Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

“…It’s the same way with people. Wouldn’t you agree? Some people, we think, are extraordinary, brilliant! But then we look again, and with an admirable self-discipline, we see the truth. That they aren’t worth a thing. And so, we crumble these people up and we throw them away. Isn’t that what you’re going about doing, Mr Rodriguez? Getting rid of the world’s stupidity? Making room for brilliance.”

The detective opens the beige file he has been holding and pulls out a photo. He throws the photo on to the blank metal table, it lands like a flimsy slap. It’s the body of a young woman, her face turned to the side, her mouth open. On her throat smudges in violet, midnight blue, and gas-yellow. A landscape of toxic waste. Her skin is the colour of diluted olive oil. Around her smooth, lifeless ear are strands of hair. The strands are thin, but long, and stick to her collarbone. Some even reach her ashen breasts.

César looks at the photo, then back up at the actor in the detective’s uniform.

“Look familiar?” the actor playing the detective says. He throws down another photo. It lands on the edge of the first, diagonally. It’s closer, more intimate, the woman’s face turned to the left. Her cheekbone protrudes, and a hollowness falls sharply to her jaw. The bones beneath her eyes are wide and the sockets are deeply set. The sides of her lips are whitish blue.

“Take a good look,” the detective says.

He walks around behind César and places a hand on his shoulder.

César is looking deeply into each photo. The pain around his wrists is fading away.

“Well,” the actor says.

He pauses then throws down another photo. Kodak. The woman is in the street, wearing a short puffy jacket. It is zipped up, but ends at her waist. Her hair is parted in the middle, and hangs apathetically down either side of her face. Same face, those sharp cheekbones, and sunken eyes. Even with the make-up, she looks quite tired. Or else just Slavic.

“Like I said, Mr Rodriguez, I commend you for seeing something for what it was really worth and crumbling it up and throwing it away. Now how about you tell me her name…”

César bends his torso forward, peering closer at the Kodak photo. It can’t be.

“Wait, how… did you get this?” He whispers to the actor playing the detective. The actor raises his eyebrows and repeats his line.

“…her name…”

“I… I know her…” César whispers a little more pronounced.

The actor playing the detective glances at the director, then back at César.

“…yes…you do know her.”

“She was going to my school… then um… her grandfather died… he was Jewish so—”

The actor playing the detective coughs to cut César off, then raises his eyebrows at César. César squirms his back towards the director and whispers. “…She wasn’t… garbage… she was going to be… important… she wasn’t garbage—”

The actor playing the detective clears his throat.

“Wait.” César stops. His eyes grow wide. “Oh!” He begins to whisper again, “Is she in the show…? She’s in the show, right? I knew she would—”

The assistant sighs loudly, then mouths, “YOUR LINE…”

Bitch. Honda. Hormiga. César, get a hold on yourself, for fuck’s sake!

“Oh. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” César mumbles and lowers his eyes.

The actor takes a step in, opens his chest and picks up the script.

“You want to tell me her name, Mr Rodriguez…”

Marta? Marilena? Mariya?

Olya? Masha? Irina?

BITCH. HONDA. HORMIGA!

César raises his head and looks directly at the actor playing the detective. When their eyes meet, they hinge together. The two men stare at each other in silence, pushing deeper and deeper into each other’s sockets. Suddenly, it is not two actors in the room any more, it is a highly specialised detective and a Latino criminal. César tightens his jaw and pulls his chin towards the detective.

“Don’t know diz bitch,” Manny says.

The detective laughs with his mouth closed like he’s trying to unplug his nostrils. When he’s done, he cranes over to Manny’s ear.

“You see, I think you wish she was just some bitch , to borrow your wording, Mr Rodriguez, that’s not the type of language I would use, but I’m quoting you, of course… I think you wish this bitch’ s face didn’t ring a bell… but the thing is, Mr Rodriguez, it does, doesn’t it? This face right here, I bet it’s ringing loud and clear…. ring… ring… ring…Well, aren’t you going to answer it?”

Manny lifts his eyes to the detective. The detective frowns at the sight of him, like butter melting in the microwave. He starts pacing around the table, then stops at the wall of the audition room and lifts his chin, perhaps in an effort to look like Socrates. Indeed, with a Socratic air, he gazes into the wall as if contemplating the vastness of a sky held back by prison bars. ( Very nice , the director notes.)

Manny snorts and the detective’s contemplation on a man’s freedom is interrupted. He turns around, keeping his head elevated.

“Anyway, Mr Rodriguez, it’s too late. Too late for what, you might be asking. Too late for you , Mr Rodriguez. To put it briefly. To answer your question. So why don’t you give me her name, and we can both stop playing dumb—so to speak. Of course, I’m sure you are a very bright young man… Do you understand what I’m telling you? Do you need a translator, Mr Rodriguez?”

Manny flares his nostrils.

“Nah, man I’m multi-lingual — just ask yer sisterz pussy HA HA.”

The detective frowns. He goes back to the table and slides an open beige folder towards Manny. Inside, there are several documents. The detective slides them apart with his fingers.

“Take a good look…”

Manny lowers his eyes to the documents. The one on top is a form with a photograph stapled in the right-hand corner. The photo is of the same woman, except her eyes are open and darted forward as if trying to memorise a long number. There are words huddled together in some areas, then open spaces with clues printed in italics like whispers, address, date of birth , social security number…

“Can you read that name out loud for me?”

Manny cocks his head to the side.

“Are you literate, Mr Rodriguez? I mean, can you read? Vous pourriez me lire ce qui est écrit là-dessous? Mr Rodriguez. ¿Puedes leer? ”

“Ya, I can LEER, hombre. Peez-a-shit like me can even LEER LA BIBLE, Put my derty tongue all ova God’s werds mmmm. Ain’t dat FUNNY? Why you ain’t laffin, bitch ?”

Detective drops his chin. “It’s about time you show a little respect, Mr Rodriguez. You’re speaking to an officer of the law…”

“Yo, hombre, no problem, I gotchya. Officer … BITCH! HA HA!”

The detective’s face remains unmoved.

“Wazamadder, you ain’t got no senzo humour, DEE-TEK-TIV?”

“No, I suppose I don’t, personally, but I’ve always appreciated a good sense of humour in others.”

“Like yer mama?”

“Yes, my mother also appreciated a sense of humour, God rest her soul, of course.”

“Dat why she had you?”

“Excuse me…”

“’Cause you so busted, I mean dat why she had you, so she could laff all day long lookin at yer busted face.”

The detective approaches Manny. Their eyes meet, and they smile at each other. The detective chuckles. Manny gets ready to laugh his lungs dry. The detective’s hand reaches around the back of his neck and slams Manny’s face into the table. The chair Manny’s cuffed to tilts forward, then thumps back down. Manny’s cuffed hands flinch from the shock, then ball up into fists. He shakes his fists in the confines of the metal circles, bruising a ring around his wrists. Blood from his nose stains the documents of the nameless woman.