Lola Smirnova - Twisted

I drag my suitcases and walk past Natalia without saying a word.

‘To the river port, please,’ I instruct the cab driver, and light a cigarette.

When I first hear about the transport Inna has chosen, I’m shocked. Almost two days on a small cargo ship that doesn’t take more than 36 passengers and that is going to sail through the waves – and possibly storms – of the Black Sea, doesn’t sound like a cracking plan at all. But after giving it a lot of thought I get that it’s not as bad an idea as it first looked. My suitcases can be as heavy as I need them to be, and I can take more than one, without paying anything extra. A one-way ticket is $80, twice or even three times cheaper than an air ticket. Even though our travel time will be much longer than if we flew, we still have cabins in which to sleep flat, and dining three times a day. And because it is summer, we can suntan on beach chairs on the deck. What’s more, it’s something I’ve never done before. I wouldn’t call it excitement, but I do have some kind of curiosity about what it feels like to be on the open sea.

By the time I drag my two suitcases out of the cab and straight into the port’s only shabby bar, which is packed with passengers and oversized checked polypropylene bags that are a signature item of the shuttle traders all over the post-Soviet space, my former schoolmate is already pretty hammered. She sticks persistently to the good-looking barman with confidence on her drunken phiz and refuses to notice his I-am-not-interested-in-you-soaker-why-don’tyou-just-shut-up expression.

When she sees me, she starts an uncoordinated waving while holding on to the bar. Her body language screams that if it wasn’t for the old, dark-wood counter, she would be on the floor already.

‘Oh my… Inna! You are loaded, my friend. It’s a good thing we have to board in a few minutes, so you can get some sleep.’ I talk softly, as if she is a five-year-old.

She rolls her eyes and throws a discharge of loud laughter into the air. ‘Did you just say minutes? Not so fast, my friend! These bastards are going to marinate us overnight like some fucking chicken drumsticks!’ She bursts into more laughter. Then suddenly her face darkens, her body sways and she starts to fall off the bar stool.

‘Here we are!’ I catch Inna under the arms. Her eyes mist in drowsiness and her head drops heavily to the side. I help her to relocate to one of the soft chairs that a young man is using; he courteously vacates it for us. Without coming back to the world, she sprawls in a not-so-elegant position with her legs spread wide, passed out. I bring a glass of water and put it on the table next to her. Then I go back to the bar, notice the disgust on the barman’s face, mumble to myself, ‘I must put “get drunk as a pig” on my not-to-do list… it’s really ugly,’ and order a double vodka with orange juice.

I sip my drink, look at my watch and scowl – we were supposed to board at least twenty minutes ago. The barman notes the concern on my face and snoops, ‘Is it your first time?’

I raise my eyebrows and look at him, searching for some kind of sarcasm or a taunt, but am surprised to see a friendly smile on his attractive face.

Oh dear! He looks like a normal guy. I wonder how much Inna tormented and annoyed him to put him in the twitching state he was in half an hour ago?

I smile and nod.

‘Don’t expect to board anytime soon. Sometimes it takes the whole day and night. They are still busy loading the cargo. And until they finish, they will keep you guys waiting here,’ he explains with ease.

My eyes widen, and ‘Fuck!’ flies out of my mouth before I even think about it.

The barman smiles at that and goes to serve another client.

Seven hours, three screwdrivers, four cups of coffee and a full pack of cigarettes later, at three o’clock in the morning, one of the crew comes up and announces that all passengers can proceed to the passport control section.

Half asleep, irritated folk begin to rumble, get off their seats and pull their trunks out onto the street. I wake Inna and we follow the crowd. We quickly pass through passport control and customs. And as soon as we step on board the Victoria, we receive keys to our cabin. One of the sailors helps us to get our luggage up through a few companionways, dropping it at a door numbered 8, which is the number on our key’s tag.

The cabin is a small room with a tiny cupboard and washbasin on the left, a bunk bed on the right, and a little table with one chair between them, right under the porthole. We are so wiped out that the moment we walk inside, Inna wearily drops, ‘I am sleeping at the bottom… I get seasick,’ and crawls, still dressed, under the blanket. I murmur, ‘No wonder… drinking so much,’ and climb onto the top bunk, without even brushing my teeth or washing my make-up off. Two minutes later we zonk out into a deep sleep.

The next day I wake up and for a few seconds I can’t work out where I am. I close my eyes again and drown in thoughts about my life and where it is taking me this time. A light rush of adrenalin shivers through my body when I think of what kind of crap I could get myself into on this trip. No place to stay, no friends or people in whom I can have at least an illusion of trust and reliance, no working contract, no working permit.

In other words, a total fuck-up if something goes wrong.

I spend most of the trip on my own. Part of me is grateful that Inna has such an urge to get wasted and fuck some sailors, whose names I bet she can’t even remember the next day. Her drunken brawls give me some quiet time to myself. I try to catch up on some sleeping and tan on the deck with a book and a chilled beer.

When we approach the Bosphorus Strait it is night-time. At first it is impossible to distinguish the shoreline, because of how it merges with the dark sea and sky. Then, some lights start to appear, showing us the coast on both sides of the ship. The deeper we get into the strait, the more alive the land looks. When finally we reach Istanbul, I can’t believe my eyes. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! The view is breathtaking…

We ride the waves between the two headlands that rise uphill, covered by millions and millions of lights. We pass under the two huge bridges that connect the Asian and European parts of the metropolis and remind me of a graceful Christmas-light garland. The city glows. The mosques, whose minarets are adorned with floodlights of different colours, add to the city’s mood. Istanbul is alive and captivating; immense and powerful. It treacherously expands the space inside me for disturbing thoughts, bringing forth my fears and relentlessly emphasizing my vulnerability.

After making our way through the Bosphorus for about two hours, the Victoria berths at Istanbul’s Karaköy Port. I am still standing on deck, gazing around, absorbed, as my thoughts about my slippery tomorrow deepen.

The loud voice of the same person who announced the boarding in Kherson pulls me out of myself and into reality. He is walking around, warning passengers – with a smirk – to get ready for passport control. ‘Dear friends! Please go to your cabins and pack your stuff. The Turkish authorities will be on board in an hour or so. And ladies, I know it has been a long and tiring journey for some of you…’ He stops his eyes on Inna for a second, filled with satisfied lust – Oh gosh, she slept with him too! Although ‘sleeping’ is probably not the right word for what they were doing… – then continues, ‘Please make sure you remember your surnames, the ones that are in your passports!’

I look at Inna with genuine surprise. ‘What does he mean?’

She rolls her eyes.