Yelena Moskovich - Virtuoso

“You too, honeygirl,” Perla said. “Treat yourself.”

Rico got accepted to Yale for a graduate programme and Paul and Ben threw the biggest party they’d ever thrown. Zorka drank too much of the grainy rum punch and kept hugging Rico saying “Don’t go!,” then running back and saying “Go, go!” She made out with the French Girl, and they fondled each other a bit on the porch until Ben snuck up on them and took a photo, then Zorka chased him around and pinned him to the ground and said, “Next time I wax your pussy, by the way, this is no joke, Bennie!” But when things calmed down, Zorka slept in Rico’s bed, pressing her forehead into his back, with her arms wrapped around his resting body.

The day after Rico left, Zorka went into the empty room and sat down in the middle, mindlessly tracing the wooden grading in the floorboards with the tip of the switch-blade she had stolen from Slavek’s papka back in the day, with the thin snake coiling across the metal handle.

She gave her two weeks’ notice and announced that she was taking her savings and moving to Paris with the French Girl, who said she’d get them jobs waxing somewhere and Zorka could work on her French.

Paul drove them to the airport and said, “You family now, so don’t do nothing stupid to each other and if you do, just say you’re sorry. Take care of each other.”

The Truth the Dead Know

Jana was keeping count of the days, ninety-two since Zorka had set fire to Mr Bolshakov’s boots, stolen his cash and peaced out, then snuck back and left the burning fox-fur in the hallway as her salute. The fire had left the whole floor charred and the occupants like wolves against her mamka, who discretely packed up and left in the early morning a couple of days later. Still the girl continued to be the central topic of discussion, the neighbours exchanged their opinions, inserted their expertise, summoned up examples from literature, hearsay, history, and deliberated on the appropriate form of punishment, until the topic of Zorka became the communal means of speaking about integrity in this day and age and the protection of our vulnerable youth.

“She should have been put in a youth detention facility long ago.”

“She belongs in jail, end of story.”

“I’d drag that girl by her hair into a cell and turn the key myself!”

“I’d lock her up by her ankle with a thick metal chain.”

“Like in a dungeon?”

“No, inside the house.”

“It’s a shame when girls choose to become criminals instead of women.”

… She’s sitting on the floor, in the corner, with the heavy chain on her ankle, in her flaming red dress, the one I gave her, and she looks absolutely beautiful…

“Well, it is not easy to give our young people democracy.”

“Unlock me!” she screams, her fingers scratching at the metal ankle brace.

“It’s true that if we don’t catch them as children, we’ll be paying the price years later…”

“I can’t unlock you, honey,” I explain to her calmly. “If I unlock you, the first thing you will do is go on the computer.”

“Unconventional cases call for unconventional methods.”

“I won’t!” she’s crying. “I promise I won’t go online!”

“At that age, you can already tell the type of women these girls are becoming.”

I kiss her on the forehead, always, before I leave for work. “I love you, my darling,” I tell her, every morning when I leave and every evening when I came back home. “However,” I must explain this to her, unfortunately, daily, “darling, despite your own efforts, you are a liar.”

One evening, my love looks a little different from usual. “What have you been up to, my one and only?” I ask her. She says, “Nothing, I have been sitting here in the corner, waiting for you to come home. I haven’t even stood up to use the basin you left me to urinate or defecate. I’ve just done both things in my underwear. Forgive me.”

I touch her cheek gently and I tell her it’s alright. “Let’s get you cleaned up, my love,” I tell her, as she is lifting up her red dress, and I get down on my knees to help take off her sullied underwear.

The last thing I remember is that I am crouching and reaching beneath my wife’s red dress…

When I open my eyes, I can feel right away that my trousers are down, so is my underwear. I am lying on the ground, on my back, that is certain. I try to sit up, but I can’t move my arm or my leg, even my head is pinned. I roll my eyes around and see the children, dirty-faced, holding me down and smiling. When children smile from above, it is very disconcerting. Then a voice erupts from their gaze.

“Missing something?” a girl-voice says. She’s wearing a big red bow on her dark cropped head, the hair jagged around her face, and her pupils are dense and pitch.

She’s standing above me, her eyebrows tilting like knives, and she’s holding something in her right hand. I squint and focus until I can decipher what the object is. It is, indeed, my cock.

“That’s my cock!” I shriek.

“Bingo!” the girl says. “You want it back? Or should I toss it?”

“No, no, don’t!” I plead. “I want it back!”

She wiggles the thing above me.

“Buh bye, buh bye,” she is saying in a high-pitched voice and wiggles the thing away like a fleeting bird.

“Wait! No! Wait, I said I wanted it back!”

She stops the bird’s flight and my cock quivers, then settles into stillness.

“Okay, Mister,” she says, “but you give a little, you get a little, that’s how it works. Plus, you’ve chained your wife to the house. That’s a major red flag, you know.”

All the kids begin to nod.

“But how else am I supposed to monitor her use of the worldwide-web?” I try to explain.

“We understand your concern,” the girl replies. “That’s exactly why we decided to take your dick, Mister. How else are we supposed to monitor what you do with it?”

“What do you mean? I don’t even do much with it. I urinate and I wash it when I wash myself and alright, I also touch myself from time to time, but we don’t even have sex anymore, my wife and I, when I get home and unlock her, she always says that her leg hurts and that she’s not in the mood… What if I give you my word, that I promise not to do anything disrespectful with my member!”

“Words are like dreams,” the kids say in unison. “Dreams are like angels. Angels know when you are lying… even when you don’t know yourself.”

“But I’m not lying!”

“Listen, Mr D, let’s just say I’m Snow White and I just woke up and I’m really pissed off. See what I’m getting at?”

“…No…” I’m looking around and all the kids begin to smile in succession like a circle of budding tulips.

“Hey don’t worry ’bout my friends, Mr D, it’s a whole different ballgame for them. They’re pretty homesick, you know. For me and you, well, this is just a dream. For them, it’s a diaspora. Apples and oranges.”

Then the lanky girl takes my cock and puts it in her blue hoodie pocket and takes out a shiny red apple and hands it over.

“Wanna a bite?” she asks.

“…No… thanks…” I’m trying to tell her, but my voice is shaky. Then the apple is pressed against my lips and her hand’s gripping my head.