Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

César couldn’t help but feel slightly proud of his look. It was the closest he would get to looking like Julio César Chavez the boxer. César wished his brothers could see him now. But he let go of that thought, because it didn’t matter in the end. The only person who needed to see him like this saw him. He was sure Manny would have called him handsome .

He thought of washing the dried blood off, but decided to leave it there. No hurry. He went to his computer and turned it on. He took out his cell phone and placed it near the keyboard. He pressed the light button, and the phone flashed to show him the time, but no calls. In all fairness, it really was too early to receive the call.

He went to the fridge and got out the can of beer, opened it, and took a swig. Why not celebrate? He went back to his desk and placed the can next to the cell phone. He checked the phone again, just in case he had left it on silent and a call came in between the moment he had set it down and the moment that he went to the fridge. The phone was fully charged, ready to ring, but showed, as before, no calls. He set it back down in its place and took a seat.

He logged into his e-mail account. As the inbox was loading, César’s eyes veered towards the phone. He resisted, keeping his fingers on the computer keyboard. The computer screen showed five new messages. The most recent, 70% off flights to Latin America. The next two, upcoming theatre events. The fourth, an e-mail from José inviting him to a show he was in. José was another friend he had made at acting school years back with whom he had kept in touch. José was from Guatemala, a dancer-actor, who was also dedicated to his art. He was always inviting César to a show he was in, always in a small theatre with a lonely name like the Theatre of Two Dreams.

César couldn’t quite call what he had with José a relationship, but they enjoyed each other’s company for a while, went home together every now and then, even held hands at parties when drunk enough. But those days were long gone. José was now with a French guy, a mouse-eyed writer-director who was always telling funny rehearsal stories.

It embarrassed César to think about it, but José was the only guy he could refer to as an ex-boyfriend, except for Stefan. And Stefan he wished he could erase from his memory altogether.

Over the years César pulled away from the concept of “looking” altogether, and had resigned himself to being “married to his art”. This statement freed him from the thought of having to experience all those frightening and stressful feelings that came with trying to be intimate with someone. He turned his energy inward, into the world of characters within him, filled with such interesting, beautiful, savage men, he often wished he could walk into their lives and never come back to his own.

He glanced back at his computer at the last e-mail. The subject heading was: “Julio César, it’s me.” César inhaled to laugh then stopped because it shot a pain through his nose. Spam e-mails. They really take advantage; just when the excitement sparks that someone long forgotten has found you and somehow, yes, now they will confess something quite meaningful from your shared past—right then you find out that Dr Forhernbäch is concerned about your hair loss, or that a balloon-breasted teen just got a webcam and would love to take this opportunity to chat with you. Just as César was about to delete the e-mail, he noticed the sender address: gRaciasALAvIDa

Julio César, it’s me.

From: gRaciasALAvIDa

Subject: Julio César, it’s me

Julio César, it’s me. The one who, from a distance, in my window, watched you and loved you.

I was young then, I was a virgin. So was my love.

Most people think I’m unlucky. (The things that happened to me.) LUCK is a dull thing. Like dice. It lands with a dumb grin, no matter the side. Should I have made a parade of my voice?

Should I have sung for my parents, for my husband, for you?

Should I have sung for the TV, for the radio, for the people of Mexico?

In life, I did not achieve a thing.

But, Julio César, there was a moment, in our youth, when I looked at you and my eyes reflected and came back to me as light. My whole being was illuminated. That was when my love became sharp.

When love is sharp it outlives the body. This is why I don’t care much for LUCK.

So César, the actor, my European boy,

I could cut your throat with my love. Gracias a la vida,

Rosa

César took his eyes off the screen and looked out to the window. No one. Rooftops. Dusk. The moon was showing itself like a bald spot upon the sky. He looked back at the computer screen. His eyes trailed across the words of Rosa’s email like a stray dog.

When he was finished, he glanced back at his window. The night-time air was turning marble. He turned back to his laptop and began rereading the email a third time. This time, the words rose to the surface through his own voice.

…Gracias a la vida. Rosa, César heard himself say.

As he finished the last word, his eyes went back to the window. He looked out at the night separated from him by the glass. Then his focus softened and he saw his own reflection. His eyes had dark smudges at the inner edges and his nose was puffed and bruised. Handsome. Inside his nostrils, a warmth grew and spread down, then blanketed that small valley above his lip where God touched him at birth. The warmth crawled slowly over the roof of his top lip, then with one quick jut slid down into his mouth like a child down a slide. He opened his mouth and caught the child with his tongue. Iron and lemon rind.

His nose was bleeding again.

César wiped the blood off with the back of his hand, then looked back at the computer screen. The words on the screen seemed to harden, like clenching teeth. He stood up and walked the couple of steps it took him to get to his small bathroom. He flicked on the bathroom light and looked into the mirror, tilting his head back. He saw another slew of blood coming at him, so he pulled some toilet paper off and stuffed it into his nose. This shot a pain through his sinuses and down his cheeks and into his gut. It made his stomach muscles flinch as if he would vomit.

César looked at his nose again close up. It looked like an over-ripe fruit. He reached his fingers up to touch the bone inside it. He knew this would give him an awful, mutilating feeling, but he wanted to experience it again. He pressed down firmly. His stomach contracted as he gagged immediately. His eyes teared up. He blinked and looked directly into the mirror.

“J’vai ti-tuay.” I’mana kill you he said in French.

The phrase felt theatrical, inauthentic. He pressed down hard on his nose again. An acidic fog exploded in his throat and his eyes popped open. Instead of vomit, the words behind the phrase flew out, straight into his own reflection.

“TE MATO PUTA.” He coughed up.

He spat into the sink and looked up again.

“TE MATO…”

He spat again, then wiped his mouth.

“ TE MATO, JOSE. ”

He snorted. Blood misted his chin.

“ TE MATO, RAUL. ”

Blood misted the white sink.

“ TE MATO, CHEKHOV. ”

He spat. He grabbed the sides of the sink. He looked up and pulled close into the mirror.

“TE MATO, JULIO César CHAVEZ!” he screamed.

“ TE MATO, VIOLETA, TE MATO, ROSA, TE MATO, MAMA, TE MATO, TE MATO,

TE MATO, César EL ACTOR! ”

Underneath his screaming, the music couldn’t have been more beautiful. There, on the desk, next to his computer. His phone was ringing.