Yelena Moskovich - The Natashas

As she turned back, her head started to feel oddly light. Like a stack of empty envelopes. The song was fading, then it was gone. She reached out to find the light switch, but her fingers did not make contact with the dry wall. They made contact with a warm body, clothed in wool.

“Hello, Miss Playboy ,” he whispered into the cleared tunnel of her ear.

Béatrice’s eyes opened wide. The man put a hand over her mouth and the other flat against her back, pushing her completely into him.

She thought her arms must be flailing, like a cartoon tongue in the midst of a scream; she thought her voice was ripping from her vocal chords.

But, in fact, she was holding her breath.

“Sh’relax princess, breedrou yer nose.”

“Datsagood princess,” the man whispered. “I’m gunna take my hand off, but you gotta stay cool and zipped.”

Béatrice nodded. The man took his hand off. In the distance, through the wall, she could still hear voices coming from the bar. A laugh, it sounded like her sister’s. A string of a voice, something like “yes exactly”. Another called out to someone by name. The musicians who accompanied her on stage, where were they now? Chain-smoking on the terrace, already thinking about the next gig.

For a second, she hoped that her family might want to check up on her and go looking in the corridor. But after all the years of pushing them away, telling them to leave her alone, they were trained to keep their distance.

She found the man’s eyes in the darkness, two pinheads framed by black wool. “Shh…” the man said into the wool.

His hands were off her now. She could run out the door, into the crowd, laugh like her sister, say “yes, exactly” and call out to someone by name.

Béatrice did none of those things. She stood very still, facing the woollen man, nailed by his pinhead eyes.

For a while, neither the man nor Béatrice spoke. Time was passing. No one had come to get her. But surely someone would notice her absence. She was due on stage.

“I have to go,” Béatrice said quietly, “I’m the singer, I have to go.”

The man did not respond.

“I have to finishing singing here.”

The man remained silent. His eyes moved over her body, then came back up to her face. Béatrice took a step towards the door. The man mirrored her and blocked her step. She tried again, but the man blocked her again. She couldn’t see where his body ended and the emptiness began.

In the darkness, she felt the man’s hand rising towards her. She was sure that he was reaching for her neck. This was it. However they name endings, this was it.

Her neck was glowing with expectation. The skin was preparing to be pressed in, to be crumbled. In her throat, the vocal cords pulled taut like elevator ropes.

Béatrice closed her eyes and her eyes stayed open.

He touched her. But not on her neck. The woollen man’s hands were on her breasts. He squeezed them, one, then the other, one, then the other. Every time his fingers closed in and his palm sucked up her nipple, her stomach flinched. His grip on them grew firmer. He was no longer squeezing, but grabbing her breasts from her. Béatrice gagged. She felt he might pull them off. Her nipples twisted in pain. Her mouth was wide open in terror, but no sound came out.

“Wer playin it cool princess,” he said as he continued.

Béatrice nodded.

“You wanna say sumtin?”

Béatrice nodded.

“Okay, bébé, tell me wad you wanna say, butkeep dat voice smood an’ low.”

Béatrice nodded.

“Smood an’ low…” the man repeated.

Béatrice began. She slid the phrase across to the man card by card.

“If… you… want… my… body you should… just… take… it.”

The man suddenly took both hands off her breasts. He took a step back so that his pelvis was no longer pressed against her. The tip of his fingers touched the skin of her left temple. He pushed his fingers back over her hair like a brush stroke, and leaned his face in closer to hers. She felt his breath on her cheek.

“Stoopid princessa…” the man whispered. “I don giva shit bout yer body.” He leaned in and the wool touched her cheek. “I wan sumting I can take wit me an keep forever.”

“…You can keep Miss Playboy forever,” Béatrice replied.

“Girls, sometimes I worry about you like you’re my biological daughters. But none of you are my biological daughters. That’s life for you.

“What I mean to say is, despite the fact that some of you are a real sore sight to look at, I think you are all doing your best to be decent.”

The lanky Natasha stands up. “I’ve been trying really, really hard not to blabber so much ’bout not feeling good.”

“Because…” the Head Natasha says.

“Coz… um… no one really likes to hear it.”

The Head Natasha’s eyes light up.

“And what do people like to hear?”

“Um. About how special they are.”

“For example…”

“Like…You’re a fingerprint, baby!”

“The only one… !”

“…A-a a rabbit’s foot floating in space!… as Einstein would say.”

“There is no one like you.”

“You’re one of a kind… darling.”

“Oh! That’s nice… ‘darling’… say it again!”

“Darling…”

“Go on, girls.”

“Um.”

“Uh.”

“…in the whole world—”

“Darling…”

“…in all of time—”

“DARLING”

“…and all the TV channels—”

“There is NO ONE!”

“Like YOU.”

The girls pause to think about this.

“…Oh yeah, that does feel pretty good,” all the Natashas say together.

In the backstage hallway, Béatrice heard piano keys. The percussion was steady. The double bass weaved in. The musicians must have already started without her.

She turned quickly towards the door and grabbed for the handle. The door swung open and she stood squinting into the light. Soon spots and shadows appeared. Then the spots and shadows became people. She looked at the stage. There they were, the musicians, in their places with their backs to her, facing the crowd.

There was the drummer’s head keeping his pace.

There was the pianist’s wrist hovering near the keys.

There was the bass player tapping one foot.

Then the fourth figure—a curious sight.

There she was. The blonde singer, her back, stiff, upright, covered with black lace to her hairline. The hair was twisted and pinned neatly upon her head. Blonde as the sand.

Béatrice watched the blonde singer tilt her head towards the microphone. The singer’s hand floated upwards from her side and got lost in front of her body. It held the stand. Her back muscles moved like a slow serpent as she took a breath. Then, just as easy as that, as easy as childhood, as easy as a man’s gaze, as easy as a rolling shadow, the woman began to sing.

The blonde singer was singing in Béatrice’s voice. As the light changed configurations, Béatrice saw a glimpse of the public, just patches of faces, bearded chins, shiny cheeks, and various fragmented grins, floating in the otherwise fuzzy darkness of the bar. The blonde singer let go of the microphone, her hand descended through the open air towards her hip. The white skin of her fingers was glowing. As were the brushed strands on top of her head. As were the borders of her neck. It was then that this black dress appeared not at all decorative, but necessary. A metal lantern for her light.