Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

César smiled hesitantly, lowering his gaze. When he looked back up again, he saw Stefan watching him intently.

“ La sangre llama ,” César said.

Stefan raised an eyebrow.

“In Spanish we have that expression too. But we say la sangre llama .”

“And what does it mean?” Stefan asked flirtatiously.

“Blood’s calling.” César replied.

That’s when both of them agreed to meet for the first time in real life.

They decided on Stuttgart as a halfway meeting point between both of them. They rented a room in a hotel near the train station.

When they spotted each other in the Arrivals Hall, they both looked away shyly, then walked towards each other solemnly, like a bride and groom. Face to face, they had forgotten all customs. Stefan extended his hand as César lunged in for a kiss. Stefan’s knuckle jabbed into César’s gut and César pecked him on the cheek.

Outside the building, Stefan pointed up to the inscription: daß diese Furcht zu irren schon der Irrtum selbst ist. G.W.F.H. He explained it was Hegel. “…That this fear of making a mistake is a mistake itself.” César looked into Stefan’s eyes then, and thought I am ready for love .

They checked into their hotel, César giddy with the idea that the clerk could never imagine what they would do together in their room.

In the room, with the door closed, Stefan opened the sliding closet door and put his bag there. César put his near the small garbage bin beneath the desk. The two men approached each other nervously. Stefan blushed and smiled. César looked down then back up then couldn’t help but smile as well. The two leaned in and their lips met.

The kiss was gentle, yet made César feel all the more anxious. He sped up his lips and hardened his tongue, looking for something he couldn’t name. He felt Stefan’s mouth, his tongue, his teeth, no matter what he touched, it all felt like dull matter. Stefan, feeling César’s racing heart through his mouth, wrapped his arms around César and pulled him into his chest. When their bodies met, César expected Stefan to rip his shirt off or thrust his pants down, but instead Stefan just held him there, tightly, warmly. César’s breath was shallow. He could feel the panic rising into his head. What is Stefan doing? Why is he holding me in this void?

“Hit me,” César blurted out.

Stefan let go of César and ran his hand through his hair. “What?”

“Smack me around,” César replied.

Stefan just stood blankly in front of César, his arms hanging limp. At that moment César realised that even with Stefan right in front of him, he was unbearably lonely. And his loneliness was quite ordinary. It had nothing to do with Hollywood heroes, but was as vulgar as a panting porn actor’s.

César squeezed his fist and punched Stefan square on his beautiful jaw.

Stefan grabbed his face and folded over on to the floor. He looked up at César through his fingers with wild, disgusted eyes.

“ WHAT is wrong with you!” Stefan demanded.

César stumbled back, stuttering “… ll… lll… llaa… ”

“WHAT WHAT WHAT?” Stefan spoke with a hard voice.

All César could think was that he should have been one of his tough characters with Stefan from the start, instead of being himself. His anger could have been handsome, masculine, romantic. Instead it was just crippled and perverse, an excuse for the absence of love.

Stefan was back on his feet, his shoulders wide and his neck muscular and straight. He took a step towards César.

“ ll… lll… llaa…” César continued to stutter.

“WHAT IS IT?” Stefan repeated.

“La sangre llama, ” César said, then flinched at his own voice.

On the train back to Paris, in the small, steel bathroom, César leaned his hot forehead against the metal and cried.

At Gare de l’Est, César clenched his jaw and pushed these fragments away, back into the shadows of his mind. He looked at the clock again and it now appeared that the long arrow was winning. Then he heard the gush of steam and the screech of metal wheels on iron. The train had come in. The doors slid open. Passengers started to step off and fill up the platform.

He watched the people exit. He looked carefully at every female who descended, from pre-teens (who knows how young she was?) to mid-thirties (who knows how old those photos were?). He observed young girls with backpacks, women with briefcases, ladies with neck scarves, teens in tight jeans, older women in flat shoes and stockings, younger ones in platform shoes, girls who wore no make-up, others with glossy lips and clumped eyelashes. César had begun to forget what he was looking for in the first place.

He called back the image of the photos on Marcel’s shelves. Thick chestnut hair. Childish nose, freckles. A slight smirk beneath those expressionless lips. No one seemed to fit this composite.

A nerve pinched in his foot. He looked down. There was a head of chestnut hair. A woman looked intently up at him. Her hair was pulled back tightly and clipped with a simple clasp.

At first glance, you could mistake her for a girl. The childlike nose with the freckles. But there were tiny folds at the corners of her eyes, just behind her small oval glasses. This was a woman, maybe thirty years old.

“You’re César the actor, I presume.”

Her hands were folded over a small blue leather purse on her knees. She was in a wheelchair. “I’m Sabine.”

The woman raised one hand from her small blue leather purse and extended it towards César. “But I prefer you don’t call me by this name.”

César hunched down and shook her hand lightly, then released it. His arm felt dazed. He tried to get a hold of himself, but the sight of the wheelchair made him uneasy. His lips tightened instinctively, afraid of what may come out.

“…What… should I… call you…?” César asked hesitantly.

Sabine’s lips became firm. “Not Sabine, ” she said.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Sabine continued frankly.

César winced a quick smile to let her know it was okay. In any case, she was basically on time, a few minutes here or there. He waited for her to say something else, but she didn’t. César looked down at his shoe. It had a small black smear where the wheelchair had run into it. He looked back up at Sabine. Her lips were flat and her eyes were alert. They caught each other’s glance by accident, and Sabine spoke: “When I was in Victoria, in Australia, four and a half years ago, during the summer, all the trains had to be slowed down to 90 kph instead of 160kph, as the heat — which was particularly extreme that summer — expands the tracks and threatens derailment of trains travelling at the normal regulatory speed.”

“Oh,” César replied.

“Stuttgart is 622.4 kilometres from Paris.”

“Oh…”

“I assume it’s not optimal for you to spend your Friday evening picking up a woman in a wheelchair.”

“Oh. Uh—No, no, it’s great! I mean not great but it’s… nice— very nice .”

“Anyway, I’ll talk to Marcel and tell him you showed up. That way you can get what you need, is that correct?”

“That’s what I thought, but—” César blurted out.

Sabine frowned.

“I mean… I dunno,” César said meekly.

He was trying so hard not to stare at her two dead legs positioned neatly next to each other, he began to sweat again.

“Uh, your father—Marcel—told me to…” César spoke hesitantly.