White Ice

by Celia Brayfield

  ‘Oh hell, now what have I said? Look at him, he’s turned into a beetroot.’ The wire bed frame squeaked as Andrusha got up, flicking his thick black hair out of his eyes. ‘Please, my friend, forgive me for dirtying your elevated feelings with my coarse imagination. I had forgotten it is love we are dealing with here, not everyday lust. Now, what else have I got for you – ah, yes … just one moment, if you please.’

  He slipped out of the door and returned almost at once with a bunch of perfect red roses wrapped in newspaper. ‘I put them in a little spot I know at the end of the hall where there’s a hole in the window frame so it’s always cool.’

  ‘Oh wow – these are beautiful.’

  ‘Naturally. My sister knows someone who works on the farm where they grow them. Any time you want to give your girl a nice bouquet just shoot one of my relatives to give me the excuse and I’ll be delighted to pop home and get it for you. In my country we have the most beautiful of everything – women, roses, sausages …’

  ‘I must give you something for them.’

  ‘Forget it – they’re my gift to you.’ By this Andrusha meant that he would store the goodwill to be called in at a later date. ‘I’m only doing my patriotic duty. When you go home to the West you can tell everyone what a happy existence we have here in Russia. How can these pitiful Americans have any concept of the joys of life, eh, guys?’

  The Armenians, lounging on their beds, waited expectantly for the punch line. ‘How can they understand the delight of a man who has acquired a sausage at a good price for his friend and had a blow-job from the sausage-maker into the bargain? Pure happiness, eh? How can you compare such a sublime experience with merely handing a few dollar bills over a shop counter?’

  Next Alex called on Anya’s waif-like roommate, Irina, who was fortunately resting a strain for two days and so able to get the bread, which cost him a Christian Dior lipstick. The champagne he had imported himself, and the vodka was contributed by Anya’s closest friend Elena, whose stepfather was KGB and could get the best of everything. She had asked for stockings, but he had only pantyhose, and his assurance that in the West only old women still wore stockings was eventually accepted after much argument.

  The guests were the contributors to the feast, with the addition of Alex’s roommate, Vitya. He was the son of two famous veterans of the Kirov company, and Alex found him obsessed with his own physical imperfection, but they covered up for each other in so many minor crimes that he counted him a friend despite his character. It was suicide to omit from the circle of favour anyone whose influence could prove harmful.

  They assembled as soon as the rest of the students had left for the canteen. Alex had a record player on which he obligingly played whatever the company chose, only occasionally trying to impose his own tentative taste for Steppenwolf and Fleetwood Mac. Anya obediently sang along, although she preferred the Rolling Stones.

  She wore her present, a pink angora cardigan with pearl buttons, a luxurious complement to her muzzy style of beauty.

  For a couple of hours they drank and ate merrily, Alex sticking to the champagne and the others somewhat put out by his generosity. ‘Come on, man, toast your girlfriend in the proper fashion at least.’ Andrusha put a glass of vodka in his hand.

  ‘It’s perfectly proper to drink toasts in champagne at home. You know I’m not trained to drink vodka like you do and besides, tonight I want to save myself.’

  ‘What for?’ One of the Armenians looked up, hopeful of further entertainment.

  ‘Not what for, you idiot!’ Irina slapped him crossly on the thigh. ‘Who for!’ The boys still looked puzzled.

  ‘Old American custom,’ Anya explained, snuggling complacently into Alex’s shoulder. ‘The birthday fuck. Extra special. The birthday person can have whatever she likes.’ She rolled her translucent blue eyes.

  ‘Absolutely daft,’ announced Vitya, refilling the glasses. ‘Give a woman what she likes and you’ll be stuck with her. You can’t keep a woman in her place if you indulge her. Always leave her wanting more – that’s the secret.’

  Irina spat delicately at the metal wastebin. For all her ethereal looks, she had the manners of a street-sweeper. ‘Well, Vitya, when you have a woman wanting more of you we’ll believe you know something.’ She tossed her head and examined her new lipstick in her compact mirror.

  ‘That’s not the way it is with us Georgians.’ Andrusha, who was obsessed with blondes, spoke as if to no one in particular. ‘We can’t take that puritanical line. My mother always said it was the warm southern climate which made people warmer, pleasure-loving, sensual … and our culture has such strong Indo-European elements, the erotic sophistication of the Kamasutra is something that’s still in our blood.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ muttered Vitya, putting down the bottle with a crash. ‘I can’t stand listening to this crap. Excuse me, my legs are so stiff they’re killing me. If neither of you girls wants to give me a massage I’ll have to do something about it myself.’

  ‘You don’t fuck enough, Vitya, that’s the problem. You need to get the hormones flowing to loosen you up.’

  ‘Listen to the expert here – if fucking was anything to do with it our Wolf would never hear a word about his turn-out again, now would he?’ He sat on the floor and began pummelling one of his thighs with his fists, pausing every now and then to refresh himself with more vodka. Nobody took much notice, because Vitya was always bemoaning his tight muscles and always practising some new technique which he was sure would make him looser than ever before.

  Elena put on a scratched Johnny Mathis album of which she was particularly fond and invited one of the Armenians to dance with her.

  ‘Have you ever done it when you’re high?’ Andrusha whispered to Irina. ‘Your ears are so tiny, they’re just like little petals.’

  ‘What do you mean, high?’

  ‘High like you get from smoking grass.’

  ‘I’ve never smoked grass.’

  ‘I can’t believe that, you’re always up with all the latest things. It’s the most fantastic feeling.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s true – why, have you got some?’ Her eyes were positively glittering from flattery and excitement. Andrusha decided that he was probably home and dry.

  ‘Sssh! There isn’t enough to share.’ He indicated the number of people in the room with a toss of his head, allowing her to admire the well-cut flop of his glossy black hair.

  ‘And the birthday girl will be wanting our place to herself tonight. Where is the stuff have you got it with you?’

  ‘It’s in my room.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Why, what’s your problem?’

  ‘What about your friends? Are we talking about grass or the daisy game here?’

  ‘What daisy game, I don’t understand?’

  Irina smiled to herself and smoothed her hair behind her ears. The daisy game was all the rage with the smart Leningrad kids; Andrusha could not be half as sophisticated as he pretended if he had never heard of it. It was simple, really – three girls, six legs spread like petals, three boys, everyone comes when somebody gives the word. Or they say they do.

  ‘Oh nothing. It’s just you and me, then?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘OK, what are we waiting for? Let’s go.’

  They left the room quietly, bidding Anya goodnight in low voices. Elena danced with first one then the other of the two Armenians, and when they both were too drunk to coordinate she continued swaying about the room by herself. Vitya lay on the floor, wriggled towards the skirting board and extended his legs up the wall.

  ‘Lazy boy,’ Alex chided him with affection.

  ‘What do you want me to do? I’m too tired to stand up. My thighs are like violin strings. Anyway, this way you get the best stretch. Lend me your weights, Alexei?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, do I have to lie here all night waiting? If you’re going to lend them to me, do it now please.’

  Ale
x rummaged under his bed for his leg weights, bands filled with lead granules, each weighing one kilo, and buckled them snugly around his friend’s ankles. Vitya opened his legs into a wide V and bounced them gently, feeling a grudging extension in the muscles of his inner thigh. ‘That’s good. Half an hour like this and I’ll be a new man tomorrow. Andrusha’s talking out of his ass, isn’t he? About fucking, I mean. I can see a girl might loosen up, but not a guy, never.’

  ‘Get pregnant, Vitya, that’s the best.’ Elena rebounded dreamily from the wall.

  ‘Sodding biology! Why do I get the short end of the stick every sodding time? Now pass the bottle, please.’

  ‘Are you sure you ought to drink more?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. It’ll help me relax. Give, give.’

  He clicked his fingers, winking happily. Alex put the vodka bottle within his reach, then signed to Anya that it was time to leave. They drifted back to her room and settled into bed. For months he had cherished the ambition to make her come while he licked her. She was sceptical, at first because she considered the area between her legs irredeemably unsavoury and did not believe that he could possibly enjoy nuzzling around there. Once coaxed into allowing a demonstration, she had admitted that since his cock got as hard as stone during the process, he must get some enjoyment from it. Alex, with a subtle instinct for sexual personality, could sense a barrier and was determined to lead her through it into full possession of her own sensuality. It was past midnight when her body became insistent and uncontrolled; at last she gave a small scream and he felt her lips pulse against his and his tongue clasped by all the mysterious inner folds of her sex.

  They lay together in the darkness, their skin damp with perspiration. Anya considered the best way to bring up the subject of marriage. Should she act vulnerable and play on his sympathy – he must be soft if he really wanted to eat her out all the time – or give him a bit more air, maybe flirt with one of the others, make him miss her a little, then pitch for the ring? He’s the closest I’ll ever get to an exit visa, I must tie him down, she promised herself.

  Alex remembered their first real meeting, in a small studio where he had gone to practise alone, in the depths of loneliness and despair during his first month at the Academy. When he had stepped into the middle of the floor the emptiness around him had been so overpowering that he had dissolved into tears. After a few minutes she had entered the room with the same purpose and, seeing his distress, had simply run to him and held him in her arms. He had felt enveloped in soft femininity, his pain soothed immediately. Now, with her body truly his and the sweet, salty taste of her in his mouth to prove it, he felt completely at peace.

  The sensation was brief. There was an urgent tap at the door and Irina stumbled into the room.

  ‘Quick, quick, get up, get dressed, that bitch Nadia’s raising hell.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Anya’s head left the pillow immediately and she struggled to be free of Alex’s arms.

  ‘She went looking for Elena, someone told her she was with Alex. She must have just walked into the room. The first we heard was her screaming that Vitya was crippled. Thank God she made so much noise.’

  ‘Better get moving, Alex, she’s taken off like a bat out of hell looking for the Director.’ Andrusha was a silhouette against the light from the corridor. They could tell from his voice that he was still smiling.

  ‘OK, give me a minute.’ He scrambled reluctantly to his feet, pushed Irina out of the room and felt for the light switch as he closed the door.

  ‘Anya had better stay here,’ the Georgian advised. ‘Then at least only one of you will be in trouble.’

  They ran back to his room, in which a grotesque tableau was posed. One of the Armenian boys lay slumped in a corner, the other was more decorously laid out on the bed. Elena had collapsed into a chair and vomited over the arm; the acrid smell tainted the atmosphere. By the far wall lay Vitya, also unconscious, the empty vodka bottle on its side by his outstretched hand. His legs had flopped apart like those of a puppet, one bent at the knee and twisted awkwardly against the wall, the other lying almost flat to the floor at a hideously unnatural angle.

  ‘Oh my God! Vitya – he’s passed out. Is she right, has he really crippled himself?’ Alex turned to Andrusha in terror, longing for the reassurance of his sophistication.

  ‘Search me. That hip must be dislocated for sure. Maybe the ligaments have gone. I’ve heard of people doing things like this, but I never really believed it was possible.’

  ‘Suppose he’s dead?’ A profound cold spread from the centre of his body to the tips of his fingers.

  ‘No, of course he’s not dead – can’t you hear? He’s snoring like a pig. We can’t move him, it might make things worse and Nadia will spill the beans anyway. Let’s get the boys out of here at least – come on, stop shivering, give me a hand.’

  This robust common sense calmed Alex a little, and together they dragged the insensible bodies back to their own beds across the corridor. Irina ripped the quilts from the beds and covered them up, shoes and all. The double windows had been flung wide to dispel the fumes of grass, and now Andrusha closed them before the temperature dropped to freezing. Irina had already made herself scarce.

  ‘And Elena, we must get her back,’ Alex insisted, in an agony of guilt that a girl who had abetted his love with such good humour might suffer for it.

  ‘It’ll look great if we meet the Director in the corridor.’ Andrusha was peeling off his shirt and vest, preparing to change into his nightclothes. ‘She’s fucked anyway if you ask me, Nadia will sneak to her father, try and do herself some good. We’ll be lucky if there isn’t a police inquiry.’

  ‘It can’t look any worse than it does now – please, Andrusha.’

  ‘Go on, move her yourself if you’re so concerned. She’s not so heavy – use this!’ He prodded Alex in the back with audible jealousy.

  Without wasting any more time, Alex ran back to his room and dragged the girl out of the chair and into his arms. He heaved her over his shoulder like a rug, praying that she had spewed her last for that night at least. Her dead weight was indeed heavier to lift than her animated body in pas de deux class.

  He met no one in the corridor and restored Elena to her own bed without incident. By the time he returned to his own room, the lights were on all over that part of the hostel and the students were standing sleepily in their doorways, asking what the noise was about. The Director, who had taken the time to dress, was standing in the centre of Alex’s room listening to Nadia’s vociferous description of the scene as she had discovered it, while one of the senior male teachers, in his ugly brown dressing gown, knelt beside Vitya, tenderly stroking his face.

  ‘We could bring him round but what’s the point?’ he was saying as Alex halted in the doorway. ‘The poor lad will be in such agony he’ll probably pass out again. Better leave him as he is. How long is it since we called the hospital? Surely they’re on their way by now.’

  ‘There he is!’ screamed Nadia, suddenly catching sight of Alex. ‘It’s his fault, he bought the drink!’ The others turned, and in a second the man was in front of him raining slaps and punches on his head.

  ‘Stop it, stop it, Fedya. You’ll mark him, it’s not wise …’ The Director took a couple of steps towards them but paused, fearing that she would only provoke more violence. In her mind, where humane considerations were not uppermost, this was not a major tragedy. After all, Vitya’s parents were the kind of fools who thought that being artists excused them political alignment; they had been thoroughly out of favour for a decade, and were likely to remain so until old age or alcoholism terminated their careers.

  ‘Not wise! Was it wise for this degenerate with his criminal behaviour to destroy the future for one of our boys? What kind of sick mind could do such a thing? Were you drunk, too? Obviously, but that’s no excuse. Even a drunken tramp in the gutter has more care for his friends. You’re subhuman, an animal …’ Alex was frozen with shock
at the attack and the force of the man’s anger. He opened his mouth to protest that he had only broken one small rule, not committed a murder, but his Russian deserted him and he knew that if he expressed himself in his own language it would anger them all even further. He was saved by two ambulance men, who struggled along the corridor with a stretcher, followed by a much older man from the teaching staff who exhorted them to be careful in moving their patient.

  In a few minutes two more men arrived, middle-aged strangers wearing suits, and a conversation ensued which he could not fully understand. Vitya, still unconscious, was loaded on to the stretcher and carried away, with both teachers following. Nadia was thanked for her prompt action by the Director, and told to come to the office the next morning to write a report. The rest of the party adjourned across the street to the Director’s office. She left Alex to sit outside in the care of the two newcomers and, from the clicks and rings behind the half-closed door, made several telephone calls.

  Tiredness numbed him but lurid fears that he would be interrogated, tortured and sent to a prison camp made even a shallow doze impossible. He wished desperately that he could speak to Anya, telling himself that she would be anxious and distressed, but really wanting the comfort of her touch.

  After some hours there was a faint lightening of the sky outside, still obscured by falling snow, and shortly afterwards it became clear that a decision had been reached. A man with extremely short fair hair arrived, a junior official at the American consulate. After an interview with the Director, he called Alex in Russian to join them.