Relax, Sasha… I know what happened. I’ve heard… I don’t have much to say about it, only that it could have been worse… Listen, you looked really gorgeous in that white coat with red lining and I was totally and completely seduced by that silly song about the falling snow… I must have had a real crush on you. I even forgave you for not reading Pasternak. It’s just that we took ourselves so seriously in those days, you and me… But tell me how did you come up with that cruel Latin word “frigid”? In America, you know, women are rarely frigid, but the weather frequently is…
Hey, Misha, I’ve really forgotten about that Ceylon tea of yours… it doesn’t matter any more, I’ve brought you some Earl Grey… Remember our telephonic orgasms in the communal hall? God, I wish someone had taped those… Should we try to continue with that in a more sedate, grown-up fashion and shock the long-distance operator? I remember something about you, from those earlier days. The taste of your tongue in my eyes… There was spring dirt on your boots then, they were still unpolished… Where are you now? Way up or low down? As usual, beyond good and evil? I’m joking, of course, you might have forgotten your high school Nietzsche…
Me, I’m fine really. I love New York, as they say. Like New Yorkers, I love it and hate it. It feels like home and I feel a bit home-sick now, for that little studio of mine on Tenth West Street, bright but rather messy, without any pretense of coziness. Sometimes I go traveling to the end of the world, or at least to the southernmost point in the United States, Key West. Last time I nearly slipped on the wet rocks. You see, I need that, to get perspective, to estrange myself. It’s risky to get attached to one place, don’t you think?
And, yes, naturally I must be having great sex. For that’s what we do “in the West” and it couldn’t be otherwise. It’s actually almost true and not a big deal. I have a Canadian boyfriend, we work out a lot… Sometimes he says he hasn’t found himself yet (found whom? – you would ask…) I know it might sound funny here. Some people try to lose themselves and others try to find themselves. Oh well, let’s have a cup of coffee…
Where shall we go? You’re local, you must know some place. Yesterday we tried to have a drink with my old girlfriend and couldn’t find a place to sit down. It was raining out. So we ended up going to the movie theater “The Barricade” on Nevsky. They have a nice coffee shop there. We even bought tickets to the movies, just in case. They were showing Crocodile Dundee - The cleaning woman tried to get us to go see it. “Hey, kids, it’s such a funny movie,” she said, “You just can’t stop laughing… Our movies are never funny like that.”
“No,” I said, “we bought tickets but really we just want to sit in the coffee shop since it’s open till the next show.”
“But you can’t do that -” she said, “the coffee shop is for moviegoers only and what kind of moviegoers are you?”
“I already saw Crocodile Dundee,” I protested.
“It’s impossible… Don’t try to fool me. This is the opening night…”
“I saw it in a drive-in theater in New London,” I insisted…
“Look, miss, leave the coffee shop this very minute. I tell you that in plain Russian, loud and clear. Coffee is for moviegoers only.”
Maybe we’ll see a movie, Misha, something slow, with long, long takes. Wait, Misha, don’t rush… I’m sure we’ll find a place nearby… I could invite you for a bagel, but it’s far away… We could talk about Napoleon. He’s sort of out of fashion now… I bet the waitress would take us for ageing foreign students…
“The Information Kiosk closes in fifteen minutes.”
“But we’ve waited for so long…”
“This is a public abuse. I demand the Book of Complaints and Suggestions...”
“I’m sorry, comrade, we don’t have one here. You would have to go to the Central Information Bureau on Nevsky. But they close at two today, so you’re too late. And tomorrow is their day off.”
“That’s the whole problem… Whatever the reason, Russian people love to complain… I would have prohibited those Books of Complaints and Suggestions... What we need is The Book of Constructive Proposals.”
“And who are you, mister? Are you a People’s Deputy, or what?”
“No, I am not.”
“Well, we’re very glad that you’re not a People’s Deputy. People have a right to information. If they can’t get the information, they can complain…We’ve been silenced for too long…”
“So what? Before we didn’t have any information and now it’s all over the place… But who needs it when we can’t afford toothpaste! We don’t have toothpaste, but we’ve got glasnost to freshen our breaths… Information… If you want my opinion, there’s too much information these days, too much talk and no change…”
“Excuse me,” said Anya very politely. “It says here clearly: ‘The Information Kiosk is open from 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Thursday’. Today is Thursday and it’s quarter to four now, therefore the Kiosk should be open for another hour and fifteen minutes.”
“Hey, lady… who do you think I am? Do you think I can’t read or something? You try working here for a fucking hundred rubles an hour. I would be making twice as much in the cooperative bakery… But I stay here any way… I feel sorry for folks like you, having to fill out those fucking inquiry cards in the cold… Someone has to give people the information they need…”
“Excuse me, miss… Where are you from?”
THE OPERA by Sonia Rykiel
translated by Maxim Jakubowski
Goose bumps.
Skin bumps
moving
singing
and moving again.
Legs held up high.
Embroidered material slashed open,
Opened skirt,
unhooked, wanton.
Above him.
Brilliant gems.
Exquisite surroundings
Beautiful
Start again, and again.
On the ground for a long time,
Terrific.
Invention, insolence
Touched front and rear, everywhere
Moving again
touched behind.
At the Opera, two salons bordered with mirrors, a thousand mirrors. Warm mirrors, mirrors like the sun, cold mirrors, mirrors like the moon.
Endlessly watching myself listening to the music from Tosca, La Traviata, or La Bohème.
Was I right?
Making love to Mimi’s tune, pulling her skirt up, holding on to her legs, her arms, her heart, her cunt.
Straightening her back, holding her tight.
She is held aloft, he is under her.
Crying, screaming.
Your sex is inside me.
Unveiled.
Even filled, I will not cry.
I am hollow, flat.
But still I keep on lying.
Don’t put the phone down.
Where is chance, where is beauty? I slide, I leave, I move on.
You turn round. Look at me. I feel a need to see you in those thousand mirrors.
“Raise your face, raise your cunt. Where are your eyes?”
I can no longer see you.
The most exquisite pain takes hold of me, a moist exquisite languor. Where is my dress, where are my stockings, my shoes, my hands? Where is he, him?
I seek ecstasy.
“Get up, come here.”
Waiting to be picked up, labelled, manipulated, passed around like a bottle.
I sigh, almost drunk.
The liquid is melting me inside.
Have I fallen, am I obscene, deranged?
Like a newspaper from hell.
Made up, painted, my lips so red, my eyes so dark my skin so white, my hips so curvy, my arse so voluptuous.
No, not voluptuous, exciting, lustful, on offer.
And my pear-shaped breasts, and my thin waist.
I gifted him with all of me that evening at the Opera, in the “Moon” boudoir, in the “Sun” room.