Yelena Akhtiorskaya - Panic in a Suitcase

There was a misunderstanding with the poised Baltic lady who inspected their gift card, apparently issued under old management. Current management used different gift cards. But the management at this establishment changed weekly, and there was always a new Baltic lady to have a gift-card misunderstanding with. When enough fuss was made and Marina’s blood pressure reached a satisfactory mark, the situation was suddenly resolved. Bleak smiles exchanged. Marina and Frida put their wallets and keys into a plastic bag and in return were granted keys to lockers. With light steam! said the bloodless Baltic lady, who had a smattering of white pimples on her temples.

For those who have only imagined the scene inside a ladies’ locker room, the actuality was a handful of half-squatting women struggling with their locks. The key never fit, and then the key got stuck. There was an atmosphere of stifled panic. Bathroom doors were left flung open, as if the occupants had fled. The floor was wet and contaminated-seeming. A woman came in with hair piled on her crown like a scoop of ice cream about to tip. One side of her bathing suit had ridden up a dimpled buttock, exposing skin that was soaked, shapeless, pinkish, like whale blubber. Women, too, went to great lengths to avoid eye contact.

Marina seemed to think there was a race on for who got to the sauna fastest. The clock was ticking, there wasn’t a second to spare. She abandoned Frida to her miserably slow maneuvering and hustled to a clear victory. By the time Frida made it, her mother lay across the top shelf, shutting out the world. Her palms were open, fingers curled, summoning total relaxation. Legs rolled apart. Russet tufts strayed far from the edge of her faded swimsuit (the functional one). She appeared to be making a public demonstration of the phenomenon of gravity, which had healing powers if allowed to work its magic but which the smallest disturbance turned into a force of harm. Frida sat two shelves below, squeezing her knees. Cold wedged deeper than you’d imagine and had to be extracted arduously. This was the seminal moment, when it was necessary to just commit. In the dim corner, someone was panting.

Did he sound at least a little happy? asked Frida.

Damn it! cried Marina.

What’s wrong? What did I say?

I got honey in my eye! She rubbed her eyelid and licked her hand. Her feet flew up to the ceiling. Did who sound happy?

Pasha — when you said that I was coming.

My brother doesn’t get happy.

Though it would appear that Frida was getting exactly what she wanted, she felt uneasy, perhaps because of the way events had unfolded: She’d voiced a desire to go to Odessa, pretended it was a firm decision, pretended there was no talking her out of it, opposed the pleas of her family, stood her ground, didn’t let her father’s newly acquired stutter or her grandpa’s wildly vacillating blood-pressure readings shake her determination — and when that determination was finally registered, the entire matter was seen from a new light. Of course she should go! It was the city of her birth after all, and her only cousin getting married. Hadn’t they been encouraging her the whole time?

But she preferred not to go to the grocery store alone!

Besides, said Marina, I haven’t exactly told him yet. After a pause she added, He hasn’t been feeling well.

My God, has the man been to a doctor?

Don’t be silly. Nobody goes to doctors in Odessa.

Shhh!

As the atmosphere was halfway between sewer and cathedral, it was unclear what the convention was about speaking. A full-blown conversation, evidently, was frowned upon. The process demanded respect. The banya experience was ritualistic, sacred. An air of immense gravity was brought about by the sense that one’s ancestors had been heating their bones in the same way for millennia. The banya didn’t just offer heat, a good sweat, but a connection to something primal and a purification that went far beyond the pores. They sat in these small, dark, wood-paneled rooms, silent except for labored breathing and the occasional hiss of water on coal, shedding layer upon layer of falsehood, soul grime, dead skin, pretension. To encapsulate, the process was as follows: Sit clutching your red, splotchy knees and counting the seconds if you’re a daughter, or lie back and snore occasionally if you’re a mother, for half an hour on a shelf in a scorching, oxygen-deprived chamber, leave chamber and jump into a tub of ice water if you’re a mother, or dip your toes in if you’re a daughter, repeat at least five times in order to be sure you’ve gotten your money’s worth.

A young man who looked like he’d crawled from under the earth’s crust, as if his home were amid igneous rock and magma, who may have been made of a single cell blown like a balloon to man size, opened the tiny metal window onto the coals and used a frightening contraption that must’ve had some alternate, highly specific function to fling water inside. There was a deafening hiss; nothing else happened. He wrapped the end of a towel once over his palm and spun the towel above his head, a naked cowboy with a terry-cloth lasso. Individual nose hairs were set on fire. Further inhales were put off until the lungs took them by force. An oppressive heat descended, intending to stay awhile. The young man sat down beside Marina’s feet and began to sweat. The pores could be seen working. They were trained, disciplined pores. Not like those on Frida’s legs, which refused to release a drop. The man held an unkempt birch venik like a weapon between his knees.

Who’s not afraid? he said, and tickled Marina’s toes with the venik’s leaves. Her knees flew up. Propped onto her elbows, she peered at him.

Turn over, he said. I’ll give you a steam.

Marina looked at Frida, who interpreted the look as, Please help. But it must’ve had a different meaning, since Marina asked, For free?

The man grinned. For a kiss.

Frida got another sideways glance.

Just kidding. Kiss optional. Like tip. Now turn.

Marina rolled onto her stomach, wriggled about, spread her breasts to either side, and lay still. The man stood over her, cracking his knuckles dramatically.

Your sister? he said, pointing at the splotchy flesh on the low bench.

Daughter. Marina giggled.

I’ll do her next, he said magnanimously.

The man’s calves, smooth and hairless, flexed in preparation. Heels lifted. The venik, glistening with painful flashes of veiny branch, slammed down on Marina with great urgency, as if her shoulder blades had just gone up in smoke. Then it stayed there. He pressed down using his entire torso (which actually wasn’t so large — he had a neat, petite frame). When the venik was peeled off, her back was gushing color, flecked with leaf scraps. But there wasn’t a peep to be heard. She simply exhaled.

That’s all I get? he said. I must be going too easy on you.

The venik hopped up and down her back like a prima ballerina light on her toes, making good use of the stage, working up the crowd before she really got going. Then it landed with maximal power on the soft underside of Marina’s knees. With a noted delay, she uttered a tiny groan, clearly out of sheer politeness. The man bent over to look at her face. Just checking you’re alive, he said.

Quite, said Marina, as if she’d taken a sip of tea.

The man was working for squeals, moans, pleas for mercy, and here was Marina half asleep. It wasn’t much fun this way. He tried harder and harder to draw them out of her, twisting limbs, beating down manically, to no avail. That Frida was making the necessary sounds, the man failed to notice. His heart was no longer in it. He had to stop and catch his breath, while Frida prayed that a snore didn’t emanate from her mother’s direction. When he resumed, it was with the efforts of a demoralized man. A few limp swats later, it was all over. The offer to take Frida next wasn’t renewed.