Yelena Moskovich - Virtuoso

Zorka tensed up, but Erki reached out his foot and kicked it between the two, at Oleg’s shoulder.

“Shh… I’m relaxing.”

“Yeah, me too, I’m taking it easy,” he adjusted his trousers. “Just saying, Zorichka’s acting like a dykey Amal Clooney over here, all high class with her human rights—”

Erki smiled at that and the American chuckled into his phone screen.

“When reality is—” Oleg continued. “Now hold on, don’t get pissy, baby, I am too, we both crawled out of the shitty Soviet asshole. And now we’re all mixed in with the fancy ‘Europeans’ and the fancy ‘Americans’ with their good names and good noses and their fresh cheeks—” Oleg leaned over and started poking at the American’s cheeks.

“Aww, you’re so cute, my chubby free-world sweetheart,” Oleg said in a puckered voice.

“Hey, that tickles,” the American squirmed until Oleg took his hand away.

“Sooooo cute especially when they act all proud of themselves for their democratic values and equal rights and their fair-handed politics, saviours of our civilisation – awwww, it just makes me want to squeeze their little soap-smelling asses!” He tried to grab at a bit of the American’s stomach sloping slightly over his waistband.

“Hey, stop it!” the American said, “I do not smell like soap.”

“You totally do…” Claire chuckled.

“Don’t worry, I like the soap baby smell,” Oleg continued, “just, can you clarify one thing I don’t understand and maybe it’s cause I didn’t grow up with so many different types of cereal and TV channels and so on, but, like: if you are so afraid of dictatorship, why are you always telling your people what they can and can’t do, what they can and can’t say… getting all nervous about keeping things equal all the time…? Like, in America,” Oleg began chuckling, “for every white fag I’d fuck, I’d have to fuck a coloured fag too?”

Céline began to laugh into her cigarette, but her breath cut as Zorka pulled the switchblade from her ankle, and lunged at Oleg, who jumped up to his feet, as Zorka to hers, gripping her hand over the thin metal snake on the handle of the knife, the tip of the blade stopping just in front of Oleg’s crooked nose.

Claire let go of the piece of Céline’s hair between her fingers. Erki sat up. A click snapped from below and everyone looked down. There, near Oleg’s feet, was the American holding up his phone.

“Ah shit, that’s such a cool photo!” he said.

“Let me see,” Erki said, reaching out his hand.

“Zorka you look so bad-ass in it! Seriously!” the American continued and passed his phone over.

Erki studied the photo. It was taken from below: Zorka, flexed bicep, intense eyes, holding a knife at someone, the blade hiding his face.

Erki turned to Olivier.

“You know, we could rent a house, trash it a bit, and just shoot photos of Zorka pulling a knife at whoever other models, just like this, this angle.”

Then Erki suddenly stood up.

“Oh shit. It’s perfect, actually.”

“That’s fucking hot,” the American added.

Erki turned to the American and handed him back his phone, then said in a humourless tone, “Send me that photo. Delete it from your phone. You weren’t a dumb-ass and posted it already, were you?”

“No, I just took it. Look, I’m sending it to you now.”

Erki stood up and reached over to Zorka. He touched her wrist gently and held it there as she folded the knife back, unsure if she was being defeated or praised. He kissed her on her cheek, then he fell back down into the crook of Olivier’s armpit, and extended his forearm on Olivier’s thigh.

Jana watched Zorka slip off and go into the kitchen.

“I’ll be right back,” she told Aimée.

“I wanted to write you,” Zorka said.

She was leaning against the sink, pouring more vodka into her drink.

“Yeah?” Jana said.

“I mean I knew you were in Paris,” Zorka continued. “Your brother told me.”

“Oh.”

“I called your mom and she hung up on me, big surprise. Then I got this friend of mine to snoop up your bro’s number. He wouldn’t pick up, then I texted him to say it’s me and he texted back saying you were in Paris.”

Zorka explained how she had ended up in America, of all places, and that she’d been living in Paris for a couple of years now. She first had a job at a beauty salon, waxing women. She said she liked it a lot. Jana thought it was a demeaning job, but said nothing.

Zorka pulled up a red-lipped grin and stared at Jana.

“Anyway, now I guess I do a bit of whatever.”

“Whatever?”

“I mean Erki has me modelling some for his stuff, and it’s really getting big, so. Janka, it’s fucking nuts. The amount of money I get, just for fuckin wearing some clothes! Talk about the capitalist cow!”

“Who’s milking who,” Jana mumbled.

“Ah Janka. Come on.”

Jana looked up and darted her gaze into Zorka.

“Congratulations, Zorka, you seem like you figured everything out,” she said numbly.

“Woah,” Zorka said, “you pissed at me or something?”

Jana looked into her plastic cup, and then took another sip.

“How’s your mother?” Jana asked.

Zorka laughed like a memory of laughing, as Jana went over her face.

“Don’t look at me like that, Janka, you know I always take it to heart, the way you look at me.”

“How do you want me to look at you?”

“Fuck Jana, I’m serious.”

“Serious about what?”

“That—that—I get it, it doesn’t take a genius like you to catch on, that you’re pissed at me!”

Claire burst in, her pink coat on her shoulders, holding Zorka’s stone-coloured bomber jacket, and reaching it over to her, while her other hand held a phone in mid-conversation.

“Come on, the Uber’s here.”

Zorka took the coat from Claire.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Zorka replied.

“I’m waiting for you downstairs,” Claire said and put her phone back to her ear.

Zorka stood there, with her coat in one hand. She bit the inside of her cheek, then let it go.

“Yeah, shit, I don’t really feel like a club, but we promised we’d stop by to say hi to these friends so…”

“She’s your girlfriend?” Jana asked.

“Claire? Ha, nah, she’s like my… my best friend, I mean sometimes we… have some fun, but nah, Claire and I are just… like… buds, you know.”

With that she began to put her bomber jacket on, one sleeve at a time, then she looked back up at Jana.

“Well. Even if you are pissed at me, it’s really nice to see you, Jana…”

Jana swallowed, preparing for a solid phrase, a brick on brick, but when her lips parted, the voice came out as a breeze, a cotton dress, a sun’s ray.

“…you too…” Jana replied.

Zorka lingered her gaze on Jana and Jana watched her with the sense that Zorka was growing taller and taller and she, shrinking back in time.

Zorka sniffed.

“So…” she said, and began to nod. Then flipped her jacket hood over her head, and took a step towards the doorway, then stopped, putting her hand on the wall. She turned back to Jana, her hood falling off her shaved head, and raised her left hand to her shoulder, her right hand at her gut, closed her eyes and began cringing sounds as she fingered an air guitar.

“Agnes Dei and the Jans!” Zorka proclaimed.

She flipped her hood back on, pivoted, and walked out.

The party noises were slapping against each other, but in the kitchen, it was a solemn display, a modern sort of nature morte , with a stack of white plastic cups, scattered bottle tops belly up, glass bottles with dewy labels, squeezed lime slices in the sink, and Jana leaning her back against the counter, staring at the cabinets in front of her with wide, empty rabbit eyes.