tiny wounds, inflicted and re-inflicted, closed over, reopened and closed over again, the skin toughened into small scars. Béatrice’s hand dropped into the darkness.

  Polina drew back a piece of her hair behind her ear with her fingers. For the first time, Béatrice could see what she may have looked like as a little girl; quiet, careful, and all-knowing.

  “Nothing hurts,” Polina said.

  Béatrice reached up and pulled Polina towards her. Their faces pushed into a depth their kisses chased after.

  14

  Polina’s cheek came down on to one of Béatrice’s bare breasts. She licked the nipple there slowly in a circle. Béatrice felt her pelvic muscles pull through her, all the way down, as if trying to pull the tip of Polina’s tongue there.

  Béatrice took her hand and guided it between her legs, then took her own hand and smoothed it up Polina’s thigh and slid inside. Polina tightened around Béatrice’s fingers and pushed her own deep inside Béatrice.

  Out of the darkness, Béatrice and Polina inhaled so deeply that they thought the whole room would be sucked in and crumbled between their mouths. All their muscles clenched into their roots.

  They grabbed each other’s backs with their fingers and palms and nails and held on as tightly as they could.

  15

  It was almost dawn, but the two women lay in bed together, quietly giggling. Béatrice ran her fingers over the scars on Polina’s pelvis and whispered, “Nothing hurts.” Then Polina smiled and whispered back, “Nothing hurts.”

  Nothing hurts.

  Nothing hurts.

  Not waiting or wishing

  Not touching or kissing

  Not asking or needing,

  Not breathing or pleading.

  Not thinking or speaking,

  Not ageing, or receding!

  Nothing hurts!

  Nothing hurts!

  “Nothing hurts!”

  The two women chanted joyfully together until the sun began to rise and a small black bird on the branch outside opened its short beak and began to sing the first note of morning.

  At the sound of the bird, the two women’s voices turned into a murmur.

  “Except for—

  Re … mem … ber … ing. Re … member … ing. Remembering.”

  Their eyes closed and they fell into a peaceful sleep.

  XVIII

  Bolina, Bolina

  1

  The Head Natasha puts the heavy chain with the keys on it back into her pocket. She steps into the centre of the room. All the Natashas have been waiting for her.

  “Okay, girls—who here has ever been sailing?” The Head Natasha announces.

  All the Natashas rub their tongues back and forth in their mouths as they think.

  “Me!” the lanky Natasha exclaims, “… I think …”

  “You’re not sure?” the Head Natasha asks.

  “Well, I mean I couldn’t really tell ’cause I was sorta laying down in that space you know … below the floorboards.”

  “O yeah, I know that space …” the red-nailed Natasha nods, “but my boat was like a fancy boat.”

  The Natasha with milk-crust on her lips butts in. “No way, no how honey, keep dreamin. No one puts something dirty on a clean floor, know what I mean.”

  “She’s gotta point …” Natasha says, holding her journal.

  “Wait, I believe her, it’s SCIENCE. Sounds sound differently according to the space they’re in. That’s what EINSTEIN said,” says another Natasha in a British accent.

  “Einstein did not say that …”

  “Einstein was a Jew!” the lanky Natasha squeaks, “… like me!”

  “… It’s in the books, like Sputnik, anyways that’s how Vasya got into space and howled at the moon like it was a she-dog …”

  “You’re a she-dog,” the sleepy Natasha drones.

  “Least I was brought in on a fancy boat, you’re just jealous cause they had to wrap you in a carpet and stuff you like a roll in the back of a truck for nine hours. Then, you were so dumb, you cried and cried ’cause you thought you’d never be able to walk again all ’cause you couldn’t feel your legs! But after a couple days, the feeling in those legs came back. See, this is what I mean, you don’t even know how the musculatory system works!”

  Natasha daggers her finger forward and announces, “Well, you’re so stupid, they told you you’d go pick oranges in su-sunny Turkey for a thousand dollars a month, and now you’re su-stuck in this pit and you got people pickin YOUR oranges and it’s basically FREE, good thing too ’cause they’re r-r-r-ROTTEN!”

  Natasha’s pupils dilate.

  “Oh! Well! They promised you’d dance at rich-people-tables, but after they saw your Baba-Yaga-body, they decided you’re better face-down lik’an old rug!”

  “Talk ’bout old rugs! You’re so worn out, they make you lie down, then get a fresh girl on top, so she won’t get dirty.”

  “Yeah, well you’re so dirty, they had to leave you in the river to soak, permanently!”

  “Oh shut-it, you’re the one with bleeding gums.”

  “Yeah, that’s gross.”

  “Least I’m not vulgar.”

  “OH—you’re so vulgar, they had to tie your legs together so you’d quit airing it out!”

  “And you-you-you’re so ugly, they were throwing a fist or two at your face, hoping to fix it up!”

  “You’re so ugly, they had to move on to your sister!”

  “… Then they realised it runs in the family!!”

  “HA HA HA.”

  “And that’s why they had to zap your babies, the world can’t handle any more of that face.”

  “Zap zap zap!”

  “Look who’s talking, they scraped you clean like a melon, and now you don’t even get your periods!”

  “What’s so good about periods? Don’t get time off for ’em anyways. They’re just a pain in the uterus!”

  “You’re so stupid you don’t even hear yourself. If you don’t get your periods, that means you’re not a LADY any more!”

  “Yeah, least I’m still a LAY-DEE …”

  “Me too!”

  “You—You’re just …”

  “… an old rug!”

  “Stinky laundry!”

 
“A mushy orange!”

  “Girls girls!” the Head Natasha raises her hands in the air, then brings them to her temples. “You’re giving me a headache.”

  All the Natashas sink their eyes down to the floor.

  “Okay, okay, don’t pout. Now. It’s obvious none of you have ever been sailing because in order to go sailing you need a rich boyfriend. Bowl of fresh grapes on the deck. Designer bikini. No bruises on your body. No ingrown hairs. No scratched-off scabs. Get what I mean, ladies?”

  “Yeah, oh yeah, that sounds really nice.”

  “Anyway, you don’t know this ’cause none of you have been sailing before, but when you are sailing, you need to pay special attention to the wind. I know because I’ve been sailing.”

  “You have, you really have?”

  “Yes I have.”

  “Oh, tell us, please tell us what it was like!” “Did you have a rich boyfriend?”

  “Yes I did.”

  “And did he have chest hair?”

  “Lots.”

  “And a gold chain?”

  “Two! One with a cross and one without.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Yeah, was it Pasha, the one who collects our cash?”

  “Or Igor, the one who keeps an eye on us from his car?”

  “Or Vadim, the one who settles things with the police?”

  “Or Kyrill, the one who smacks us around when we make a fuss?”

  “No, no, we’re getting off subject. Pay attention, what I’m telling you here is important. The wind is everything when you sail. Stronger than all the cash in your boyfriend’s pocket. And the hair on your boyfriend’s chest. And the gun in your boyfriend’s waistband. Get what I mean, ladies?”

  “Yeah, oh yeah, the wind sounds really nice!”

  “It is. And if you pay attention, you’ll know when you need it. And when you need it, you’ll know to call it. Otherwise you might get stuck in a real shit-hole situation.”

  “Oh, we know all about shit-hole situations.”

  “Yes, I’ve no doubt you do. Because you don’t know a thing about sailing.”

  “So … how do you call for the wind?”