Emily Rubin - Stalina

“Let’s drink to Ool-ya and her manicures,” Joanie said with her glass high above her head. “Maybe Harry needs a sip of vodka.”

“It’s Oolnya, with an n . Put the glass under his nose like smelling salts,” I suggested.

“I don’t want him to wake up yet. We bought some more time; I want to hear about manicures.”

I filled her plastic cup halfway with more vodka and did the same for myself.

“It would be nice to have some herring with this vodka,” I said and settled back onto the floor. The room could use a chair or two. Perhaps a bench from a carousel to go with the fun park theme.

“Herring? What about caviar? Isn’t that your Russian gold? Fish eggs worth thousands. How strange you Russians are,” Joanie said as she went over to Harry and kissed his lips with hers still touched with vodka.

Harry sniffled and turned over, but with a smile on his face.

“Shhh!” Joanie added. “Let’s not wake Harry.”

“We have another forty-five minutes. Mr. Suri will be calling in a half hour.”

“Please, Staliiin-aaa, tell me about Oool-NYaaa.”

The vodka had taken effect.

“She called her shop Oolnya’s House of Beauty. My friend Olga’s mother and my mother would go together for weekly appointments, and we would tag along. Oolnya had massive breasts that were always half exposed, and her behind was so large it made a shelf off the back of her purple satin robe. She sat at the forward edge of her swivel chair because of the size of her behind. She was a bleach blond.”

“She sounds fabulous!” Joanie said, enjoying my story and the vodka.

“The banyas all have busy salons. The scent of hairspray mixes with the smell of the saunas and steaming birch leaves right down to the street.”

The vapors of the hairspray and acetone took form in the swirling cigarette smoke of Oolnya’s clientele. Under those low-hanging clouds, the women made gossip. My friend Olga was destined to be a hairstylist—even at eight years old she could create a hairstyle before touching scissors or curling iron to hair. She also knew everyone’s story. It was she who told me that Mrs. Yvashkaya was actually a man, and that the staff at the salon was forbidden to say anything because he was such a loyal customer.

“Oh my. Where is your friend Olga now?”

“She’s a legend in St. Petersburg. People come from all over to have her do their hair,” I added proudly.

“Hotsy-totsy!” Joanie exclaimed.

“Olga and I would sit under the bubble dryers and read to each other from ladies’ magazines and give each other manicures when we were eleven and twelve. She had the most delicate fingers and would paint the polish on every nail with perfectly even strokes. Between the hair dryers going and the piped organ music—this is common in Russian salons—no one could hear us. One time while Oolnya passed by, Olga said, ‘Her buttocks are as big as a battleship and softer than the goopiest jar of hair gel.’

“I told Olga, ‘I’ve seen her eating pigs’ feet in brine from a jar in between appointments.’ Olga told me more details. ‘Her lover, Lazlo, sends them every week from the Ukraine in cases labeled as hair spray so the police won’t steal them.’”

“No wonder her ass was the size of Finland. Some men like that, but not my Harry,” Joanie said confidently, slapping her bony hip. “He likes to slap this skinny ass of mine.”

“Every man is made of different desires.”

“And for that I am thankful,” Joanie said. “Tell me more.”

“Oolnya moved like a hippo with a great sense of rhythm. The top shelves of the supply closet were out of her reach because those hips kept her from passing through the narrow door. When she needed our help, she would say, ‘Olga! Stalina! Fetch me a box of cotton balls. I’ll give you some for your manicures.’”

“Bossy, wasn’t she,” Joanie chipped in.

“Everyone who worked at the salon was a bit temperamental. Tasha, the manicurist, was missing the top two joints of her index and ring fingers on her left hand. She had an accident as a teenager climbing over a fence. But the missing joints actually made it easier for her to position her customers’ hands and fingers as she did their nails. She was gifted.”

“Imagine that,” Joanie said.

“When Tasha was in a good humor, she would hand us a bottle of nail polish that was nearly empty. More often she would complain that the salon was the only place women could get away from their duties. ‘That includes children! ’ she’d say, making sure we heard. When she chased us away, Olga and I would go into one of the dark, wood-paneled massage rooms in the back to read our pile of magazines and dream about dressing like the models in the pictures.”

“Marilyn Monroe was my hero,” Joanie added. “Poor thing, it makes me sad to think of her.” She got up and walked over to the “bed-coaster” and lay down next to Harry. She had a small pout and a slight quiver on her lips.

“I’m a natural blond, you know,” she said as she wiped some spittle from the side of Harry’s mouth.

I continued. “Oolnya would rap on the massage room door if someone was scheduled for an appointment. She filled the open doorway completely; her waist made an hourglass shape that we could see around to the front end of the salon. We would get woozy from breathing in hairspray and polish and would stagger off the massage tables and into the salon. Everything seemed to float around us. The peach-colored lace curtains and the kidney-shaped manicure tables became clouds floating by.”

“I know what you mean; this room looks all cotton candy soft to me,” Joanie said, fueled by the vodka.

“To us, the ladies under the hair dryers with their mud packs looked like an alien race of big brains. One of them once said, ‘Looks like those girls have gotten into Oolnya’s vodka stash.’ Oolnya heard the comment, turned in her swivel chair, lit a cigarette, adjusted her robe, and said, ‘I keep only schnapps, to soothe the pain.’”

“I love her!” Joanie exclaimed, and in a terrible Russian accent, she added, “I keep only schnapps, to soothe the pain.”

“I like your imitation, Joanie.”

“I told you I love your accent.”

“How is Harry? Mr. Suri is going to call again.”

“Is that the dark man who runs the desk?”

“Mr. Suri? He’s not so dark.”

“No, he’s…”

We both spoke at the same time, with the same words. “Slightly dark.”

I added, “He’s Indian, from New Delhi.”

“Handsome with that mustache, and kind of exotic. I’m mostly German,” Joanie added.

“I’m a Jew,” I said.

“You’re a Jew?”

“You are surprised?”

“You’re Russian.”

“To the Russians I’m a Jew.”

“I don’t say I’m a Catholic.”

“Are you?”

“Who cares?”

“Why were you surprised?”

“I don’t care one way or another. Harry’s Jewish. Do you miss Russia?”

“America is not home yet. I do miss Russia.”

“That’s sad…let’s not be sad. More vodka!”

Suddenly Harry sat up with his arms raised in front of him as if he was trying to stop something that was rushing toward him.

“Stop the Shriiiiinnnnerrrs! They’re commmminnng!” he screamed.

Joanie jumped toward Harry to keep him from falling off the bed again.

“Harry, wake up!” she shouted as she grabbed him around the waist.

I knocked back the rest of my vodka. Harry was shaking.

“Are you all right?” Joanie was clinging to him.

“I dreamt those damn Shriners were taking over—measly little secretive anti-Semitic toy soldiers. What’s she doing here?” Harry said, looking at me. “Owww, my head,” he continued, focusing on the bottle of vodka. “Did I drink that?”