“But no one has ever done such a thing.”
“Well, then I’ll be the first.”
She frowns. “What about the money your parents have taken from the program?”
“I’ll pay it all back, over time. I intend to go to Moscow and work there.”
She scratches her head in bewilderment. “What will you do there?”
“I don’t know. Anything. I could be a waitress or I could work in a kitchen. I don’t care.”
“Oh, Katya. Won’t you think again? Moscow is such a dangerous place and you don’t even know anyone there.”
“My mind is made up. There’s something wrong with the program, Irina. Even before Mrs. Komarov told me about the girls disappearing, I didn’t feel good.” I press my belly. “Here.”
“How do you plan to lose your virginity then? Nobody in the village is going to sleep with you. They all know it’s your D-day in four day’s time.”
“I’m not going to sleep with anyone from this village.”
This time, Irina’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “What do you mean?”
“You know how your brother goes to Vatskoe every Friday night to have a drink …”
“Yeah,” she gasps in a hushed tone.
“I’ll tell my parents I want to spend my second last night in Sutgot with you. I come here and hide in the back of his truck. Once we get to Vatskoe, I’ll go to that tavern where all the truck drivers gather. I’ll sleep with one of them and as soon as the act is over, I will hop back onto the back of the truck and wait for your brother. When we get back here, I’ll wait for him to go into the house before I slip into your bedroom.”
She gapes at me incredulously. “Are you crazy? Do you realize it’s an hour’s drive just to get there? You will freeze to death in that open truck.”
“No, I won’t. I’ll bring my bear skin and hot water bottle.”
She shakes her head in confusion. “But those men in the tavern. They’re uncouth and dirty.”
I feel a shiver go through me. Do I really want to do this? “It is just the one time. I will wash when I come back to your house.”
“But what if you get pregnant?”
“That’s what I’ll need you for. Can you steal a condom from one of your brother’s packets?”
“Me,” she squeals. “Steal one of Yuri’s condoms? Are you crazy?”
“Oh please, Irina. He’ll never know. And even if he does realize one is missing and asks you, all you have to do is pretend it wasn’t you. He’ll think he made a mistake or dropped it. Please, Irina. This is really important.”
“All right,” she agrees reluctantly.
I lean forward and kiss her. “Thank you. Thank you so much! I won’t forget this.”
“I’m not happy about this. I think you’re making a mistake.”
“I know you do, but I’m doing this not just for myself but for Tatyana too.”
“You do know your way around Vatskoe, don’t you?”
“Like the back of my hand,” I lie. I’ve been there once with Papa and his friend. I sat in the car while he and his friend went to get some specialty vodka for his daughter’s engagement party.
Hunter
Anakin was true to his word and I fly to Amsterdam first class. It makes me realize I’m not walking into a trap. He would never flush money down the train for a walking corpse. The attendants try to feed me every fifteen minutes and set down a new drink every ten. They’re pretty too, and they smile as if they’re interested in me. They aren’t. And I’m okay with that. I know what I look like. I’m a big, ugly motherfucker with an angry scar down my face and dead eyes, but they’re just trying to get through the time without making me unhappy.
In Amsterdam, I change planes and airlines.
While the first flight was all smiles and good reviews, the second flight is cold war all over again. The smiles are perfunctory; the booze is watered down; the food is left over from a prison riot or something. But I’m not complaining. I’m worrying about the package.
In Moscow, I exit customs after they have done their worst with my bag to find the Sherpa waiting. Sherpas come in various flavors and this one is old, way old, older than anyone in Anakin’s organization. His dour face is lined and leathery as if he has lived on a mountain all his life.
He speaks English far better than I speak Russian, but he is a man of few words apparently. We head to the train station. Apparently, spending a night in Moscow isn’t included in the itinerary. I look at the Sherpa as he makes his way to the platform and wonder if he’s packing heat. I would feel better if he did, because I certainly don’t want to carry a pistol in a foreign country. That’s a recipe for prison. Russian prisons aren’t known for their hospitality.
We board the train and find our first-class cabin. As first-class goes, it is about third class, but it is private and it is bug-free. Not that I’m one of those guys that hates bugs. When I was a kid, cockroaches were my bedmates. I hated them until I loved them. I used to share my food with them.
But that was a very, very long time ago.
As the train leaves the station, I catch glimpses of Moscow. A thought comes into my head. One day I will be back here. Like a tourist. Like a normal person. The thought surprises me. I never make plans for the future. The future is a black hole. I glance back at the Sherpa.
He is staring blankly out of the opposite window.
I turn away and do the same.
Train rides are inherently boring. No matter what you do, it’s always more of the same. Some towns, some cities, lots of open country. The train isn’t exactly a high-speed miracle. It goes faster at times and slower at times and then, it sits on a siding while another train ambles past.
The Sherpa speaks when it’s time to eat or drink. He likes to drink, and apparently, he has a large expense account. When he says it’s time, we saunter down to the bar car and start on the vodka. While I can generally hold my own with American Russians, I’m a piker compared to the Sherpa. He drains shot after shot, and it doesn’t seem to affect him, although it must. Only a robot with a robotic liver can drink like this Sherpa. After a couple hours of vodka, we move to the dining car. The food is awful, so we don’t eat much. The Sherpa drinks some more and I settle for vegetables and bread. It’s good bread. The meat is a mystery, but it tastes like broiled beef. Maybe when we get to where we’re going, I’ll find a decent burger or something.
The days run together, the miles fall behind and I wonder again, why in the hell I have to travel all this way for a package. What really bothers me is that the package must be something incredibly valuable. Anakin is no idiot and he doesn’t waste money. He’s not going to send me halfway around the world for a box of Cheerios. Translated, that means I’m a target on the return trip. People are going to know I’m bringing home the crown jewels and every thief worth his salt will be looking to relieve me of my treasure. I don’t like my chances.
After three days, we roll into a small town. The trains shudders to a stop at the station and the Sherpa grabs both bags.
“Have we arrived?”
He shakes his head. “No, this is Vatskoe. A storm has damaged the rail tracks up ahead. We will stay the night here and travel to Sutgot by car tomorrow.”
I follow him to a small inn, the kind of place you would see in an old movie. A dour, middle-aged woman places large bowls of steaming potato and beef stew in front of us before showing us to our rooms.
My room is spotlessly clean, but smells like cabbage. It’s a common smell. The train smelled like cabbage and the station smelled like cabbage. Hell, it feels as if everything and everyone in Russia smells like cabbage. As the sound of her hard shoes shuffle away on the wooden floor, I turn towards the small window. For a long time, I watch the snow falling outside. The sight is magical. Again, the thought comes into my head. I will come back to this beautiful country as a tourist.
Then I brush my teeth and without undressing, I climb between the freezing sheets. My body r
ocks on its own even without the train. Sleep doesn’t come. I try to push thoughts of that damn package out of my head, but I can’t. I keep thinking I’m a sitting duck out here. Finally, I give up and get out of bed. It is too early to be in bed, anyway.
Despite the freezing weather, I decide to explore the town.
Katya
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ksdAs4LBRq8&
-just take me anywhere with you-
My parents don’t smile when I tell them I’m spending the night with Irina. They’re not happy, but they’re not suspicious. It’s not like I’ve painted my face or doused myself with perfume. They have no real clues to go on. It’s just the second last night before D-day. They’re anxious. The prize is so close. On the day of the exchange, they get an envelope full of cash.
The bear skin and hot water bottle are already at Irina’s house and I feel calm as I hurry towards her house in my thick clothes. I know I do not look sexy, but I will put some red lipstick on later. My mother bought it for me. It was supposed to be worn on the night I lose my virginity and the irony is that is the way it has turned out even though it will not be to the man of my mother’s dreams.
Everything goes to plan. Irina manages to steal a condom from her brother for me and by the time he comes out of the house after his meal, I am as snug as a bug inside my bearskin. It is dark and his truck is filled with building equipment that he uses for work so he doesn’t notice me.
The ride is horribly bumpy and my body feels bruised when the truck comes to a stop more than an hour later. Yuri jumps out and is soon gone to the bar where all his friends meet every Friday. I peek out carefully. There aren’t too many people around and good news … he has not parked too far away from the tavern.
I hop down to the ground, my boots sinking in the soft thick snow. First, I wrap my hot water bottle tightly inside the bear rug so it does not lose heat too quickly. Then I shrug off my coat, peel off the two layers of sweaters and the thick, ugly tights. There is so much adrenaline rushing through my veins I do not feel the cold even though I am standing in my blouse and skirt. Once I get my coat back on, I carefully apply the red lipstick, remove my head scarf, and smooth down my long honey blonde hair.
Squaring my shoulders, I take the first step towards the tavern.
Outside the door I hesitate, but only for a second, then my hand grasps the handle and I push open the door. It’s a long bar down one side, filled with smoke and men who turn to stare at me. It’s all about being macho, tough and drunk in here. I don’t know all the problems that plague Russian men, but I know a few. They drink too much, work too little, pretend they’re some kind of tough guy.
I look down the bar and there isn’t a single man that appeals to me. But then, I don’t need a man who appeals. I need a man who knows how to have sex. That’s all and the faces staring at me seem to promise at least that much.
The other side of the bar is all booths, half-filled at this time of night. Couples occupy them. They’re here for a few hours of fun. They throw darts, eat and drink, then maybe when they leave, they’ll be happy enough to go to work in the morning, not that there are a lot of jobs in this part of Russia.
I wade through the smoke, looking for a place at the bar that isn’t close to any of the men leering at me. A fear runs through me. This isn’t my territory. I’m a fish out of water, but I’m not going back. If I lose my virginity, I won’t be shipped out. If I lose my virginity, I won’t go someplace where I can be raped or killed or whatever and no one will ever know. This way, it will be on my terms.
Before the barman can attend to me, a man in a leather jacket smiles on his way over. “You look thirsty. Can I buy you a drink?”
He could be the one. I nod. Instead of asking me what I want, he orders me a vodka, which is fine with me. I’ll need more than one to have sex with him. I am conscious of every man in that bar staring at me. They’re all thinking the same thing. I swallow hard. “Do you have a cigarette?” I ask.
He produces a cigarette and lights it for me. I have never really smoked, once or twice with my girlfriends, but I feel so naked, so exposed. He passes me the cigarette and my hand trembles as I take it from him. As my drink arrives, I tell myself that the whole act will take only minutes. Once it’s done, I will not have to disappear like the others. For a while, my parents will hate me, but that would be better than disappearing into some old man’s harem. That would be too awful and to have my innocent sweet sister join me there. It would be unbearable.
“I know who you are, you know,” the man says.
I blow out smoke and watch him through the smoke. “Really?”
His eyes are full of curiosity. “Aren’t you supposed to be leaving tomorrow?”
I feel sick. I wish I’d never asked for the cigarette, but it is too late now. I hold the cigarette far from my face. “Does everyone know about me?”
He shrugs. “Of course.” A strange light comes into his eyes. “But the real question is what are you doing here?”
My drink arrives and I toss it down quickly.
The man takes the hint and orders me another. He recognizes my mood. He doesn’t know what I’m looking for, but he knows I’m looking for something. He hopes I’m looking for him.
I’m not. I need a man who doesn’t know who I am. A stranger who will disappear into the night forever. One, I will never need to come face to face with again.
Before the second drink arrives, the door opens and a man walks in. He is mysterious and magnetic in a way none of the local men are. Big and strong with a scar running down one side of his face. His eyes are sparkling blue, but … dangerous. That’s the only way I can describe those eyes, because they’re looking right at me, turning my insides into liquid.
I don’t lower my eyes because I find his eyes mesmerizing. They draw me in. Where did he come from? He’s not from here. None of the older men have faces like his. In fact, I’d lay a bet that he is not even Russian. He is a foreigner. A surge of unfamiliar heat rushes through me, and it isn’t the vodka. He has that kind of energy.
He moves down the bar until he’s standing next to me. The man who bought my drinks takes one look at the stranger and backs away. There is an animal thing about the man. He slaps money on the table. Far more than the drinks are worth. When the bartender arrives, he brings two vodkas, one for me and one for the stranger. Everyone in the bar understands. There might be a few men who would challenge the newcomer, but even those men don’t stand a chance.
Then, I realize the truth.
This man is pure sex. He is the real thing. He makes the movie I watched about the plumber with the big penis and the housewife seem ridiculous now. All those close ups of their shiny private bits over her fake cries seem … plastic and shallow. This man standing next to me is raw and primal, the manifestation of sex, of joining, of using.
He is Adam, the first real man. He is it.
I don’t have to look around to know that every woman in the room is lusting for him. There might even be a few men who would walk out the door with him. Yet, he isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at me. A shiver runs up my spine. I came here to break my hymen and I thought I would have to do it pushed up against a bathroom wall with a truck driver who hasn’t washed for many days, instead I found … this wordless, clawing need to go with a man.
I want to be with him. I want to feel him. I want him to feel me.
I kill the cigarette in the ashtray and we toss down the drinks, I will leave with him. He will take my virginity, then I will stay with him for as long as he will have me. Why do I think that? Why do I want that? I can’t answer my own questions. I have never felt like this before. I’m certain that I want to feel like this again. I want sex. I want him.
He seems to sense what I want, because his dangerously beautiful blue eyes never leave mine. “What is your name?” he asks in Russian.
This surprises me. I did not expect him to speak Russian. “My name is Katya,” I say in English. I don’t w
ant our conversation to be heard by anyone else in the bar. Gossip travels fast in these parts.
He seems even more surprised than me. He didn’t come to a tiny Russian town and expect to find a girl who speaks English. “Who else speaks English?” he asks in that strangely hypnotic voice of his.
“Probably no one else here.”
“Are you with the man who was just here?”
“No.”
His lips twist. “It’s good to know I won’t get a knife in my back.”
I shrug. “I’d still not turn your back. In Russia, no one trusts no one. We are all in it for ourselves.”
He nods slowly in understanding. I think maybe he knows all about being in it for himself. Why do I think he might be mafia? He looks the part, dangerous, lethal.
“I’m at the only hotel in town,” he says.
“Yes, I know.”
His eyes darken. “Room eleven.”
My heart is hammering away, but I try to keep my expression casual so that no one around us understands what is going on. “Hmm …”
“If you don’t come, I’ll understand,” he murmurs. But I can tell he doesn’t mean it. He knows I’ll go. He knows I can’t stay away even if I wanted to. He is the desire that cannot be resisted. I have never wanted to be with a man who was so sure of his own sexuality and power before. Now, I feel I might like it—if the man is him.
Everyone watches him leave. He walks out the way he walked in. It’s as if he came only to see me, even if he couldn’t know that I would be here. Of course, he didn’t know. I got lucky. He just got lucky.
“Who was that?” the man who bought me the drink asks as he sidles up to me again.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“But you talked to him. What did he want?” he asks belligerently now that the danger is past.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. I think he just came in here to get a drink.”
The man’s face shows disbelief.
Can’t Let Her Go Page 3