Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

“Yeah, oh yeah, that sounds really nice.”

“Anyway, you don’t know this ’cause none of you have been sailing before, but when you are sailing, you need to pay special attention to the wind. I know because I’ve been sailing.”

“You have, you really have?”

“Yes I have.”

“Oh, tell us, please tell us what it was like!” “Did you have a rich boyfriend?”

“Yes I did.”

“And did he have chest hair?”

“Lots.”

“And a gold chain?”

“Two! One with a cross and one without.”

“What was his name?”

“Yeah, was it Pasha, the one who collects our cash?”

“Or Igor, the one who keeps an eye on us from his car?”

“Or Vadim, the one who settles things with the police?”

“Or Kyrill, the one who smacks us around when we make a fuss?”

“No, no, we’re getting off subject. Pay attention, what I’m telling you here is important. The wind is everything when you sail. Stronger than all the cash in your boyfriend’s pocket. And the hair on your boyfriend’s chest. And the gun in your boyfriend’s waistband. Get what I mean, ladies?”

“Yeah, oh yeah, the wind sounds really nice!”

“It is. And if you pay attention, you’ll know when you need it. And when you need it, you’ll know to call it. Otherwise you might get stuck in a real shit-hole situation.”

“Oh, we know all about shit-hole situations.”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt you do. Because you don’t know a thing about sailing.”

“So… how do you call for the wind?”

All together the women repeat after the Head Natasha: “ Bolina, bolina, bolina… ”

“No, no, wait hold on,” the Head Natasha interrupts the girls mid-vowel. “You have to say it without saying it.”

All the Natashas look at each other to see if there is one among them who understands.

“Go ahead, girls, say it… but don’t say it…”

Each Natasha tries on her own to say it without saying it. They open their mouths. They twirl their tongues, this way, that way. They pull their cheeks, down, up. They scrunch their lips to their noses. Some lips smack. Some spit by accident. Some just make slurping noises.

“HEY, I think she’s got it!” One Natasha jumps up.

All the Natashas look at the girl near the wall. Her arms hang at her sides. There is a cigarette still burning in between her fingers. The smoke rises like a stream alongside her waist, and the tobacco chitters and burns up to her fingertips. Then this Natasha starts lifting her hand upwards, trailing the smoke up with it. Her eyes stare fiercely ahead, with her cheeks sucked in and her lips puckered in the shape of an X.

“Look, look, look, the smoke is white!” a Natasha yells.

“Like the sky in Moldova…” the lanky one blurts out, then covers her mouth.

“Like the bottle of milk, moloko …” the round-face Natasha admits.

Then there is a sort of draught, as if the room itself took a breath. Through the passage of air, a voice floats through, from years ago. Like the white rose, the white rose… The Natasha near the wall is still as a statue, with one arm in front of her head as if calling out to someone. That hand still holds the burning cigarette between its fingers. Suddenly, her fingers move, as if to wave. At this, the cigarette falls from her fingers and the white smoke is blown into her in a gust. Just as soon as the smoke passes through her body, there is no body at all.

The Natashas stare with big eyes, then a mild voice comes from the crowd.

“You think she’s gone sailing?”

When Béatrice woke up that morning, she looked over expecting to find Polina there. To her surprise, the space was empty. When she lifted the covers, she saw that she was naked and there neatly laid out alongside her was the black lace dress.

She looked to the window, expecting to find Polina standing there. But saw just the white morning light patterned with the bare branches, upon which that small, crooked-neck bird sat. It had stopped singing and was now holding its marble-eye steadily on Béatrice.

Béatrice stood up and was startled by her own body, which felt intensely present. She got up on her feet and felt her legs straighten and her back align and her shoulders descend. She walked around her room with these new sensations, gradually realising that they were hers. She went back to the window and opened it. A chill autumn air floated through. Where was Polina?

Béatrice put on a white bath-robe from her closet and wandered out of her room barefoot, down the sanded stairs, into the silent house. She walked past Emmanuelle’s room, her door was ajar. She looked in, no one. She opened the bathroom door, no one. She walked through the hallway and down the stairs. She looked around the living room, her parents’ room, the second bathroom, out into the garden. No one.

Emmanuelle must be at her hospital residency, her father at one of his carpet boutiques, her mother out shopping for this or that. She added up the absences and concluded the house was empty. She stepped into the kitchen for a glass of water and there she was.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Polina said. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her beige coat buttoned all the way up and tied at the waist.

Béatrice’s hands flinched up and closed the white robe.

“Am I frightening you, Béatrice?”

“No,” Béatrice said blankly.

“What is it, then?”

Béatrice remained silent. She looked at Polina, trying to understand how this woman who seemed to belong to another side of the day was suddenly here again, in her worn, childhood home.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Polina said to break the silence.

“From what?”

“From getting ready. It’s your big day.”

Béatrice remembered it was Friday. The day of her concert.

“It’s just a concert, it’s nothing.”

Polina smiled.

“Nothing’s nothing. My beautiful woman, ” she said and got up. She opened the door, then turned back towards Béatrice. “ À ce soir ,” she said, then closed the door behind her.

Béatrice went upstairs to her room and turned on the keyboard. A breeze from the open window blew a strand of her blonde hair loose. It swept across her cheek, as thin as an ant’s antenna. She swept the strand back, then sat down on the piano seat and placed both hands on the keys. Her finger mindlessly pressed down on a note and a sound ran out like a mouse. She ran her finger a bit further down and pressed a B flat. A fatter mouse scrambled out.

She opened her mouth hesitantly, and waited for her voice to come. Her voice did come. But not in a song. One word.

“Polina.”

Then a feeling between dream and memory. Polina in the yard. Polina leading her by the hand. Polina kissing her breasts. Polina pushing deeply inside her. Polina, this morning, sitting so starkly at her kitchen table. No, you are not frightening me , Béatrice thought. She placed her fingertips on the keys and began to sing, as if into Polina’s ear.

Béatrice came downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a tall glass of water which she drank in one steady gulp. She got out a jar of honey and scooped out a teaspoonful. She placed the teaspoon on her tongue, and let the mould dissolve down her throat.

A hand tapped on the glass door that led out to the yard. She felt an excitement travel through her. Polina! She turned around, with the teaspoon still in her mouth and looked straight at the window. The sight made her cough and the teaspoon fell out and hit the floor. It was Jean-Luc. He was waving. Béatrice bent down and picked up the half-honey-covered teaspoon and went to the door. She turned the knob and stepped back, letting him in. He gave her a kiss on each cheek.