by A. Zavarelli
While the kettle warms, Aida sets the table for tea. Cups, saucers, sugar cubes, and creamer. She adds a plate of freshly baked banana bread from the microwave, and I eat two slices while I wait. Throughout the process, her eyes move to me often. She is still uncertain of my motives, and when she comes to sit across from me, I think she is undecided how much of the truth to indulge.
“Tanaka was a bright little girl,” she tells me. “Smart and inquisitive. Her studies taught her everything that a girl of her stature should know, but it was never enough. Her mind was always full of questions, and that curiosity would sometimes get her into trouble.”
My lip curls at the corner, though it should make no difference to me what the little dancer was like as a child.
The kettle whistles, and Aida brings it to the table, pouring it over the tea bags before resting it on a hot pad. She resumes her seat, the steam fogging her glasses as she stares into the cup.
“I have never in all my years witnessed such a determined child. When she went to her first ballet, that was it for her. It was the thing she wanted to do, and nothing else could captivate her attention from that day forward. Not even her studies. She wanted to set her own course. She wanted to perfect every move before she even learned the basics.”
I remove the tea bag from my cup and add a cube of sugar. “It sounds like very little has changed. She never seems to think of anything else.”
Aida prepares her own tea with sugar and cream. “It was an escape for her. At first, I thought it was good for her to have a childhood dream. It allowed her a space away from her life. I could see it on her face when she danced that she was in another world. But when her mother died, it became her only world, and she retreated there far too often. I tried to find other outlets for her, but it did not work. Nothing ever worked. The only time she was happy was when she danced.”
I venture another try at the question that continues to plague me. “What happened to her mother?”
This time, Aida doesn’t hold back. “Manuel happened.”
“I have heard that she often wore a veil.”
“She never took it off.” She shakes her head. “Not after—she was horribly disfigured.”
“By Manuel?” I press.
She hesitates but nods. “He carved her face up with a knife so that no man in his employ would ever be tempted by her beauty.”
My blood burns, and it only serves to bolster my case against him.
“And what about Tanaka? Did his violence touch her as well?”
Aida’s brows come together, and she pauses to take a sip of her tea. “I never witnessed it.”
“She flinches at the slightest movement. There must be a reason.”
“I never witnessed it,” Aida reiterates, “but it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. There were times she would be locked in her room for days, and I was not permitted to see her. But I saw the bruises, and that was enough. She blamed it on the dancing.”
Her response satisfies my suspicions, but there is no satisfaction in discovering the true nature of Tanaka’s father. Manuel Valentini destroys beautiful things. Manuel Valentini doesn’t deserve to breathe. And one day, when I am certain I have wrung every ounce of suffering from his soul, I will destroy him too.
“You inquired about his mistresses,” Aida observes. “There must be a reason you have kept Tanaka alive. So, who is this woman you seek?”
I finish my tea and move the plate away. There is no point skirting around the topic. This is what I came here for.
“Her name was Irina. I believe she came into Manuel’s life around fifteen years ago.”
Aida folds her wrinkled hands across the table and studies me. “And who is Irina to you?”
I could lie, and I probably should. But like me, Aida is not a woman to be trifled with. She values honesty, and I respect her enough to admit the truth.
“She was my mother.”
Her face wrinkles, and she hunches forward with a sigh that I suspect she’s withheld for years. “I don’t know of an Irina, but that doesn’t mean anything. Manuel had many mistresses who he kept outside the home. I only hope for your sake that you are mistaken in assuming she was one of them.”
My pulse throbs as I look at her for the answer. “Why?”
“Because they are all dead now.”
For seven days, I have remained captive to my newly acquired NG tube. Every morning without fail, the doctor comes to my room at six to begin the all-day ordeal that is my feeding schedule. In the blink of an eye, my life has been reduced to a series of nutritional shakes and nothing more. Today is no different, and I have the urge to retch when she appears with the meal replacements and syringes I have come to hate.
Dr. Shtein tells me it could be worse. She explains that this is the least invasive option as far as tubes go, having it inserted directly through my nasal system and down my esophagus. Her words came with a warning that if I had any bright ideas about pulling it out, the tube could also be inserted directly into my stomach through surgical means. Needless to say, I haven’t had the courage to remove it.
The tube irritates my nose and it feels like I have a garden hose stuffed down my throat. The liquid nourishment she forces into my stomach disgusts me and makes me wish I could vomit at every meal.
I’ve been granted no other choice than to accept the complete loss of control over my body. As a skilled liar and manipulator, I thought I had a wealth of tactics at my disposal. But Dr. Shtein is not one to be easily swayed. My pleas have gone unanswered, and bartering only makes the doctor shake her head. She can’t be won through false claims of illness, and it seems there isn’t a circumstance in the world that will get me out of the constant feedings.
Since her abrupt seizure over my life, I’ve had little else to do but wonder who this woman is. The amount of time she spends with me throughout the day indicates she has no other post. She is a doctor for the sole purpose of being on the Vory payroll. The array of medical equipment at her disposal dictates that she has a long leash as far as finances go, and since our first encounter, I have found myself subject to a host of tests under her direction.
Outwardly, I hate her. I want to curse her name and subject her to as much pain as she has given me. But inwardly, she is my only source of comfort. Nikolai has not returned. In his absence, there is only Nonna, who speaks very little. When she comes to my room, she will not meet my eyes, and I know it’s because she betrayed my secret.
I am restless and irritable and on the verge of fracturing. If I allow my thoughts to drift to the weight I’ve gained over the past week, it will break me. If I ruminate on the length of time it’s been since I’ve trained, I will lose all hope completely.
While I seek asylum from my own mind, the doctor checks my vitals. Pulse, temperature, blood pressure. It’s more than I ever had tested as a child. Other than my childhood vaccines, I never had the occasion to visit a regular health clinic. I can only remember that when I was sick, the doctor on my father’s payroll would write a prescription without even seeing me. My father ruled his kingdom with an iron fist, and outsiders were strictly forbidden. But such does not seem to be the case with Nikolai. His home seems to be a revolving door of outsiders, which has now come to include my physical therapist and Dr. Shtein.
“When will I be free to eat on my own again?” I ask.
Dr. Shtein looks at me, and her face is blank. This is business for her, but I know from the conversation I overheard with Nikolai it was her idea.
“When you can prove you are capable of doing so on your own,” she answers.
“How can I prove it if I’m restrained?” I argue.
She wheels one of the machines out of the way and pulls her chair closer to the bed. “How long have you had this behavior toward food?”
“I don’t know.” It’s a lie, and she knows it.
Her phone chimes, and she checks it discreetly before turning her attention back to me. “If you aren’t ready to be honest, then I
have no reason to reconsider my treatment.”
I swallow, and it feels like there’s a clump of flour lodged in my throat. I don’t want to live another day strapped to the bed and subjected to feedings like a child. It’s inhumane and humiliating. Over the course of a week, I have lost every ounce of dignity I possessed.
“I can’t remember when it started,” I admit. “But I was very young when I learned to choose foods that had the fewest calories. I filled my diet with those and little else. It was what my mother did.”
“So this is a learned behavior,” she observes.
I don’t answer because I don’t want her to think badly of my mother. My mother was a good person. She did the best she could to raise me in her circumstances.
“Have you ever been treated by a doctor before for this condition?” she asks.
“No.”
“So you are not aware of the damage you have done to your body?”
I try to swallow again, but I can’t. My throat is too dry, and I’m afraid of her cruel words. It can’t be that bad. I feel fine.
“You are just trying to scare me.”
“Do you know what osteopenia is?” she returns.
I shake my head, and I want to tell her to stop because it doesn’t matter what it is. I don’t have it.
“You have not provided your bones with adequate calcium for a very long time,” she says. “The progression of damage is a very simple one, with osteoporosis being the next award for your starvation. At which stage, it would be highly unlikely you would ever dance again.”
“That isn’t true.” At least, I don’t want it to be true, but she takes no mercy on me.
“You are an athlete who does not provide your body the necessary fuel to maintain the muscles required for your sport. In essence, your body is eating itself alive. Your heart is under extreme duress, and the only possible result of such continued behavior is heart disease and inevitable death. Do you understand that without treatment, it’s very possible you could be dead before you ever see your thirtieth birthday?”
Moisture fills my eyes, but I don’t want to believe it. It isn’t true. It can’t be. Only to prove her point, the doctor takes the discussion a step further by showing me the results of the many tests she has run and explaining them as if she’s speaking to a child.
“Mr. Kozlov will not allow this behavior to continue while you are under his care. Without your cooperation, I can provide the nourishment you need, but it will only last as long as the treatments. In the end, it’s up to you. You must make the decision whether you want to live or die.”
“It can’t be that simple,” I maintain. “I feel fine.”
“You feel fine because your body has only known starvation. Inside, you are not fine. You have been undernourished for so long that you do not know what healthy feels like.”
If there was an argument to be found for that statement, I would supply it. But I can’t seem to convince her, or even myself, that I am still right.
The doctor abandons her chair and collects her things. “When you are ready to participate in your recovery, then we can move forward. Until then, I suggest you get used to the bed.”
On the tenth day of my incarceration, Nikolai finally makes an appearance. His face is drawn, and the shadows under his eyes darker than I remember, but even so, his presence has a way of commanding my attention, regardless of how much I hate him. When I look at him the way he is right now, quiet and pensive, he does not look like the monster who did this to me. He does not look like the man who commandeered my life and trussed me up with puppet strings.
Today, he is just a man with tousled hair and enough stubble on his jaw to appear edgy. If I saw him on the street, I might even—for a fleeting moment—think he was recklessly handsome. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble in that department, so I suppose women do consider him handsome. But I shouldn’t.
I’ve had over a week to prepare my case against him. Shouting and carrying on like a child will get me nowhere. My emotions controlled me before, but now it is time to utilize the knowledge I have learned over the years. I’m a skilled manipulator. An even better liar. And maybe I’m overconfident, but I believe this hardened criminal can be convinced of my good intentions if he gives me the chance.
“Nakya.” He nods in my direction. “How are you feeling?”
“Much better.”
The words taste like acid, even if they are true. The things that the doctor told me only a few short days ago have been rolling around my mind like a wrecking ball, destroying everything I thought I knew.
Perhaps, I was slightly undernourished. It’s hard to argue otherwise when the changes in my body become apparent with each passing day. The fog has lifted, and my energy levels have too, which is not ideal considering my current position. What is the point of being healthy if I’m unable to move?
I look up at Nikolai. My captor and my savior, depending on the day. Today, I need him to be my savior. His ocean eyes wash over me, and a rush of warmth floods my veins. His eyes are loud, electric, and undeniably captivating. Always evolving like the clouds in the sky, they never look the same from one moment to the next.
“The doctor reports that your health is improving,” he says.
“It is. I did not realize …” The words don’t come easily, and it’s not an act. “I was not aware of how bad my health was.”
Nikolai settles into the adjacent chair and reclines with his legs spread wide, thumbs toying with a cigarette he is yet to light.
“Zvezda, I am not an ignorant man. Do you think you can win me over with your honeyed eyes and sugary sweet lies?”
My chest squeezes, and bitterness takes a stranglehold on my vulnerability. I wasn’t lying. It was perhaps the first honest admission I’ve made in years, and he doesn’t believe me. But what does it matter? I’d be a fool to expect anything else from a monster.
“I wouldn’t be forced to lie if you’d just let me out of this prison,” I snap. “I’m human, and I don’t deserve to be treated like this.”
“I don’t like to see you treated this way.” His words are soft and deceptively genuine, but I can’t believe them. I can’t believe anything he says.
“When can I call my father? When will he come for me?”
His jaw settles into an unforgiving line, and a sinking feeling expands in my stomach.
“He will come for me,” I assure him.
My certainty is a lie, though not for his benefit, but mine. I’m not ready to accept that my life is over, even if logic dictates it is. Nikolai’s possession of me has changed the entire trajectory of my destiny. I was supposed to marry Dante. I had been saved for him. I’d been brought up with the understanding that I would marry him and follow the rules like an obedient daughter.
But with one command, Nikolai changed everything. If I were to return to my father’s, Dante would no longer want me. I’d be considered damaged goods. Impure and tainted. And the question that stays hidden in the darkest recesses of my mind is what would become of me then.
Nikolai removes a lighter from his pocket, the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “I think you know if you went home, things would not be the same.”
He throws out his careless observation while he lights his cigarette, and there isn’t a sympathetic bone in his body for the plight he has caused. “Dante will not marry you after you’ve been with me.”
His words ignite a storm of images in my mind. Naked. Groaning. Inside me. My thighs clench, and a flush creeps over my skin.
“I haven’t been with you.”
“Not yet,” Nikolai concedes. “But Dante doesn’t know that. And would he ever believe you anyway?”
Not yet. That seems to be the only part of his statement I focus on. It should disgust me. Nikolai is a casual lover who desecrates the idea of intimacy between partners. The act means nothing to him. And even though I am too jaded to believe in love, I always thought that Dante would at the very least be an attentive lo
ver. In the fantasy my mind had conjured up, I liked to believe he would only want me once we married. But with Nikolai, I would be nothing more than a few fleeting moments of entertainment he would soon forget.
“You will never take my body,” I tell him. “I am engaged to Dante. Nothing has changed.”
“Except you aren’t.” He flashes a cold smile. “You never were. But don’t trouble yourself with half-hearted lies, princess. You are too bony for me. I like my women soft. Feminine. So, for now, you are safe from my affections.”
Heat rises up the base of my neck and burns my face while my lips spew venom. “And I wouldn’t want your filthy, well-used cock. So don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Kozlov, you are safe from my seductions as well.”
Nikolai’s lips tilt at the corners, but flames blaze in his eyes. I find it difficult not to react to his verbal jousting, and I don’t know why. My upbringing trained me to be docile, and I know when to pick my battles, but with him, I simply can’t control it.
He releases a deep exhalation from his lungs, clouding the air with the scent of cloves from his black cigarette. “Do you believe Dante would treat you like a princess?”
“Italian men treasure their women. Dante is no different.”
“And when he chose his mistresses over you, it would not bother you?”
My fingernails bite into my palms, but I make every effort not to let the irritation seep into my voice. “I am not delusional. Men have needs. He might sate them outside of the home on occasion, but he would always come back to me.”
“And such behavior in your mind is not filthy?”
I don’t answer. He’s made his point, and I can’t argue it, as much as I’d like to.
“What you can’t seem to grasp, zvezda, is that your judgments have clouded your own vision. I may wet my cock as I please because I am unwed. But I can assure you that there is nothing more sacred to a Vor than his wife. Our code forbids adultery while yours simply expect it.”
