In the Red (9 page)

T
here was a game the boys used to play with the girls after school. Rather, it was a game the boys inflicted on the girls. It was quite simple. The boys gave the girls chase; the girls had to run. Sometimes the girls would get away. Most of the time not. When a boy caught a girl, he would tackle her and pin her down on the ground. He'd straddle her, pinioning her arms to her side. He'd lean into her, practically nose to nose, and give her a choice: kiss or kill? If she chose kiss, it was usually a quick peck on the cheek, and then both children would turn red, laugh, and run away. But sometimes one of the older boys went for a bolder kiss, a lingering one on the mouth or neck. There was less giggling then, and fiercer blushing. Such occurrences were only occasional, and usually secret. It was considered in bad taste to tell someone about a kiss, which didn't keep many stories from getting around anyway.

If the girl chose kill, the boy was free to give her a punch. A certain gentlemanlike code dictated that it be a light one on the shoulder or upper arm. If a boy put his balled fist into a girl's stomach or face, he would be shamed. But when this happened, the girl seldom told, because some of the shame clung to her also. This didn't necessarily make any sense, but then nobody was quite sure exactly what the point of the game was, or even how to win. Yet the children kept playing. Oftentimes a boy would chase the same girl he always chased. Oftentimes a girl would be offended if no one gave her chase. It was all a great muddle of feelings, a harbinger of puberty, like swift-moving clouds darkening the sky before a downpour.

There was one boy who always chased Irina. She was a hard one to catch. If he managed to get her, by the time he had her pinned, his breath was ragged and fast. He could hardly get the question out: kiss or kill? Invariably, Irina chose kill, looking him right in the eye. This would fluster him. Turning his face away, he would deliver a weak open-hand slap to her left shoulder, just below the clavicle. Then the two children would get up, dust themselves off, pick up their schoolbags, and go their separate ways without a word. Irina was quite sure she hated this boy. She hated his upturned nose and his chapped lips. She hated that he relentlessly picked her. Even more, she hated that little sissy whack he gave her. She remembered another girl who had grown irritated with the persistent attentions of a particular boy during this game. One afternoon, when he went to give her chase, she did not run. Instead she jumped on him and gave him a good wallop. He left her alone after that.

The boy who chased Irina was not bigger than she. Certainly, if she fought back, she could solve the problem of his affection. Why did she not? A pacifist streak. An unshakable respect for the rules of the game. A part of her that liked the boy after all, maybe. No. Rather, it was a perverse sort of politeness. It was better to endure these little enactments than to be rude.

Then one day something happened inside the boy. It must have been that he was just about out of breath, he was just about to lose her around a corner. But this time he could not let her go. He reached out with his hand, unsure even of what he was lunging at, and caught a fistful of her streaming black hair. His fingers closed around it; she stopped short and yelped. Before either of them knew what was happening, she was down and he was on top of her.

“Are you crazy?” she said, completely devoid of her usual calm. Her scalp stung.

“Kiss or kill?” the boy demanded, as if she'd said nothing.

The two children stared furiously at each other. Irina was feeling a great roiling something that she did not understand, and it occurred to her that she was feeling this something because he was feeling it, that she lay beneath him, helpless, reflecting him like a mirror.

“Kiss, then, if that's what you want!” she hissed, her eyes slitted like a cornered cat's.

The boy looked down at her, at the rich, long tresses he'd just yanked fanned out around her face on the pavement, and suddenly he was at a loss. Irina was rather beautiful like this, and rather frightening. He wanted to put his hand on her face to feel the high color of her cheeks, the blood pumping beneath her skin. Had he ever been so uncomfortable in his life?

He raised his hand, slapped her in the face, and ran away. He never again gave her chase. The prospect of her yielding again terrified him.

To this day, even now that he is a man, the boy remembers this episode with startling clarity. When he thinks of it, it makes him smile at the vagaries of children, and yet it still embarrasses him more than it should. Irina, now that she is a woman, remembers the feel of a boy's hand grabbing her by the hair and pulling her back in some chasing game after school. She remembers the raw pain and shock of that moment. But she does not remember what came after. She does not remember that his hurting her made her yield. She does not remember the sound or feel of his slap. Now that she is a woman, she never thinks of that boy anyway. She wouldn't be able to summon the image of the upturned nose or the chapped lips that she used to hate so much. She doesn't even remember his name.

S
he loved the lingerie, the details on the diaphanous fabric. The seams on the stockings; the little buttons, covered by a tab of silk ribbon, with which she fastened the stockings to the garter belt; the lace edging on the panties; the tiny red rosette at the joining of the molded bra cups. The slow removal of all these things, like a ceremony. She loved the contrast between the pageantry of the female costume and the way that wearing it—being divested of it—revealed what she came to feel was her truest self. At least her happiest self: the female unwound, exposed, blessedly unthinking. As if the performance called up the real. As if it was the presence of the lace itself that left her unsheathed and tremulous and fully realized in the arms of the man who had summoned her. As if he were a sorcerer and she his nymph. If she thought about it in her calmer moments, the process was actually a bit terrifying. To be made woman, one who could be penetrated. She had a feeling that he could wound her deeply and irredeemably in such a state, yet she could not help but yearn for it.

He'd say to her, “Be soft for me,” his accent almost completely melted from his whisper. She'd answer, “So soft you won't know where I end and where you begin,” as if she were answering an incantation, a prayer. He was so different when he made love, so present and devoid of irony. Perhaps those moments were what made her stay. But no, she needed him in all his guises. His cruelty was as necessary to her as his love. He awoke in her a nakedness so complete it could not possibly end well.

A
ndrei is not back yet?” Dragos said without so much as a hello first.

Irina opened the door only slightly wider when she saw who it was. “Not yet. He shouldn't be long.”

She was supposed to invite him in, sit him down and offer him a drink while he waited. She was supposed to let him step out of the heat into the air-conditioned cool of the entryway and lead him to the plush couches in the living room. His white shirt had the top two buttons undone and looked wilted on his body, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, exposing the dark down on his forearms that crept onto the backs of his hands. He wore a small gold pendant, plainly visible in his open collar. Irina made out for the first time that it was a Saint Christopher medal.

“Good luck for travelers,” she said a little stupidly. He took her observation as an invitation to come in. When he did, she shut the door behind him, automatically turning the lock. A definite click.

“Do you always do that?” he asked.

“What?”

“Lock the door when you're here. Lock yourself in.”

“Yes.”

He went past her and sat heavily on the black leather sofa. He made himself at home, tucking one of the yellow velvet pillows behind his back to give himself support. He looked up at Irina standing there.

“Drink?” she said.

“Andrei would not have some
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, would he?”

“No.”

“No, he is not nostalgic for the homeland, that one. Vodka, then. With ice.”

When she handed him the drink, the cold dew on the glass made it slip from her loose grip. Dragos caught it quickly; the ice rattled. There was not a drop spilled. Irina thought she felt the brief heat of his hand against hers. There was something electric in the contact, a tiny jolt.

“You only brought one,” he said. “You are not drinking with me?”

Irina shook her head.

“Pity.”

He took a generous gulp from the glass, wincing slightly when he set it down. Irina was about to sit on the love seat cornering the couch when Dragos said, tapping the cushion next to him with the flat of his hand, “Now now, Irina, sit with me.”

She complied automatically. When their knees touched, he did not move away. Irina was about to readjust so they were no longer in contact but something curious in her decided not to. Something in her wanted to know how long he'd sit there like that with this tiny touch between them, through the rough linen of his pants. How long before he'd move away? How long before he'd acknowledge it?

His dark eyes were on her, making her feel the slightness of her short, light summer dress. She was highly conscious of what the fluid blue silk did and did not cover.

“That is a new dress, no?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“It's true, you do not have much else to do, besides buy new dresses.”

She pulled her leg away from the warmth of him, settling back into the couch. “There's university,” she said.

“Yes, that. It is history, is it not, that you are neglecting to study?”

“Yes.”

He didn't stop looking her over, doing so with deliberate slowness, as if he were trying to gauge exactly how all her parts fit together. He was a bit stocky but not bad-looking. There was a nervy quality to his body that made him radiate energy, enhanced by the potential harm in his flat, black gaze. He looked like a man who had a gun hidden somewhere on his person. Women generally liked this about him.

“So, you are getting along well with Vasilii's little wife?”

“She's interesting. I like her.”

“How much English does she speak?”

“More than you'd think.”

“Now I am the only one without my own little woman,” Dragos quipped. “I am feeling a bit lonely—”

“Dragos.” Irina interrupted him.

“Yes?”

She hadn't known where she was going, saying his name like that. She'd said it in a warning tone as if attempting to veer away from a dangerous place, but it hadn't worked. There they were. It was a strange feeling, this stark awareness of every inch of her bare skin, of the whisper feel of her dress against her breasts, the small of her back. Usually she understood clothes only in terms of Andrei. She only put on clothes for Andrei to take off. When she picked out a new outfit in a store, she inevitably thought of his golden-brown hands divesting her of it. But now here was another man who looked as if he were trying to imprint himself into her clothes.

“Did Andrei tell you?” Dragos asked, a slight smile playing on his lips.

“Tell me what,” Irina asked dryly, without the rising inflection of a question.

“He is such a gentleman, sparing your delicate ears. He didn't tell you.”

He took a sip of his drink while she waited for him to explain himself. She would not offer him the satisfaction of asking again. Dragos set the glass back down on the tabletop sonorously. “The other night I got a little drunk,” he said. “You know. We were talking about women again. Vasilii would not tell us about his nuptial bliss—so private with his pleasures, that man. Andrei told me to stop bothering him, and I offered him ten thousand dollars to fuck you.”

Irina inhaled sharply, as if someone had stuck a needle in her somewhere. She said nothing, a high flush slowly creeping up her face.

“I am sorry,” Dragos said. “That is a bit low for a fine thing like yourself. You must understand, it is a low price between friends.”

He did not sound at all sheepish. Was he putting her on? He had that in common with Andrei, the ability to make people unsure whether he was joking. He was even worse than Andrei that way.

“You don't want to know what he answered?”

“You're disgusting.”

Dragos smiled broadly and then licked his lips. He stared absently at the entryway and said patiently, as one presenting an obvious argument to an intelligent audience, “My dear, I could teach you some first-rate tricks to take back to your man. It is clear to me you would make an excellent student.”

He did not touch her, did not even turn his head to look at her. What if she slapped him? What would that feel like?

“I don't like. This joke. At all,” she said quietly, trying to sound angry rather than scared.

There was the remnant of a smile playing on his lips. “Just let Andrei know, my dear, when it begins to matter if it is a joke. Then I am sure he will ask me if I meant to be funny.”

The itch to hit his smug face was unlike anything Irina had felt before. But what if he liked that? He might be that type of man, who'd take any display of passion as an invitation. He was liable to hit her back, pin her down on the couch, and fuck her immediately, her flimsy silk dress hiked up past her ass. He wouldn't even bother to remove her panties, merely pull them aside before he shoved himself into her. She hated him so much.

The two of them were staring at each other with peculiar rage when Andrei's key turned in the lock. It was almost a disappointment to have everything diffuse as if a timer on a bomb had abruptly been stopped. Irina wanted to see. What would have happened if she'd been left alone with Dragos for another minute?