by Teresa Lamai
(06/16/04)

Day One

"Better to stop talking," I whisper to the tall, brightly dressed man sitting opposite me. If my English were better, I would tell him that his toneless, staccato, US-State-Department Russian sounds more foreign than Swahili here. That alone would give him away as an outsider, but his finely ground prescription glasses and rabbit-fur hat have already marked him as suspect. The grin finishes it. When at a loss, Americans exchange aggressive smiles like a pack of manic baboons.

I let his smile drop between us and turn towards the window, frustrated. Even after all that studying, I can never say what I'm really thinking in English.

We enter a tunnel and I watch his face in the darkened window.

We are on the train from Moscow to Murmansk and I'm a hypocrite for sneering at this man. I've lived in America for the past five years, so I am a foreigner too. I smile into my scarf as I remind myself I'm nineteen. This is my first visit to Russia as an adult.

Five years ago my mother died and desperation made my world shrink to the tiny brilliant pinpoint of the present instant. I was alone, my father killed in Afghanistan, grandparents gone. I felt the poverty sucking at me like a filthy drain. A prostitute rarely lives past forty.

Within three weeks, I had my interview with the Gyorvary Foundation. The miracle of a scholarship to an American high school fell swiftly into my life, cleaving like a guillotine blade.

In sun-blind, warm-hearted Arkansas, my host-family cooed with delight when they saw me. Their lawn was velvety green, their house a cool den of ease. I was thin and well mannered, just pale enough to be pathetic. They called me their daughter. I stopped being Viktoriya or Vika, and became shy, smiling Vicky. I did nothing but work in high school, finding my little niche of unhappy, overachieving friends.

The day I won the scholarship to the state university, I received a call from my old teacher, Anna Ivanovna.

"Celebrate with a trip home, Vika!" Anna Ivanovna shouted over the crackling phone line. I winced. Hearing Russian again was like falling suddenly into a steaming bath.

"I'm...busy..."

"Just for a week!" I could picture her, huddled in a cabinet at the post office. "Sweetheart, let me talk to your host mother."

The next day was graduation and my host family's present was a round-trip ticket. I pretended to be touched beyond words as I kept my hands still on my forehead. Annoyance stung behind my eyes. Why was Anna Ivanovna trapping me like this?

The tunnel opens and I blink in the sudden sunlight. The hills are purple and amber now, sprinkled with gray lichen, rolling higher as we near Murmansk. This time of year, early July, the sun doesn't set. It nears the horizon just after midnight, touching the edges of the sky with pink before rising again. A flash of memory erupts from somewhere in my body: My friends Dima, Gosya, and I are thirteen, wandering out onto the tundra after our final exams, carrying a picnic. There's endless daylight, endless tundra, and we lose track of time completely.

When the train pulls into the depot at three am, Anna Ivanovna kisses me with her red, sticky mouth and bundles me into the waiting taxi before I can say a word.

Her flat is tidy, cramped, and full of steam. The smells of dill, caramel, tea, and brown soap hit me with a primal tangle of memories so powerful the edges of my vision darken.

"It's all right, Vika, don't talk." Her blue eyes sparkle, her cheeks are satiny, red as berries. Her hair is still raven black, waving over her temples. She's speaking Russian and I stare dumbly. My head is so heavy. I need to sleep.

She lets me have her room, pulling the lemon-scented duvet over my still-clothed body. I wrap my arms around the huge pillow. I sleep like someone under an old enchantment, without thoughts or dreams or movement.

Day Two

The phone is ringing. Pigeons bustle on the grey windowsill. My eyes light on the pink alarm clock. It's three-fifteen-- pm, I think. The phone rings again in the front room; I wonder if Anna Ivanovna has left.

Bookshelves line the wall, one wedged tight to the bed. On the lowest shelves, rows and rows of literary magazines. I pull out an issue, and I find that Dima has a poem published. I smile and bounce with delight on the tiny bed. "Dima."

When I read, I hear his voice again. It's strange to hear the passionate words in the shy, pre-adolescent voice I remember. His words ring in my head, like a thrush's song coming from everywhere and nowhere deep in the woods.

I pad gingerly into the kitchen. I stretch. My clothes still smell like Arkansas.

The door opens. "Anna Ivanovna," I start. Russian's coming back to me.

"Call me Anya now, you're all grown up." Her parcels fall and she hugs me for a long time. I breathe the warm air over her neck. My mom used that same soap.

Five minutes later, the doorbell starts ringing and the flat fills with shy young women who know my name. I watch them speak and I remember them one by one: Gosya, Masha, Tanya, all girls from my school, taller now, made-up and coifed, docile and sly like real women. Their deferential approach lasts only a few seconds; soon I'm bound by their petal-soft, snaking arms.

I've steeled myself for their envy and hatred. Instead they treat me as if I've been lost in the woods, kissing me on the cheek as if to console me that it's all over now.

By the time we sit down to Anya's table, we are talking as if there'd been no separation, just an inordinate amount of gossip to catch up on.

We're already laughing raucously, more than a little drunk, when Dima arrives. Anya rises to kiss him. He greets us in his old, quiet way, letting his mahogany-colored hair fall over his eyes when he takes his boots off.

When he stands again, he's smiling. He was always one of those boys who genuinely preferred to be around women. He looks ready to sit quietly with us, the way he used to, still as a cat, absorbing us with his dark blue eyes as if he would remember this boring little scene for the rest of his life.

"Kids, I'm going to bed but you know I can sleep through a riot." Anya stands and winks at us. I remember how we all used to escape here after school, ostensibly to study. It became a refuge from our homes, which had all become increasingly crowded with sullen, broke relatives.

Dima edges to the table. He's alarmingly large. He smells like shaving cream. I'm surprised that the girls seem so relaxed around him.

"Sit for a while," Tanya urges, pushing over on the couch. He squeezes in just opposite me. For a moment it's grotesque to see the face I remember on a broad and tall body. I watch him for a long time before my mind grasps that it's the same person, grown. His eyes are narrower than I remember, tilted and long-lashed under dark brows. His cheekbones are high, his skin is peach-colored, sprinkled with pale gold freckles. Glossy brown curls reach over the V of his shirt. I wonder if they're soft or wiry to the touch.

My eyes travel upwards again and his face is ruddy. The table is silent. "I didn't mean to cast such a pall," he murmurs, folding a corner of the tablecloth.

Laughter washes over the awkward moment like an ocean wave. When it recedes, the girls resume their chatter, but he and I are silent.

When he finally speaks again, his voice is so low I feel it rather than hear it. I feel it in the fleshiest parts of my body.

"I graduated just three weeks ago," he's saying. "The entrance exams for Moscow State are next week. Anna Ivanovna's been coaching me, but lately it seems only the well-connected score highly enough."

"Your writing, Dima, I've read some of it." I want to thank him for writing the way he does but I'm not sure how.

He laughs. "I think poetry is back in style again. It's the poverty, right? Non-stop drama."

"You're already published. It's unbelievable."

"I do all my writing at work, at my dad's kiosk. It's my inspiration."

We laugh for the appropriate amount of time and then reach for our tea. We both swallow, our eyes darting nervously.

His hand reaches under the tablecloth to grasp mine, softly squeezing. He keeps speaking, peacefully.

I can't relax with my heart pounding up into my ribcage like this. I never knew desire was so close to fury, rising like a swarm of wasps in my heart. The inner lips of my cunt push gently downwards, wetting my panties with a brief, delicate kiss. His thumb moves over my pulse and he's quiet again.

"I better go," he murmurs. Gosya and the others hear.

When he stands, he staggers. He gives an exaggerated bow before he leaves. We all laugh.

After he's left, the rest of us talk at the table for three hours. We lie on the carpet and sofa, talking more softly, for two more hours. When we can't help closing our eyes, we lie whispering until sleep takes us, one by one.

Day Three

Gosya and I keep Dima company while he works. The kiosk opens at seven in the morning, and we've brought a tray of strong Turkish coffee from the nearby café. Soon we are amped on caffeine, shrieking with laughter, reading through the porn and gossip rags.

There are no customers to bother us. Just a few hurrying women, heads covered, eyeing us warily as they pass.

Gosya has to cook breakfast before her fiancé wakes up. I kiss her and she runs away, her red coat swirling as she disappears into the wind.

I'm sitting close beside Dima, fitting the length of his thigh against mine. He leans towards me, his hand wandering over my spine, down the small of my back. I watch his profile, small straight nose and full lower lip, tight little upper lip like a cat's. I rest my head on his chest, letting my hair fall over his wool-covered shoulder. His right hand crawls under my leather jacket. We stare straight ahead at the unchanging mist and the gray figures drifting by. I inhale sharply as his fingers find my nipples.

His skin warms and gives off a sweet, sharp scent. I lean closer and inhale. It's vanilla and musk, fresh and heady. I let my weight fall into him and his large frame seems to melt into mine.

"There are no customers. Let's close up early." He's still looking straight ahead.

"Your dad will be mad."

"My parents are in Moscow this week."

"Oh."

"Let's close up and go home."

"All right."

He closes the shutter and when he leans into me, I hear his lashes flutter in the dark silence. Our first kiss is warm and clinging; we seem to be drinking oxygen from each other. I reach blindly until my hands close over his thick, warm hair, fitting his cheekbones into my palms. He moans helplessly when we kiss again, his mouth wary and trembling. He breaks the kiss and runs his impatient hot tongue over my neck, leaving a swath of wet skin that tightens in the chill. I feel my nipples tingling, my body prickling with heat under five layers of clothes.

We struggle to embrace in the cramped space. I bury my face in his tousled hair. His scalp is damp with sweat and it smells like fresh grass.

I press into him, but I can't quite tell where his clothes end and he begins. He's surprised when I first start laughing but he's soon laughing too.

"Let's go, Vika, let's go." Twenty more kisses and we can finally bring ourselves to stand and find the door.

When I brush my hand to his elbow he bends it naturally, catching my arm. We look no different from all the other somber couples walking quickly through the fog, staring at the ground in front of them, not speaking.

From where I sit, naked on his bed, Dima looks like an angel.

I cover my eyes, clenching my teeth over the urge to giggle, and look up again. He finishes undressing and stands, leaning back on the dresser. His skin is so pale, with a delicate brush of curls over his chest. The hair is darker under his navel, and his penis is already stretched towards me, elegantly curved, flushed and gleaming. I reach for it as he approaches and let my fingertips slide around the tip, down the vein-covered length. I'm unsure how hard to touch it and as he comes closer I look up, watching his eyes for a reaction. From below, his lashes seem even longer. Small veins have surfaced in his temples, his lips are trembling.

Dima seems about to speak but I don't want him to think. I let my mouth close over the bell-shaped head of his cock, running my tongue over the drops of salty wetness that have appeared. He gasps when I pull it further in my mouth. His balls nestle into my palm like a kitten. I wrap my other hand around the base of his cock and tighten, watching him intently. His head is thrown back and all I can see is his throbbing pink neck.

His stomach is satiny with sweat. His cock lengthens towards the back of my throat. My lips almost reach its base. I reach both hands to the irresistibly tight mounds of his ass, feeling the muscles jump under the velvety, downy skin. His moan turns into a tender, startled cry. His hips lift towards me. His shaking hands fall through my hair.

I feel his ass tighten twice, and I close my eyes. My cheeks are aching but I suck harder. His cock hardens and tenses, trembling as if it were going to give off sparks. It explodes unexpectedly, hot bitter wetness filling my mouth. Most of it streams down my chin and drips onto my chest. I swallow some, moving my lips gently over the softening length until it finally slips out of my mouth.

His knees are shaking and they finally buckle. He drops in front of me, panting, his wet hair matted over his forehead.

His hands close over my shoulders, tight.

I'm not sure if it's desire or fear that I feel when he pushes me back on the bed and crouches between my shuddering legs. His breath is unsteady over my inner thighs.

I force myself to open my legs wide, feeling the labia pull apart. They're swollen and aching unbearably. I don't look down but I can feel Dima's gaze. My heart is jumping. I bite my lower lip to keep from moaning. I can't help moving my hips in slow circles, as if the cool air will soothe the burning somehow. I feel Dima whispering something over me, his voice tickling the wet curls.

Two urgent screams escape before I can fit my palm between my teeth. His mouth has closed over my pussy, his tongue moving slowly and relentlessly along the inner lips. My hips buck and he grips them tight, his fingertips digging into my ass. I imagine the symmetrical marks his hands will leave. A deep, earthy musk fills the room. I realize it's from me.

I look down when he grabs my wrist. His chin is glistening. He runs my hand along my pussy and it's so soft I'm afraid my fingers will sink into the mass of rosy flesh.

"Show me what you do." He whispers, resting his cheek on my thigh. His eyes are glittering and I smile back. I'm panting, but a well of shame makes me giggle towards the ceiling. He grasps my knees, keeping them open and pinned to the bed.

"I never,"I say, moving my hand from my pussy to his face. My fingers are slick. He sucks on them, grunting. A stab of heat moves along my spine and I feel my mouth stretching open.

He moves my hand back to my pussy. He lifts himself slightly and brushes the hair away from the very top of the mound, where the clit hides. He lets patient, chaste kisses fall over the neat folds. Heat rushes to my head. My breath is ragged in my dry throat. He's pulling the labia apart and my clit swells, painful and furious, under his fresh, innocent lips.

"But...if you did," he breathes, his voice tender, the words falling between kisses.

My hand pushes finally under his voice, covering my clit in a brusque, practiced gesture. I exhale as I work my cunt. He's watching, running his tongue over my frantic fingers.

When my body tenses, shuddering, he slides one finger, maybe his pinky, into me. I'm shocked at how my cunt clenches over it. It's so much more slender than his cock would be but it's perfect. Perfect.

My back uncoils like a whip being cracked. The come is so strong I'm alarmed at first. I can't breathe; I'm nauseous. I writhe with panic until it turns into pure bliss. Then I'm still.

When it's over I grip his head for a long time, neither of us moving, our breath becoming quieter in the tiny room.

Day Four

Dima's apartment is by a bread factory. I know it's morning from the scent of fresh rolls. I look out the window at a hard sky. A bitter, sparse snow is falling.

Dima's standing at the stove, naked flesh gleaming faintly. When he sees me awake, he scrambles back into the bed, holding an emerald-green bundle of hashish. Soon its tangy smoke is blooming slowly over us.

He rolls his white, fragrant body towards mine. The freckles on his skin are like cinnamon in sweetened milk.

"Vika, what about staying here in Murmansk?"

My heart drops.

"Why not?" Dima isn't moving.

"Why not?" It comes out more sharply than I mean it to.

Dima gets up quickly. "The kettle."

He brings a tray of tea and pastries to the bed. Steaming oolong and lemon. The air is becoming thick with sweetness.

"Can I open a window, Dima?" I run across the carpet and open the top sill. The cold glass feels good on my forehead.

"Vika?"

"Dima, what would I do here? What can anyone do here?"

"What do you mean, Vika? We're fine."

I'm standing naked at the huge window. My nipples almost touch the smooth panes. I run back to the bed and wrap us both in the quilt.

"Fine?" I try to keep my voice light, kissing his pale forehead, caressing his palms. I'm trying to pull this moment back from the past and the future.

"Okay, not fine, Vika, but we'll make it better. Things aren't always going to be this way. You know, with time, things will just . . . be better." I think he can't quite put it into words because it seems so obvious to him.

"Unless it's not better," I snap. He's quiet, pissed. He looks down.

"Hey, we're arguing naked," I try a quick laugh, but his eyes are still hidden.

"Dima, I'm sorry." He lies down, facing away from me and I nestle against his back, wrapping one leg over his hips and kissing his shoulder blades.

"Vika, are you happy that you left? Do you want to stay away?"

I don't know how to answer him. There used to be nothing for me here. I press into him more tightly.

"I don't want to lose you again," I whisper.

Day Five

We're at Gosya's place. Her parents are having a Sunday dinner. Gosya's fiancé is here -- a huge, round-shouldered man with dark, loyal eyes. He warms to every woman he meets, a generous flirt. Gosya's eyes are glazed when she looks at him. I realize I've never heard her parents laugh before. The whole family is in the kitchen, smoking and arguing playfully. Gosya's mom is breathless with giggling.

Dima and I are sitting quietly by the bookshelves in the front room. He holds my hands, running his thumbs shyly over my palms. We're like children who have discovered a new, irresistible game.

Dima leans his forehead into mine. His lashes cast trembling shadows over his cheeks every time he speaks.

"Vika, could I go? Could I find a scholarship or something and go, too? Would you mind if I did?"

I squeeze him tight and his arms wind around my waist. Our stomachs press together.

"Kids, it's time for supper. Come help us set the table." Gosya's father doesn't open the door when he calls us. I realized they have all crowded in the kitchen on purpose.

Dima stands and pulls me up.

"Give me a second," I tell him, and run into Gosya's room.

I grab the phone and sit on the carpet, my back against the door. I listen to them swarm into the living room, turning up music, bringing out the best china.

Then I call the airline and ask them to delay my return ticket indefinitely.

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