She seems to have boundless energy, but small as she is, her teeth keep chattering, so I stop at one of the cart vendors and let her pick out a hand-knit scarf to wrap herself in. She chooses a pink and white one with little pom-poms on the tassels, and I show her how to wrap it properly so it fits snug, but not too tight.
After what feels like hours, I feel her slowing down at my side.
“What’s the matter, coffee crash hitting you already?”
“Hm? Oh, oh no, nothing,” she waves off, but I notice that she was looking towards one of the shops, and I follow her gaze. There’s a large clothing boutique on a street corner, and there are elaborate designs adorning the legion of mannequins in the windows.
“You like the clothes there?” I ask, smiling.
“No, no,” she backpedals quickly, “I mean, they look kind of nice, but I don’t think they’re the most appropriate things in the world, you know.”
“But you like them,” I press with a teasing grin, and she blushes a little.
“Well, I’ve never worn anything quite like that before, but I’m a married woman, and I really shouldn’t be dressing like that in public, and —”
I bring us to a halt and hold her shoulders with both hands, looking down at her rather seriously, though not harshly. “Cassie, I may be your husband, but whether you’re married or not, the only thing you should be wearing is exactly what you feel like wearing.”
The poor girl wrings her hands for a moment, but the smile tugging at her face tells all, and after a moment of chewing on her lip as she plays with the idea, she nods vigorously.
“Okay, but just for a little bit!”
With that, she leads me by the hand into the boutique.
The place is a jungle of elaborate fabric. It’s clearly some kind of up-and-coming designer trying to break out of its independent phase, and by the looks of the store, it’s well on its way.
“A little bit” turns into nearly an hour of Cassie tearing through the store, brimming with renewed energy, eyes sparkling the whole time. I anticipate feeling bored at the display, but there’s something peculiarly endearing about her enthusiasm as she brings up dresses and hats for me to look at — nearly half the store’s worth.
“You seem to have an affinity for lace,” I remark, and it’s no exaggeration. Cassie has been gravitating towards frilly, lacy dresses, high stockings, and enormous bows.
“Well, these dresses feel like, I dunno,” she twists her shoe into the ground as she tries to think of the expression, “makes me feel like a princess.”
“Well, printsessa,” I bow my head with teasing reverence, “would you like to try some of those royal dresses on?”
10
Cassie
“It’s after ten o’clock — isn’t that a little late to go out?” I ask anxiously from my perch on a bench inside the massive walk-in closet. After a few hours in Central Park earlier, we came home to freshen ourselves up and put away all the masses of new clothes sent to the apartment from the many shops we frequented today. Until I saw them all in one place, I didn’t realize just how much we bought. When we arrived back at the apartment building, there was a veritable mountain of packages waiting to be received in the lobby’s holding area. The poor desk clerk had to call down two assistants to help us carry everything to the elevator and down the hall.
Andrei stands in the bathroom around the corner, checking his reflection, as though he could possibly look anything but handsome. He calls out, “Is this a late night for you?”
“Well, yes!” I answer, crinkling my nose. I can’t believe people actually go out this late at night instead of just sleeping. My father used to always say that the dark hours are when temptations are most abundant, and that only ‘loose women and whoremongers’ went out late at night.
I suppose tonight I am going to be a loose woman.
Standing up and biting my lip as I look down at the clothes I’m wearing, I know that my father would have some choice words to say about my appearance, as well. I’ve never before gone out with so much of my skin showing. I’m wearing all new items purchased today, and I feel violently self-conscious in them.
I also feel kind of pretty.
The dress I’m wearing is lavender-colored, flouncy, and falls to just above my knees. I’ve paired it with knee-high, frilly, white socks and pale pink shoes with slight heels to them. I shake my hair out of its messy bun so that it cascades in soft, full waves around my shoulders. Today, I saw so many beautiful women everywhere with their immaculate hair, chic ensembles, and flawless makeup, and now I feel self-conscious about the fact that I lack all of those things.
Certainly, back home I never felt attractive in any real way, but I also didn’t feel ugly. The standards were simply different in the community I’m used to. Women are less adorned, but they are still expected to be soft and unsullied, totally put-together, even in their modest simplicity. Nobody really wore makeup or flashy clothing, but even our plain looks had to be perfectly arranged to suit the ideal: a clean, subservient, quietly pretty woman willing to obey without question or hesitation. Always willing to follow light-footed in the shadows of a man. We were the little brown birds meant to keep the nest and wait on the scarlet-hued males.
But here, in the big city, women wore the bright colors. The streets of New York are a veritable rainbow of different types of fashion and beauty. I never knew this many options even existed! I always learned that there is only one kind of acceptable look, and it’s the same one every girl and woman back home adheres to. The same one I always wore, too.
And now, I look at myself in the floor-length mirror hanging on the back of the closet door and gasp at the sight. My body is adorned in such jewel-like colors, shiny and complex fabrics and textures, unlike anything I’ve ever seen, much less worn. The girl in the mirror looks like some stranger, even though my face is the same. Like my face has been cut and pasted onto some other girl’s body. I am suddenly acutely aware of the fact that there is no makeup on my face. Prior to coming into New York City, I never even considered it necessary or even desirable.
Makeup, my father says, is just an earthly tool meant to deceive and ensnare the weak-hearted. But what I saw today has opened my mind and given me a different perspective. I see the way people use clothing and makeup to express themselves, and I wonder if it can be yet another way to explore the glory of what God has created in the human race.
I’m interrupted from my reverie by Andrei’s knock on the closet door.
“Are you ready?” asks his deep voice from the other side of the door, and I feel a wave of nervous nausea rush over me. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. But I slowly open the door anyway, and when Andrei sees me, he almost cracks a smile.
Almost. But that hard expression hardly twitches at all, even though his eyes do soften a bit when they look me up and down. I find myself wanting more than anything to bring more softness into his life. I want him to be happy and light and warm, and I am determined to give him a million reasons to feel those things.
“I think so,” I answer bashfully, looking down at my new shoes.
“You look lovely.”
My eyes snap up at the compliment and I’m unable to suppress a wide grin, my cheeks getting flushed. He is my husband and I want to please him for that reason, but there is also a genuine, organic desire growing in me to gain his approval, to be what he wants.
What he paid for.
“Thank you.”
He has something in his hands, I realize, and I blink. “What’s that?” It looks like a little black square that he’s holding somewhat awkwardly, like he isn’t used to it.
“A Kindle,” he says in his light accent, and hearing it come from his voice makes me smile a little. “I’m sure you spent some moments reading with all that time to yourself, so I thought…” He trails off and ends up simply holding the little e-reader out to me. “It apparently can hold tens of thousands of books, and I already entered my payment details, so you can buy whateve
r you like.”
“Th-thank you,” I say as I take it into my hands and look it over, a little taken aback, but honestly, part of me wants to jump in bed with it immediately. We’d had nothing like that back home, but I was always fascinated by the idea of a tiny little device that could hold such a wealth of information.
He offers his arm to me a little stiffly, looking like a rugged, bad-boy prince in his black leather jacket, pressed white button-up shirt, and dark jeans. I hesitantly take his arm, then lean into him a little more, trying to relax. After all, we did spend the whole day together.
And last night we were awfully close…
“So where exactly are we going?” I ask him as I set the Kindle aside for later while he silently drapes a new brown peacoat over my shoulders. He leads me out into the hallway and into the elevator, dodging the question until the elevator doors close.
Then he says quietly, “We’re going to a place where I feel a little more at home.”
“But where is that?”
Andrei gives me a sidelong glance, his dark eyes falling on me and sending a little thrill down my spine. There is just something so mysterious and enigmatic about his eyes — that spellbinding, soul-reading, black stare.
Again, surrounded by the mirrored walls of the elevator chamber, I am startled by how sharply our looks contrast. Every aspect of his countenance is dark, heavy, nearly predatory. Beside him, I am pastel and dreamy-eyed, a pale waif sharing the air with a big, bad wolf.
“Aren’t you going to tell me? Is it a secret?” I press him, cocking my head to the side.
Finally, when we get into his Corvette and he starts the engine, he answers me.
“We’re going to a place called Brighton Beach. There’s a large population of Russkiys living in the area.”
A beach? I am definitely confused now. I know that I have led a very sheltered life, and there is so much I don’t know about the world, but it seems very unusual to go out to a beach in the middle of the night when it’s this cold out.
“Brighton Beach?” I repeat, furrowing my brow. “Isn’t it… isn’t it a little cold?”
“What do you mean?” Andrei says, glancing over at me with a bemused expression.
I fidget with the hem of my dress, biting my lip. I can’t tell if he is joking or not. Everyone back upstate is very straightforward. We don’t joke around. So I’m not particularly skilled at determining when people are being facetious, but I feel that he must be, right now.
“It’s dark out, and cold, and I — I don’t know how to swim!” I ramble all at once, closing my eyes and folding my hands in my lap.
Andrei snorts and I open my eyes to see him giving me a bemused look.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, starting to feel a little miffed.
“We’re not going to the beach — we’re going to a bar.”
“Called Brighton Beach?”
Andrei swipes a hand over his face, clearly amused. “No, the bar is called the Amber Room, and it is located in Brighton Beach.”
Suddenly, I feel like the dumbest, most ignorant human being currently breathing air. I’m thankful for the darkness, because I can feel my cheeks burning bright pink.
“Oh,” I say softly.
For the rest of the drive, we sit mostly quiet except for my occasional comments about the scenery and signs we pass by. Andrei is cordial and kind, but not very responsive, and certainly never forthcoming. He is rather like my father in this one, singular way. Both are quite reticent — men of little words. But when they do speak, they are charismatic. People stop to listen.
I, on the other hand, am a complete chatterbox. I hope that I’m not bothering Andrei with my unending commentary, but I have a tendency to talk too much when I get nervous. And every moment I spend in this revealing dress, in an unfamiliar city, with a handsome but intimidating man, at this late hour… my nerves are totally on edge.
By the time we reach our destination, I feel quite sick to my stomach. There are people walking around outside, lining up to get in the door. The building itself is fairly nondescript, but Andrei insists that this place makes him feel at home, so I want to give it a fair chance. I am eager to find out more about my new husband: what he likes, what he thinks about, what his memories are filled with. Despite our legal union, we are hardly more than strangers, but I am determined to break down his walls.
Most of the people here tower over me, the women teetering on high heels, the men tall and well-dressed, a lot of them with tattooed arms. I have to fight to keep my expression neutral, to suppress the urge to let my mouth fall open and gawk. This is Andrei’s kind of crowd?
My husband is guiding me to the front of the line, garnering us some bitter scowls from those waiting to get in. I whisper to Andrei, “Don’t we need to go to the back of the line?”
“The owner’s husband is an old business contact of mine,” he replies simply.
I feel like that may not be a sufficient excuse, but I don’t say a word. The burly guy at the door gives Andrei a nod and lets us through without hesitation, causing some guys to angrily shout, “Hey!” from behind us.
“Oh, settle down,” orders the door guy, without even looking up from his phone.
Once inside, we walk down a curving corridor. I am immediately assaulted by the sensation of pounding, pulsating music. The deep, reverberating bass and the fast pace of the music makes me feel instantly out of place. I’ve never listened to anything but classical music and hymns, as my father always insists that “popular music is the root of sin in today’s youth culture” and therefore, all access to radio and television media were very restricted. I’ve also never seen this many people in one place, this close together, moving like this.
Dancing.
I cling helplessly, fearfully to Andrei’s side. I have never been allowed to dance or to watch anyone else dance. It is a direct path to temptation and sin. It’s utterly immoral for people to move together this way! At least, that’s what I’ve been told my whole life.
Perhaps Andrei picks up on my intense fear, because he wraps an arm around me in a surprising gesture of protection and warmth, his fingers gently brushing through my hair.
“Is it too much?” he asks, leaning in close so I can hear his voice through the deafening music. I shrug and shake my head, not wanting to admit my true feelings. He raises an eyebrow at my silence, clearly not convinced, and guides me through the crowd to a counter where lots of people are seated on glossy bar stools. There are shelves upon shelves of multicolored bottles of varying shapes and sizes.
Alcohol. Another vestige of a sinful world. ‘The devil’s drink,’ my father calls it.
I gulp back my fear as Andrei muscles us through the throngs of swaying, laughing people to get us about a foot’s width of space at the counter. His arm is crooked around me, accidentally pinning me against the bar. A tall, pretty girl with cropped hair dyed blue at the tips is working the counter, taking incomprehensible drink orders from the already-buzzed crowd with a cool, collected ease.
When she catches sight of Andrei, she does a double-take, then gives him a familiar nod and smirk. She slides over and says, “Long time no see! Been busy lately?”
Before he can answer, her eyes fall on me and her smile widens. “Guess that answers my question. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
I struggle to make my voice heard over the pounding din. “C-Cassie.”
“Nice to meet ya, I’m Natalie. Whatcha drinkin’ tonight, hon?”
Andrei interjects, “She’s underage, Natalie. But she’ll have a cranberry juice, and I’ll have a — ”
“Yeah, yeah, vodka tonic. Creature of habit, this one,” the bartender adds to me.
She turns and prepares our drinks so quickly it astounds me, then spins back to us and sets it on the bar counter with a smile. When Andrei tries to hand her cash, she purses her lips and shakes her head.
“Nah, you know it’s on the house. Have a good time! And look after Miss Cassie here,”
Natalie tells him with a wink. Andrei lifts his drink in a kind of casual salute and guides me back away to a corner table, the two of us skirting the dance floor.
“You must be very popular,” I remark.
Andrei shrugs. “Like I said, this place is the most like home for me.”
“Is Natalie from Siberia, too?” I ask genuinely.
He chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “No, no. But I am a regular here.”
“What does that taste like?” I gesture shyly toward his vodka tonic.
Offering the little glass to me, he says, “Try it for yourself.”
“But… I’m underage,” I protest, even as I take the glass from him.
“It’s only a taste,” Andrei counters.
My father’s voice in the back of my head shouts at me sternly, urging me to put the glass down and resist temptation. Instead, I raise it to my lips and take the tiniest of sips. I immediately grimace at the bitter taste. A shudder runs through my body and Andrei looks like he might actually crack a smile.
“Don’t like it?”
Not wanting to seem rude, I deny it. “N-no, it’s… it’s good.” To prove my point I take a big, long gulp of the disgusting clear liquid and have to fight to keep it down.
Andrei reaches over and takes the drink back, his full lips finally breaking into a rare, captivating smile. “How do you feel?”
The effect is instantaneous. My head gets fuzzy and my limbs tingle. I almost want to laugh, for no real reason except that I feel pretty darn good. I lick my lips and can’t help but notice the way Andrei’s eyes dart to my mouth when I do it. That makes me feel some kind of warm sensation between my legs, and suddenly I want to do something crazy.
I want to dance.
Hopping down from the high-top bar stool, I reach for Andrei’s hand, swaying ever so slightly on my feet. He gives me a questioning look, but when I tug on his sleeve, he tosses back the rest of his drink in one deep draught, gets to his feet, and allows me to lead him into the pulsating throng of dancers.
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