Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

As she passed him, he noticed the baby wrapped upon her back with the scarf. The baby’s cheeks spread like dough, eyes closed, as if he was listening to the creaking of his mother’s spine. Just before crossing, a man came out of a fast-food shop wearing a long white cotton robe. The woman greeted him, her French words rolling in and out of another language.

César spotted it. Rue du Faubourg St-Denis . This was the street where Marcel lived. He hurried past an approaching couple to cross the street, but got intercepted by an Indian man holding a big bouquet of white and red roses. The man stopped straight in front of César and levered the bouquet into his face.

“No thanks,” César quickly replied, trying to shoo the roses out of his nose. The Indian rose seller did not budge. César repeated “ Non merci ,” again, then again “ Non merci .” Then someone turned around and bumped into the Indian man and like a pinball, he was set on his way, to offer roses elsewhere. Eager to cross, César lifted his foot, but it was pushed directly back down to the concrete. His toe was stubbed. “ Sorry, Pardohen, ” an American-looking girl said as she pulled her rolling suitcase after her. César got a glimpse of her face. She must have played the clarinet as a child and sided with her dad during the divorce.

Héy-O, César,

Ramène le poisson!

Marcel’s voice bounced around in César’s head. He looked back at the street, which was streaming with passing cars.

HÉ PUTA.

CARRETE dat FISH!

This voice was his brother Raul’s, compact and gritty.

Then, in the elastic voice of his younger, fatter brother, Alonzo.

Puuuuta, carrete ese pez!

“ Estoy tambaleando! I am!”

César (Rosa’s voice. It sounded disappointed in him.)

“I’m waiting for the cars to pass…”

César (Rosa’s voice was smoothing out now, as if freshly ironed)

“Yeah?”

¿Es tu pez?

¿Qué?

Is that your fish, Julio César?

“ Sí, si, esa es mi pez. ”

Dunt looz it, César. You get onlee wone…

“I won’t.”

Grampa got bahreed with hiz fish under hiz two crossid hands…

“ ¿Qué? ”

Juan-Miguel the hothead was growing impatient.

REEL IT IN YOU PEESOV SHIT! he spouted.

“ I’m reeling I’m reeling! ” César exclaimed, opening his arms wide to the world.

His upper arm ran into something cushioned. He turned his head and searched for the source. It was a prostitute’s large breast.

“Hello,” the prostitute said ironically.

This big-breasted woman seemed at first glance old enough to be his mother. But when César looked closer, her eyes had dilated and her pupils were glossy like a mesmerised baby’s. As soon as she blinked, though, her eyelids lifted back up, revealing the drooling vision of an elderly woman trying to remember.

César quickly pulled his elbow back towards his gut and excused himself. The woman lifted her finger, on which she was wearing a key-ring. Off the metal ring was one big bronze-coloured key which looked like it was meant for a castle. The apartment buildings in this city were so old that it was not uncommon to have such a key. Next to that long key, other smaller, more modern keys hung, perhaps for a mailbox or a storage space. She jingled the keys to show César that she had a room upstairs where she could take him (unlike some other prostitutes who don’t have a room of their own and have to use the street as their oyster).

“Uh, oh, no thanks,” César said and stepped in closer to the street curb, eyeing the passing traffic for gaps. None of the spaces aligned enough to give César a pathway across. As he waited, he could hear the discreet metal clink of the keys hanging from the prostitute’s finger behind him.

The light flashed red and the cars screeched to a halt in a bristled line. One motorcycle managed to slip through the congestion and peel off just before the crowd of pedestrians ebbed in. César stepped into the street with the others. He crossed with them, away from this prostitute who could have been his mother, or an infant, or an elderly woman with Alzheimer’s… He heard her rattling keys following after him. He could feel her, standing somewhere behind him with an arched chest, jingling her keys, her body morphing between ages like a girl growing up in front of a funhouse mirror.

As he walked, the keys jingled in his ear on loop. They were beginning to sound like the voice of a man being fast-forwarded to repeated flashes of giddiness. César listened closer to the chirping, trying to decipher the words. With every step, it chirped again. And again. Notereconoces? Notereconoces?

No te reconoces?

Don’t you recognise yourself? the jingling keys seemed to be saying to him.

Béatrice went home with the dress in a plastic bag.

Jean-Luc, her sister’s boyfriend, was in the kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, holding the refrigerator door open. He closed the fridge and turned around with a plastic bottle of Perrier in his hand.

“Oh. Hello,” he said to Béatrice and gave her a kiss on each cheek.

“Hello,” she replied, and went into the living room.

Her mother was there, turning an oriental vase towards the light. Her father was on the sofa reading the paper. He lowered it and glinted at Béatrice.

“Whatchyou got in the bag?” her father asked.

“A dress,” Béatrice replied.

Béatrice looked through the living room doorway to the flight of stairs that led up to the first floor. She longed to go upstairs with the dress and to be alone with Polina’s voice, which was still floating around in her head. She wanted to feel the lace on her body and to look at herself in the mirror and think about the stories Polina had told her.

“Try it on,” Emmanuelle said, from the top of the stairs. She was wearing tight jeans and a loose silk shirt which hugged the smooth cups of her bra beneath. As she bent forward, the silk shirt hung down and showed her breasts, which were pushed gently together like two hotel pillows.

“Yeah, honey, give us a show,” her father added.

Béatrice turned. Her mouth was open and a voice was already leaving her.

“ Okay ,” the voice said meekly.

It was quieter than Béatrice’s voice, smaller because it was coming from far away. Years back. Twenty-some years back. From a sandy dune where her hands are holding a girl’s ankles.

In her room, Béatrice rummaged in the drawers for something black to wear underneath the dress. She found a black tank-top and skirt, and covered her body with the thin, tight cotton. She pulled the dress out of the bag and slid each arm in carefully, then pulled its length down. Telo, Nomer… She bent her arms back and pulled the zipper all the way up her spine. Chiffre…

She went to the small mirror above her dresser, only low enough to reflect her face. She could feel where her chignon had come undone. Hier zitten. She smoothed the loose strands of hair up, until they were all together and sleek like a highway at dawn.

She looked down. Her feet were bare. Sofia . She found the black heels she wore for concerts. They were highly arched, but with a strong base that she could use to tap the rhythm as she sang. She could feel the coarse black lace on her body. She stepped her foot into each heel slowly, as if into bathwater.

Imye . Yulia. Istiyourum .