Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

“ ¿Qué he sacado con el lirio ay yai aye. ” What have I gotten from the lily, aye aye aye.

“ ¿Qué he sacado con la sombra ay yai aye. ” What have I gotten from the shadow aye aye aye

“ ay yai aye

ay yai aye ”

Béatrice stood at her bedroom window. She looked back across the dark room at her sister, fast asleep, hair streaming across the pillow. She turned back to the window. “Hello?” she said without thinking.

Something was in her hand. She brought it up to the moonlight and saw that she was holding a cell phone.

She listened. The static was the sound of pencil lead.

“It’s Polina,” said a voice through the static. Béatrice felt the velvet and coal tones graze over her neck. She leaned her head to the side, examining the sensation.

“The dress looks very nice on you, Béatrice.” Polina said.

Béatrice looked down. She was wearing the black lace dress over her naked body. When did she put it on? Had she worn it to bed?

Béatrice looked through the window, at the yard below. Outside, the trees jabbed into the air in various directions. The ground was full of shadows.

“Do you see me, Béatrice?” Polina asked.

She scanned the shadows for Polina. She saw the darkened flowerbed. The pebble path. The rust-dry earth.

“No. Where are you?”

The receiver filled with static again. She pulled the phone away from her ear and lowered it to her side.

“Polina?” she said into the window. Her breath fogged the glass. “Polina?”

“Béatrice.”

“Yeah.”

“Come down, Béatrice. Let’s go for a walk.”

In the garden, shadows overlapped on the ground like misshapen fingers covering eyes. Béatrice stood between two shadows, in a crevice of light. The moon made her white skin glow beneath the black scales of the dress.

It was already October and the air was full of moisture. It made Béatrice’s skin feel like clay.

Béatrice turned her head, peering carefully through the dark for Polina, but everything was as quiet as a pencil drawing.

She was not sure how long she had been standing there, waiting for Polina to come. A wind blew through the garden and Béatrice crossed her arms beneath her breasts and squeezed in, warming herself. Her breasts rose beneath her forearms as bath water rises when a foot steps in.

A foot stepped in. Polina’s.

Polina’s hair was spread over her shoulders and looked almost as dark as her eyebrows now against the beige trench coat. Her lips had a joke playing across them.

“Well, do you see me now?” Polina said.

“Touch me. Make sure I’m real,” Polina said.

Béatrice took a step forward. She extended her hand and grazed her fingertips down the stiff fabric of Polina’s coat.

“That’s my coat. It’s real. Now make sure I’m real.”

Béatrice extended her hand again and let it hover in the air.

Only Polina’s face and neck were uncovered. Even her hands were in her pockets. Polina leaned her head back, stretching her neck towards Béatrice like a bow. Hesitantly, as if asking for permission, Béatrice ran her finger down Polina’s throat.

“I think you are real,” Béatrice said.

In the darkness, the two women looked at each other.

“I hope you’re right, Béatrice…”

Béatrice followed Polina to the end of the garden. When Polina opened the gate, Béatrice stopped, suddenly self-conscious. She looked down at her own body, her bare skin tightened under the lace.

“I can’t go out into the street, I’m… naked.”

Polina reached out and took Béatrice’s hand. Béatrice felt herself surrender and be carried away. She had never given a part of her body like this to someone.

The streets were empty. No one walking. No one opening a door. No one lighting a cigarette. All the windows had thinly stretched eyelids. Even the parked cars seemed to have their eyes closed.

Here, outside the city, the suburban sky spread more generously and sagged against the rooftops as if it were longing for news.

It was no use asking where they were going. The answer didn’t matter. What mattered now was suddenly so simple. It felt good to have her hand held by someone. Her whole body could relax and trail as if it were the end of a scarf, held upon Polina’s neck and the wind.

She felt her eyelids close, loose and warm, until she was walking in darkness.

Polina’s hand shifted and swayed as they walked. Gently, solemnly, like a small boat upon the sea. It held her afloat. It floated her forward.

“ Bolina… ” Polina hummed.

“ Bolina, Bolina… ” Béatrice hummed.

The two women walked, one leading the other.

“Have you ever been sailing, Béatrice…?”

When Béatrice opened her eyes, she was no longer walking, but lying down. Her white blanket covered her body and her head was set neatly upon her pillow. She was in her bed, in her room, in that old storage space at the top of the house. She looked up at the darkness above her and followed the foggy light towards the window. There was a shift in the room.

Béatrice remembered that evening, her sister’s small voice and frightened eyes, she remembered singing and Emmanuelle’s silky, warm head resting on her neck.

She rolled her head on the pillow to the other side of the bed and saw that the blanket had been pulled up at the corner, revealing empty, rippled sheets. Emmanuelle had gone.

She looked back across the room, her focus softening in the dimness. There was Polina, standing framed by the window.

Béatrice tried to sit up to see better, but felt something constrict her. She pulled back her blanket, and saw that she was still wearing her long, stiff black lace dress. From the window, Polina turned to face Béatrice.

“Do you want me to help you…?” Polina said.

Béatrice looked in her direction, but could only see the outline of her body.

“Help me…?” Béatrice asked.

“Help you get out.”

Even in the darkness, Béatrice could feel Polina’s sliding smile. When she came up to the bed, Béatrice could now make out the beige colour of her coat. But when she looked up at Polina’s face, she could only see contours in the dimness.

“Here,” Polina said. “Turn on to your stomach.”

Béatrice slid herself on to her stomach, and turned into the white sheets. She lifted herself on to her forearms and her shoulder blades jutted out, against the lace fabric.

“Relax,” Polina said and gently moved Béatrice back down, flat upon the bed.

Polina’s hand moved towards Béatrice’s neck. Her fingertips touched the collar of the dress where the zipper was and began to pull it down. Béatrice could feel the ridges separate from each other. Little by little, the dress spread open and curved out.

Polina put her hand flat on Béatrice’s bare spine. Béatrice closed her eyes and absorbed the feeling of her hand. She inhaled and the air filled her lungs so that her back rose into Polina’s hand, into the highways tracing her palm.

Polina lifted her hand and took an open edge of the dress with her fingertips. She peeled the dress off one shoulder. Then the other.

Béatrice turned over to face her and sat up. The dress sloped down at her collarbone, half-undone, and clung to the tops of Béatrice’s breasts.

“May I see them now?” Polina said.

Béatrice rolled the dress down to her waist. Her breasts were glowing white like the sheets, blankets, and pillows on the bed. She lay back down on to the pillow, and turned her head to the side, half-timid, half-alluring, so that only one eye was looking up at Polina.