Yelena Moskovich - Virtuoso

Before Jan Zajíc, the second student, took the train to Prague and went into No. 39 on Wenceslas Square to set himself on fire, he wrote a letter to his family.

He ended the letter with, Say hi to the boys, the river and the forest.

Dominxxika_N39: At bus stop, there is another road. Road goes up, like hill. On one side, field is only ploughed dirt – nothing planted yet. Other side, bushes, one two three four five. Behind, farmhouse. Go up hill, stay on farmhouse side. Metal road barrier soon will break on this side. 500 metres in front of break, three small houses, red roof shingles. Go through barrier opening, follow row of tall trees.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: Okay.

Dominxxika_N39: Then you see wire fence. This is beginning of big hospital-bed plant. Follow fence line, but not touch fence (it is security, maybe electric shock I do not know), just follow fence line. Then it open on another road. So you get on that road. And there, one house, distance on hill, but has blue fence, close to road. This is my favourite fence, because wires are knit close together and when it rain, it make dew-drop pattern in fence like wall of tears. It is beautiful like u.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: *blush

Dominxxika_N39: Follow beautiful blue fence. Then fence end. It look like there is only big forest in front of you. But it is not true. Continue straight. Straight, straight, straight, into forest. Thick trees, dark, wet soil, muddy, be careful. On other side, you see the dirt path. The dirt path lead to my house.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: And which one’s your house?

Dominxxika_N39: There is only one house on this road. This is where I live.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: Okay.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: …Dominika?

Dominxxika_N39: Yes my beautiful Amy.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: I’m a lil scared…

Dominxxika_N39: O my love, I am lil scared too.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: …oh.

Dominxxika_N39: But it’s ok, my angel. Remember, we are together.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: Yes, we are!

0_hotgirlAmy_0: It’s just that… I’m really scared.

Dominxxika_N39: O my Amy, you are also really brave.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: Yeah.

Dominxxika_N39: Do not forget to pack ur cute jeans.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: Okay.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: …Dominika?

Dominxxika_N39: Yes my angel.

0_hotgirlAmy_0: I’m really, really scared.

I’m all out of pee now, Mamka.

—why certain children couldn’t be born and others just dropped down dead—

He’s whispering…

I think my ears are going to shit.

I knew your friend.

You dunno shit about shit

So what is violence?

Her eyes of green venom glowing in the spotlight… Go play!

Even her knees were mesmerising.

Dominique, I swear to God…

I never asked—

you knitted me together

Die schönen Berge

holds the body of the patient in “zero pressure”

No, no, no, no, no

I hope you like sad music.

No, no, no, no, no,

I THOUGHT I WAS THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE

(Give him back.)

I don’t know what to do with History,

Go online, Amy

the big one that belongs to all of us

Go downstairs, now.

and my small one, like a keychain.

…wish us luck…

Shh… Let me,

But I can’t see you…

Does that feel good?

Aimée put on the form-fitting black dress that Dominique had picked out for her years ago. Aimée had worn it, to please Dominique, to those social occasions when she was present as Dominique’s wife, a cocktail party, after-show party, birthday dinner – but no matter the event, it never seemed to fit her body or the occasion. It was too stiff or too tight, or too elastic, too close to her own flesh, groping through her skin towards her skeletal structure, disapproving of where her limbs extruded, arced, softened, receded or hinged, insisting its own form and order upon her figure, determined to be more her skin than her own skin, like pencil-lead being pressed into paper, commanding another silhouette, to squeeze out a more natural voice from her waist, a more natural roll from her pelvis, a more natural spiral for her DNA helix, to flick the tongue in her mouth and glimmer the eyes in her sockets and tip the weight towards her toes.

Not just the dress, but also. Gestures, but also. Words, but also: nature’s will. Pencil-pokes and paintbrush strokes. A dead rabbit flopped next to a branch of tears as plump as green grapes, a rash-red pomegranate spread wide, kernels glistening like siren songs, a lemon rind curling off like the same old story, but also: nature morte – still life or life stilled – that woman (in the movies), who knows when to stand in the shadow, and when to let herself be kissed, and when to die off.

Every time, the dress demanded, by its curve, its zipper, its thickly stretched fabric, that Aimée be more flirtatious, that she coil and tease like a modern woman while still appeasing her ancestors with a reverence for tradition, that she indulge in her own allure, while regulating it with the permission to be alluring, that she fit in with her sexy contemporaries, stay young enough by growing older to look younger in such a dress, worthy of having a partner in such a dress, worthy of their fidelity, of their eye on you, their hands on you, their mouth on your mouth in the bathroom while the dress digs into your waist and with your eyes closed you imagine that pressure is not the dress, but your lover’s grasp, a validating pinch, bestowed – at the end of the night, in their bedroom, Aimée peeled off the dress, her flesh exhaling in a timid claim to its freedom, as Aimée looked down at her skin lined with imprints of the threading, the zipper, the seams, etchings, notes of critique, stipulations from the dress, zipped up and back on the hanger now, and Aimée, left to her own nakedness, looking across the room at Dominique, trying to read her eyes.

“Come to bed…” Aimée coyed, but Dominique was undressing too slowly and too silently, while Aimée got on her hands and knees and serpented across the soft mattress towards Dominique as if she were still wearing the dress, as if the dress could formulate language for her, use her voice to whisper into Dominique’s ear, Do you still want to fuck me?

It was the last time she’d wear this dress, Aimée decided as she put it on, and as she walked around and gathered the faint condolences at Dominique’s wake, she realised – it finally fit, this dress, it fit her body and the occasion. It engulfed her and it erased her, it made her a silhouette of just the right woman. A black hole, a lapse in memory, someone else’s orgasm, someone else’s blood-rush, someone else pumping for life, heart, pelvis, nervous fingertip on the table restrained, aligned, and polished nails catching the light – the rest of the body, standing up, sitting down, waiting, waiting for someone else’s gaze to fill her ellipsis.

Aimée could almost grasp it, the cohesiveness – her, occasion, context – but it unthreaded on contact, strings of feeling, mysterious, as it had been throughout her life: a moment of seemingly unfounded fury or an arbitrary dunk of despair or an erratic spasm of repugnance, at her, the occasion, the context, at the fact that something of her womanhood was failing her like a sickly organ, the mysterious rage, whose scream always came out in a wheeze, a sigh, a yawn, her breath unable to grasp the source or reason for the lack of air.