The Natashas
Page 13
2
All together the women repeat after the Head Natasha: “Bolina, bolina, bolina…”
“No, no, wait hold on,” the Head Natasha interrupts the girls mid-vowel. “You have to say it without saying it.”
All the Natashas look at each other to see if there is one among them who understands.
“Go ahead, girls, say it … but don’t say it …”
Each Natasha tries on her own to say it without saying it. They open their mouths. They twirl their tongues, this way, that way. They pull their cheeks, down, up. They scrunch their lips to their noses. Some lips smack. Some spit by accident. Some just make slurping noises.
“HEY, I think she’s got it!” One Natasha jumps up.
All the Natashas look at the girl near the wall. Her arms hang at her sides. There is a cigarette still burning in between her fingers. The smoke rises like a stream alongside her waist, and the tobacco chitters and burns up to her fingertips. Then this Natasha starts lifting her hand upwards, trailing the smoke up with it. Her eyes stare fiercely ahead, with her cheeks sucked in and her lips puckered in the shape of an X.
“Look, look, look, the smoke is white!” a Natasha yells.
“Like the sky in Moldova …” the lanky one blurts out, then covers her mouth.
“Like the bottle of milk, moloko …” the round-face Natasha admits.
Then there is a sort of draught, as if the room itself took a breath. Through the passage of air, a voice floats through, from years ago. Like the white rose, the white rose … The Natasha near the wall is still as a statue, with one arm in front of her head as if calling out to someone. That hand still holds the burning cigarette between its fingers. Suddenly, her fingers move, as if to wave. At this, the cigarette falls from her fingers and the white smoke is blown into her in a gust. Just as soon as the smoke passes through her body, there is no body at all.
The Natashas stare with big eyes, then a mild voice comes from the crowd.
“You think she’s gone sailing?”
XIX
Friday
1
When Béatrice woke up that morning, she looked over expecting to find Polina there. To her surprise, the space was empty. When she lifted the covers, she saw that she was naked and there neatly laid out alongside her was the black lace dress.
She looked to the window, expecting to find Polina standing there. But saw just the white morning light patterned with the bare branches, upon which that small, crooked-neck bird sat. It had stopped singing and was now holding its marble-eye steadily on Béatrice.
Béatrice stood up and was startled by her own body, which felt intensely present. She got up on her feet and felt her legs straighten and her back align and her shoulders descend. She walked around her room with these new sensations, gradually realising that they were hers. She went back to the window and opened it. A chill autumn air floated through. Where was Polina?
Béatrice put on a white bath-robe from her closet and wandered out of her room barefoot, down the sanded stairs, into the silent house. She walked past Emmanuelle’s room, her door was ajar. She looked in, no one. She opened the bathroom door, no one. She walked through the hallway and down the stairs. She looked around the living room, her parents’ room, the second bathroom, out into the garden. No one.
Emmanuelle must be at her hospital residency, her father at one of his carpet boutiques, her mother out shopping for this or that. She added up the absences and concluded the house was empty. She stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water and there she was.
“I didn’t want to wake you,” Polina said. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her beige coat buttoned all the way up and tied at the waist.
Béatrice’s hands flinched up and closed the white robe.
“Am I frightening you, Béatrice?”
“No,” Béatrice said blankly.
“What is it, then?”
Béatrice remained silent. She looked at Polina, trying to understand how this woman who seemed to belong to another side of the day was suddenly here again, in her worn, childhood home.
“Well, I won’t keep you,” Polina said to break the silence.
“From what?”
“From getting ready. It’s your big day.”
Béatrice remembered it was Friday. The day of her concert.
“It’s just a concert, it’s nothing.”
Polina smiled.
“Nothing’s nothing. My beautiful woman,” she said and got up. She opened the door, then turned back towards Béatrice. “À ce soir,” she said, then closed the door behind her.
Béatrice went upstairs to her room and turned on the keyboard. A breeze from the open window blew a strand of her blonde hair loose. It swept across her cheek, as thin as an ant’s antenna. She swept the strand back, then sat down on the piano seat and placed both hands on the keys. Her finger mindlessly pressed down on a note and a sound ran out like a mouse. She ran her finger a bit further down and pressed a B flat. A fatter mouse scrambled out.
She opened her mouth hesitantly, and waited for her voice to come. Her voice did come. But not in a song. One word.
“Polina.”
Then a feeling between dream and memory. Polina in the yard. Polina leading her by the hand. Polina kissing her breasts. Polina pushing deeply inside her. Polina, this morning, sitting so starkly at her kitchen table. No, you are not frightening me, Béatrice thought. She placed her fingertips on the keys and began to sing, as if into Polina’s ear.
2
Béatrice came downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass of water which she drank in one steady gulp. She got out a jar of honey and scooped out a teaspoonful. She placed the teaspoon on her tongue, and let the mould dissolve down her throat.
A hand tapped on the glass door that led out to the yard. She felt an excitement travel through her. Polina! She turned around, with the teaspoon still in her mouth and looked straight at the window. The sight made her cough and the teaspoon fell out and hit the floor. It was Jean-Luc. He was waving. Béatrice bent down and picked up the half-honey-covered teaspoon and went to the door. She turned the knob and stepped back, letting him in. He gave her a kiss on each cheek.
“Emmannuelle’s at the hospital.”
“Oh. Yes, I thought she might be …You ready for the concert tonight?”
“Not much to do. Just get up and sing.”
“Glad that it’s not too stressful. I can’t imagine having to stand up in front of all those people. But then again, I guess when you have something special, it’s nice to … share it … no?”
Béatrice smiled slightly. Then frowned slightly. Then straightened out her lips.
“You’re such a … closed-off person, Béatrice, you know? Never mind.”
They stood face to face. Béatrice turned and put the honey-coated spoon she was holding in the sink.
“So, you are going to wear that dress tonight? The new one?” Jean-Luc said.
Béatrice turned on the faucet, picked up the sponge and washed clean her spoon. When she turned around, Jean-Luc was in the same spot, staring straight at her.
“It looks great on you,” he added.
Béatrice felt her cheeks stiffen. She turned back to the sink.
“The dress.”
Béatrice turned the water off and stood with her wrists on the sink’s edge, hands hanging towards the drain. Jean-Luc took a step towards her. The fingers of her still wet hands curled in and her eyes closed. Béatrice wished he would just leave. He shouldn’t have been there. It was Polina who should be standing behind her now, not some man who had attached himself to her sister and hung around all these years, intruding upon her.
“You look … very … very … nice … in it,” Jean-Luc said to Béatrice’s back.
Her fingers gripped the sink tighter. “I know,” she said through her teeth.
Jean-Luc remained where he was and watched Béatrice like a screw turning slowly into wood.
“… Well, maybe I’m makin
g you uncomfortable. I just thought I’d stop by. Anyway, see you tonight then.”
Béatrice opened her eyes.
“Okay. Bye,” she said, without turning around.
“Bye, Miss Monroe …”
Jean-Luc closed the door behind him.
3
Béatrice snapped around and ran to the door, pulled it open, and stepped outside. Jean-Luc was just closing the gate from the yard on to the street.
“What did you say?” she yelled.
Jean-Luc turned his head, startled. In all the time he had known Béatrice he had never heard her raise her voice, let alone yell. Jean-Luc suddenly felt a bit stirred.
“What did you call me?” Béatrice repeated.
He put his forearm on the top of the gate, and leaned his hip in. He didn’t say anything because he didn’t need to. Life is delicious when you’ve made a beautiful woman yell for the first time.
Béatrice felt her heart speeding up. Her chest rose and fell, rose and fell.
“Don’t call me that,” Béatrice said.
4
When Jean-Luc was a boy he had an aunt who always showed up at their house with eyes that looked as if she had spent the whole day crying. She’d sit at the kitchen table and his mom would make her a coffee and bring her an ashtray. Normally smoking in the house wasn’t allowed. But when this aunt came around, the rules changed. She had wrinkled eyes (from all that crying), but otherwise a fit body for her age, with exquisite, full breasts. She must have been well aware of this feature, for she always wore blouses which displayed them proudly, and little Jean-Luc would look at them shyly.
This aunt could not shake the habit of giving herself wholly to men who degraded her, physically or emotionally (as Jean-Luc’s mother put it). The ritual was the same. She would come in with those gutter eyes and cradle her coffee and puff one cigarette after another as she recounted each story as if nothing of the sort had ever happened to her before. Then, something would turn, her eyes would dry up, and her lips would stiffen. This was what Jean-Luc perceived to be the revenge phase. Yet it was not quite revenge. It was merely the moment when, from the swampy tragedy of her circumstances, a gulp gave way to a hand, a bone-stiff hand reaching out of the mud. Her breath would quicken, and those beautiful breasts would start bouncing as she called the man in question by every name except his own. From that point, Jean-Luc learned a very valuable lesson: Angry women are so nice to look at.
And now, what luck he had, there was Béatrice, the woman who had never showed him much of any reaction at all, suddenly fuming in the doorway, making those breasts rise and fall and rise and fall. O, blessed be the words that pushed her over the edge!
5
“Call you what?” Jean-Luc said calmly. The sun had come out.
Béatrice’s chest tightened. Speak, damn it, speak, she said to herself, but nothing came. She closed her eyes.
“Are you okay, Béatrice?” Jean-Luc asked, unable to hide his smile. He was sure she was about to cry. Then he would be able to console her, maybe even give her a hug. Jean-Luc waited patiently, but when Béatrice’s eyes opened, they were completely dry.
“Miss Marilyn,” Béatrice pronounced. She realised she had never said this name out loud herself. It sounded so sharp just then, she touched her neck as if she had been cut.
“Hey, I didn’t mean it like …” Jean-Luc’s smile began to deflate.
“Like what …?” she asked.
“Like …” he searched awkwardly for the right words, “Like … the way … everyone else means it … Listen, I didn’t mean to upset you,” he continued, “I just wanted to stop by and … you know … say hi.”
“No,” Béatrice said directly. She thought of the silent, floating shoe.
“Okay, listen. I’ll let you go,” Jean-Luc said. Béatrice continued to glare.
“See ya tonight …” he added meekly and crossed the street before she could respond.
6
Buh-bye big boy … A voice mists over from a long highway between Dresden and Prague.
Next time bring one of your white roses … Another responds from a room with no windows.
At that very moment, somewhere years back, in Stuttgart, Germany, a ball of saliva lands on the inner thigh of a young girl whose hair is twisted into two thick chestnut braids. It slews down, leaving a moist trail on her pale, pre-teen skin, and drops on to the carpeted hallway. The owner of this saliva, a young man with a simple name, turns around and re-tucks his black, button-down shirt into faded black jeans.
XX
Telephone
1
By the time César was back in the city from his audition, the light was already making way for evening. He bought a can of beer from the corner store and put the cold aluminium shell to his swollen nose. The shape of the can and the shape of his nose did not make good partners. César dabbed the dewy can, horizontally, diagonally, base then edge, unable to find a suitable fit. He finally gave in to holding the can under the base of his nose, cradling its weight against the bones in his face.
As he walked, the can rolled slightly and pressed into the bruising. César stopped, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. No calls. He knew it was too soon for a call. But he could already hear Marcel’s voice: You really reeled it in there, they could not stop talking about you!
César stuffed the phone back into his pocket. As he crossed the street, a woman holding the hand of her son stopped to look at him. César couldn’t help but smile at them. The woman pulled her son to her hip.
2
When he got home he put the can of beer in the fridge. He looked at his face in the mirror. His under-eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. The sides of his nose were inflated, already yellowing with traces of violet. There was some dried blood on his nostrils and on the cleft above his lip. César’s mother had said that it was that small valley below the nose where God left his fingerprint on each child at birth. Now God’s fingertip had dried blood on it.
César couldn’t help but feel slightly proud of his look. It was the closest he would get to looking like Julio César Chavez the boxer. César wished his brothers could see him now. But he let go of that thought, because it didn’t matter in the end. The only person who needed to see him like this saw him. He was sure Manny would have called him handsome.
He thought of washing the dried blood off, but decided to leave it there. No hurry. He went to his computer and turned it on. He took out his cell phone and placed it near the keyboard. He pressed the light button, and the phone flashed to show him the time, but no calls. In all fairness, it really was too early to receive the call.
He went to the fridge and got out the can of beer, opened it, and took a swig. Why not celebrate? He went back to his desk and placed the can next to the cell phone. He checked the phone again, just in case he had left it on silent and a call came in between the moment he had set it down and the moment that he went to the fridge. The phone was fully charged, ready to ring, but showed, as before, no calls. He set it back down in its place and took a seat.
He logged into his e-mail account. As the inbox was loading, César’s eyes veered towards the phone. He resisted, keeping his fingers on the computer keyboard. The computer screen showed five new messages. The most recent, 70% off flights to Latin America. The next two, upcoming theatre events. The fourth, an e-mail from José inviting him to a show he was in. José was another friend he had made at acting school years back with whom he had kept in touch. José was from Guatemala, a dancer-actor, who was also dedicated to his art. He was always inviting César to a show he was in, always in a small theatre with a lonely name like the Theatre of Two Dreams.
César couldn’t quite call what he had with José a relationship, but they enjoyed each other’s company for a while, went home together every now and then, even held hands at parties when drunk enough. But those days were long gone. José was now with a French guy, a mouse-eyed writer-director who was always telling funny rehearsal stories.
Over the years César pulled away from the concept of “looking” altogether, and had resigned himself to being “married to his art”. This statement freed him from the thought of having to experience all those frightening and stressful feelings that came with trying to be intimate with someone. He turned his energy inward, into the world of characters within him, filled with such interesting, beautiful, savage men, he often wished he could walk into their lives and never come back to his own.
He glanced back at his computer at the last e-mail. The subject heading was: “Julio César, it’s me.” César inhaled to laugh then stopped because it shot a pain through his nose. Spam e-mails. They really take advantage; just when the excitement sparks that someone long forgotten has found you and somehow, yes, now they will confess something quite meaningful from your shared past—right then you find out that Dr Forhernbäch is concerned about your hair loss, or that a balloon-breasted teen just got a webcam and would love to take this opportunity to chat with you. Just as César was about to delete the e-mail, he noticed the sender address: gRaciasALAvIDa
Julio César, it’s me.
3
From: gRaciasALAvIDa
Subject: Julio César, it’s me
Julio César, it’s me. The one who, from a distance, in my window, watched you and loved you.
I was young then, I was a virgin. So was my love.
Most people think I’m unlucky. (The things that happened to me.) LUCK is a dull thing. Like dice. It lands with a dumb grin, no matter the side. Should I have made a parade of my voice?
Should I have sung for my parents, for my husband, for you?
Should I have sung for the TV, for the radio, for the people of Mexico?
In life, I did not achieve a thing.
But, Julio César, there was a moment, in our youth, when I looked at you and my eyes reflected and came back to me as light. My whole being was illuminated. That was when my love became sharp.