Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

“…I mean, I’d have to look at—”

“WOA. Woa woa woa.” Marcel jumped. He grabbed the sides of his desk and pulled in towards César. “Buddy, please. Don’t let me down here. You can’t let me down on this one.”

“I won’t—”

“The thing is, I’ve already buttered up one of the producers about you. We’re dealing with big fish here, for you and for me. You’re my man here. You’re their man. You’re the man! Say it. Say it with me, buddy. Tell me. Tell me you’re my loco nacho…”

César’s mind began to race. Thirteen episodes. National TV. Wide distribution. DVD. Spanish subtitles. His family could see it in Mexico. His brothers. Tough guy. Scary guy. Psychos don’t take shit . No one messes with a psycho. César suddenly felt so excited, the pinheads in his eyes sparkled feverishly, as if trying to become meteors. Marcel stared at him anxiously.

“I’M YOUR LATIN PSYCHO!” César roared.

Marcel smiled with so much tenderness, César almost called him Papa .

The two young girls stared down at César, one smiling and one frowning at his fate.

There’s a metal rummaging in the keyhole. A click and a clang and a chain dropping like a brass necklace. The door opens and the Head Natasha of the Natashas enters holding a large, padded book. All the Natashas perk up.

“Okay, girls, who wants to see some pictures?”

“Oh I do!” “I do.” “I do…”

Each Natasha shouts out in her own way. Some quack out instantaneously, unashamed of their saliva. Others concentrate when they speak. They are concerned about their dignity and let their words out accordingly.

“Okay then, come around, come around.”

The Natashas cluster around the Head Natasha. She crouches down and opens her wide, padded book.

First photo, full page, colour:

Marilyn Monroe with her wrists pressed together, pushing up as if coming out of a pool. It is not clear whether she is actually at the pool because the background is completely black. Also, she’s wearing a sleeveless powder-blue bustier of an elegant dress, the kind of garment one does not normally wear if they are at the pool. Her eyes gaze slightly beyond you. They skim over the hairs on top of your head. Her mouth is open but her teeth stay firmly pressed together.

“She sure looks nervous,” the lanky Natasha says.

“Well, you’d be nervous too if all around you was nothing but black!” the sleepy Natasha replies.

The Natashas peer at this photo from all angles, elbowing each other to make room, some hovering on their tiptoes, others levering between ankles. The Head Natasha turns the page.

Two half-sized photos, colour:

Marilyn Monroe has her arms up, hands on the back of her neck, as if holding up her hair. She is wearing a black turtleneck. Behind her, the wooden beams of an old barn. Maybe she’s in Tennessee. Maybe there’s a pig poking his snout at her leg. This we can’t see, because the photo is just from her torso up. Her breasts push out in cones. Her mouth is open. She must be in the middle of saying something. Something like, “That light is in my eyes.” Or “The pig’s got his snout on my leg.” Or “I don’t think I like myself today.”

Second photo:

Marilyn Monroe is in a black swimsuit, sitting in a chaise longue on a pool-deck. One of her shiny legs is up in the air. She’s holding the straps of a black heel upon her foot. She pulls down on the straps, as if hanging on, so that she won’t blow away. However, there is no sign of wind. She is maybe saying something coquettish, like “Come over here, you.” Or sucking in air because of an acute pain in her uterus. Both produce very similar flirtatious sounds. No wonder the cameraman is confused.

One Natasha inhales until her stomach pushes over her jeans, then she seals up her lips and leans directly over the photo. The other Natashas watch her. Suddenly, she lets her lips burst open and a gust of breath slaps on to the photo.

“Crazy, what’re you doing!”

“I wanted to see if she’d move.”

“It’s a FOTO. Do you know what a FOTO is?”

“Yeah I know what a FOTO is.”

“My cell phone takes FOTOS,” the Natasha with freshly painted nails says.

“Who cares.”

Another Natasha with scraped knuckles extends her long finger and points at everyone.

“There are FOTOS of you and you and you and you and you on the internet and let me tell you, you’re not wearing much!”

“Those FOTOS are not for the clothes anyways, duh.”

“Yeah, they are like doctor-visit FOTOS. You know, bend over, slide forward, spread your legs, relax.”

“I would NEVER let no doctor or whoever take one of those fotos of me… without paying upfront!” a Natasha says proudly. The Natashas behind her nod in solidarity.

“Um… I don’t think… I want… like, one of those fotos… taken of me… at all.” The new Natasha has watery eyes.

“O but you don’t even need to be there really,” the blue-eye-shadow Natasha says kindly.

“A vacant house doesn’t complain of a robbery,” the redhead adds.

At this, a plump Natasha shifts her hips forward.

“Forget that. What are you, ashamed of your body? I’m not. I’ve got a delicious body.” She moves in towards the sitting Natasha and circles her hips in front of her eyes. “I’m delicious, dee-lee-sush.”

“Lemme see.” Sunflower budges through the crowd.

“Stop pushing!”

“You smell!”

The rest of the Natashas start pushing and shoving and pinching each other, until the Head Natasha must interfere.

“Now, now, girls, let’s not get too excited. It was already nice to look at those photos. Wasn’t it? Wasn’t that nice?”

“It was really nice,” a Natasha states proudly.

“Really, really nice!” another adds.

“But now it’s time for bed.”

The Natashas huff and pout.

“Yes, yes, it’s bedtime.”

“O… kay…”

“There we go, that’s my girls.”

The Natashas file towards their spots and plop themselves down. One by one they burrow into their blankets and close their eyes.

“That was so nice…” they mumble drowsily.

When the door is closed and the lock is rebolted, the bodies of the Natashas are lifeless, like lumps of laundry. Each one breathes rhythmically, in and out. Between their breaths, odd sounds push out. Each Natasha reverts back to her mother tongue. She mumbles names. Marta. Marilena. Mariya . Ragdolls they once loved.

The saliva swooshes slowly back and forth in each mouth. One by one their saliva synchronises with the rest. It forms the sound of a crashing wave, crashing on to the shore of a beach.

On that beach, Marilyn is sitting in the sand. She’s wearing a red-and-white striped bathing suit. Her knees catch the light. Her legs are slightly open. She crosses her arms over her breasts, squirming, right to left, left to right.

Relax, Marta.

Relax, Marilena.

Relax, Mariya.

You’re only being tickled.

Finally back in his small apartment, César sat at his desk with the audition scenes on one side and his notebook on the other. Manuel “Manny” Rodriguez . This season’s Latin psycho. César did have some experience with psychotic personas, even if it wasn’t professional. Poor Estefania who married her sister’s killer, Laura the beautiful grieving widow and naughty Dr Arturo and his facial reconstruction, Doña Carlota, both jealous and protective of her young, horny niece. Enrique. Federico. Then all the men he played at his telemarketing job. Melancholic Andres, itchy-fingered Pablo, and of course Juan-Miguel the hothead.