by Ed Bemand
She nodded. Not sure she would like where he was going with this.
"It should be no surprise to you that you can earn a great deal more money with men like Mr. Grigoriov than you can spending your days with dead fish. But, the question is, which work would you rather be doing?"
"I didn't come to the city to spend my life gutting fish."
"Exactly. So would you say that we have an understanding, yes? That we should give you a chance to repay me by having more nights like last night?"
In that moment it felt like the right decision. How many more unpleasant moments would she be forced to survive? She didn't want to think about it. Hopefully it wouldn't be for too long. She wasn't surprised that he expected her to confirm her new status by satisfying his desires. It didn't even seem like a very big deal this time.
She didn't go back to the factory. She was a bit sad that she wouldn't get the chance to say goodbye to Ludmilla, but Bochakov had said that her new situation meant that she was entitled to her own flat. He had her few possessions brought there for her.
It wasn't a very big or grand flat but after weeks sharing space in the bunkhouse of the factory, having even a couple of rooms to herself was a very pleasant change. Bochakov explained to her that she was free to do what she liked most of the time, but she should make sure that she could be available quickly if he called for her. She wouldn't be living completely on her own either. He would arrange for someone to live with her to look after all the minor domestic matters like cooking or cleaning. The flat was ready furnished for her with everything she would need and there would be a selection of clothes in her size. When she expressed concern about the cost of all this, Bochakov shrugged and said it was a small matter, not something she needed to worry about. Everything, he reassured her, would be taken care of.
Her companion in the flat turned out to be a solid looking middle-aged woman called Katja. Though initially stern and distant the two rapidly became a bit more comfortable around each other. As well as the cooking and cleaning, Katja was responsible for looking after Svetlana and making sure that she was suitably prepared for her clients. Svetlana wasn't given much warning about them. In the first week at least half a dozen different men were shown into the flat by Katja. It was deemed too obvious to need mentioning what she was supposed to do with them. She wasn't exactly comfortable with the situation, but having a large, comfy bed to herself most of the time and decent, regular food for the first time since she had come to the city made it all seem almost bearable.
As well as looking after the men that came to visit her, Svetlana was also expected to accompany men on dates for which Katja would generally take great care over dressing her for. Some were to parties like the first she had been to for Grigoriov, others were to restaurants. She was rarely the only girl at the parties. Some of the parties were much rougher than Grigoriov's had been. Invariably they would culminate in her being expected to have sex with at least one man. At least when she was taken out to restaurants it would just be the two of them. The men were invariably older than her and seemed rich. She wasn't sure how much it was costing them to spend time with her. She never got to see any of it. Katja dealt with it discretely enough that she never saw money change hands.
It was easy for Svetlana to lose track of time. She rarely saw or spoke to anyone other than her clients and Katja and while she was friendly enough she wasn't inclined to chat much about anything. She seemed to accept her role in the arrangement comfortably enough and just got on with it, but then it wasn't her that woke up each morning not knowing what strange men she would be fucked by that day. Katja seemed to be very good at avoiding giving answers to any questions about money or the situation of Bochakov. In the end Svetlana gave up asking.
She was surprised when one day Bochakov came to see her. He put down his briefcase, sat down in the living room and made himself comfortable. Ivana sat down across a table from him. Katja made tea for them both.
"And how are you, little Svetlana?"
"I'm well thank you."
"And your hand, it has healed well?"
She held it out for him to see. He caught it in his and inspected it.
"Barely even a scar."
"Yes. Please thank Ivana for me."
"I will. She has asked after you. I think she has a soft spot for you, not that she would thank me for telling you, of course."
Svetlana found it hard to believe that Ivana had a particularly soft spot for anyone. Though she had speculated that there was more going on between her and Bochakov than was immediately obvious, which would go some way towards explaining her coldness towards the girls that called on him.
"I like to think that we have developed an excellent working relationship, don't you think." She wasn't as enthusiastic about it as he appeared to be, but she supposed she could have done worse. "I think that you will be glad to hear that your work over the last few months has gone a long way towards paying off the costs of your establishment with the agency." She nodded and sipped her tea warily. "And as I have told you before, you rapidly attracted the attention of some very eligible foreign men. Of course, due to the intensity of our vetting process, we haven't previously actually thought that anyone was suitable enough for you to be introduced to in person. That situation has now changed. We have been conducting correspondence on your behalf with a gentleman for some time now and he is eager to meet you." He opened his briefcase and extracted a sheaf of papers. "This is the correspondence that has been exchanged to date. He has been led to understand that due to your very limited understanding of his language you have been communicating through an interpreter. Of course, all of this has been written by Ivana. Now that it is time for you to meet him, you should read them and familiarise yourself with them. This gentlemen is very eligible and he is hoping that if your meeting goes well, you will be eager to marry him and go with him to his country."
Svetlana was taken aback. Of course, theoretically this had been what she had originally signed on for, before all the dates with strange men and her time in the factory. Did she really want to leave her country with another strange man? Admittedly she might not have a lot of choice in it. Everything she currently had was from Bochakov. She hadn't had any money of her own in months.
"When do I get to meet him?"
"Tomorrow. You'll be having dinner together. Ivana will be accompanying you to act as interpreter."
"Then I suppose that I had better look my best."
"Good girl." He finished his tea. "If all goes well, within a few weeks you will be able to leave all this behind and start a new life somewhere a bit warmer, with a rich husband to buy you all the pretty things you could ever want."
Bochakov left her to read the pile of letters. He spoke briefly to Katja on the way out but Svetlana couldn't hear what he said. The first letter had apparently been written by her. It described her background as a simple farm girl from a small village and while it didn't outright say that she was a virgin, as pure as the driven snow, it did at least heavily imply it, which amused her considering that it was Ivana who had written it and she could be under no illusions about what Svetlana had been doing for the last few months. She went on to apologise for her almost complete lack his language and explain that what she was looking for in a husband was somebody who could support her so that she in turn could devote herself utterly to him, cleaning, cooking and performing all other "wifely" duties. Svetlana hoped that he hadn't taken the cooking part too seriously. She hadn't cooked at all since she had left her village and the sort of things she had helped to make there for her family probably weren't what a rich foreigner would want.
The next letter was from the man. His name was Keith. It sounded harsh and awkward. She wasn't sure exactly how to pronounce it. Apparently he owned his own home and a business selling windows and conservatories. She wondered if some subtlety of the description had been lost in the translation or whether that was really what he did. Presumably he must have made a lot of money doing it thoug
h or he wouldn't have been in contact with Bochakov. The name of the town he lived in was unfamiliar to her. He didn't specifically say how old he was but she assumed that he was going to be quite a bit older than her. He described himself as being a man of simple tastes, who just wanted to find a good girl that he could take care of.
There were another two letters each way. She was apparently very eager. By the second letter she was talking wistfully about the idea of being able to leave her country to be with him. She liked to think that she might have played slightly harder to get if she was actually writing them. It got gooey quickly. What exactly she was supposed to be so excited about given how little contact they had apparently had she wasn’t sure. Clearly Keith had seen the photos of her by the time he wrote his next letter. He had been distinctly enthusiastic about some of them. She was guessing the naked ones. It didn’t sound like he had much experience of seducing women with the power of his prose. She dropped the letters back onto the table. Maybe she would be feeling brave enough to read the rest of them later. She couldn’t imagine there was anything very interesting in them. How did Ivana even manage to write this stuff in the first place? Maybe she just had form letters she re-used every time. She didn’t see a picture of Keith anywhere. It didn’t really seem fair if he hadn’t sent one when he had almost certainly already seen naked pictures of her.
With nothing else to do, she gave her afternoon over to getting herself ready for the night ahead. Katja clearly knew what was going on. She laid out a dress for Svetlana and assisted her with her hair and makeup. A car came to pick her up. Ivana was waiting in the back of it for her. She didn't seem to want to talk much during the drive to the restaurant.
The last few months had made her increasingly familiar with the nicer night spots in the city from the visits she had paid them on dates. The restaurant for tonight was not one of her favourites. It was substantially geared towards foreign food and it wasn't to her tastes. The last time she had eaten here it had left her with indigestion that had made the rest of her evening uncomfortable. Sadly, it wasn't sufficient an impediment for her to escape her obligations for the night.
Ivana led the way into the restaurant. She spoke momentarily to the maitre d' on the way past him and he smiled and pointed towards a table. Bochakov was sat there with another man. This man was fleshy and had receding hair. He stood up when he saw the women. It sounded like he was greeting them but she didn't understand the words. Bochakov said her name and smiled at her, then "Keith Ranfield" and indicated the man. She smiled at him and held out her hand he shook it awkwardly and looked embarrassed. The women sat down. Keith kept looking at Svetlana but he didn't seem to be able to hold her gaze. There was a bottle of champagne on the table and Bochakov poured some for the two women. Keith raised his glass and said something that she didn't understand. Ivana translated for her.
"The gentleman would like to compliment you on your beauty and express his gratitude to you for coming here tonight."
"Thank you." She addressed him.
The conversation didn't exactly flow. Keith seemed very nervous and more inclined to chat with Bochakov than he was to address anything directly to her. Bochakov made excuses and left them when they ordered food. Keith ordered for all of them, though he spoke with Ivana about it. The waiter didn't fully understand what he was saying and had to look to Ivana for clarification.
"What did he order?"
"In your letters you had expressed a taste for food from his country. He was happy to share it with you for the first time."
"I don't even know what they eat there."
"You'll find out soon enough."
The food that arrived was some over-cooked beef with a selection of vegetables and thick brown gravy. Compared to the food she normally ate on dates it seemed a bit weird. Presumably it was something that she would have to get used to. She ate enough to be polite but she couldn't face all of it. Anyway, the dress she was wearing was rather form-fitting and didn't have a lot of room for expansion in it.
Keith had drunk a couple of glasses of champagne and was making short work of the red wine that had arrived with the food. Svetlana had been sipping at hers. She hadn't developed a taste for alcohol and mostly drank it because her dates seemed to think it was compulsory. He hadn't spoken much since Bochakov had left. He was still looking at Svetlana a lot.
If he was this nervous on an occasion when he had paid enough to not have to worry about what he said it was easy to imagine why he had had trouble picking up women in the past. She felt obliged to make at least some effort and started addressing banalities to him that Ivana translated. How did he like her country? It was a bit cold. How was his journey here? Long. How long was he staying for? That depended. He laughed when he said that.
He wasn't exactly great company but him being shy was almost endearing. It gave the night a novelty that it was the only one of her dates in which she hadn't been obliged to service a man. He got a bit more talkative as the wine loosened his tongue but the conversation never got very profound. She was home a lot earlier than usual.
Bochakov came to visit her the morning after.
"What do you think?"
"He doesn't talk much, does he?"
Bochakov shrugged.
"Would you rather a man that talked too much?"
"No."
"You will have another date with him tonight."
"Please say it won't be at the same restaurant... my stomach still hurts."
"That's for him to choose, little Svetlana."
She wasn't feeling it herself but everyone else seemed to think that things were going well. By the end of the second date he had taken a small box out of his pocket and passed it to her. Even then he had difficulty looking her in the eye. She opened the box. The ring was elaborate and shiny. As translated by Ivana his proposal went along the lines of, "will you come to my country?"
Their wedding was the day after. It was just the two of them, Ivana and Bochakov. That there was a white dress ready in her size told her that people had been expecting this to happen. They still hadn't spent any time alone together. Clearly she would have to learn his language. The ceremony didn't take long. Keith had worn a black suit that looked a little weary. He had had a flower in his buttonhole.
Arrangements would be made for her to go to Keith's country with him as soon as possible. Ivana had given her a phrasebook to help her get started. It didn't have a lot of useful small talk in it but it was something.
So that was it then. No more fish factory. No more endless dates with random men. No more parties with local gangsters where she had to be constantly worried that one of them might take too much of a liking to her. It would just be her and Keith. Maybe she should be happy about that.
Epilogue by the narrator
And here I can but feel that it is fitting for me to conclude this ponderance upon the condition and diversity of sin and passion in humankind. Not, of course because I can in any way dare to suggest that I have delved to the deepest, darkest extents of it or that I have expended my knowledge and repository of experience of the acts of which people can be capable when suitably driven by their inner self. Instead I am drawing to a close simply because I am now perilously close to the end of the time that has been allotted to me to expand upon this account.
I can only hope that I have made sufficient effort to utilise that which was offered to me to its fullest extent and that for those that have in turn opted to boon me with their time and forbearance to vicariously explore these themes that I myself in turn was but a remote observer of can feel that they have invested it wisely and can share a little of the benefits that it can offer to them by way of wisdom and experience that saves them from the needless repetition of the regretful experiences of others with those that they come into contact with.
While it is both the right and entitlement of all to find mistakes to make as they plot the course of their lives and exploit that which we all aspire to be able to honestly call free-will, it i
s surely advisable to learn that which we can from those around us, so that we can ensure those mistakes that we still find ourselves making can at least be unique and original to ourselves and not just an unnecessary rehash of those others have already made.
I suppose that I am lucky that my nature has granted me such intimate access to so many people’s souls, allowing me to have a more informed perspective of the nature of humanity than most will ever have. Not that it makes my opinion of most of them any higher. Those rare moments of beauty and honest passion that I have been witness to seem to be invariably tied irrevocably to the darkest, foulest and cruellest moments. Can we have the one without the other, or do we only perceive the light in contrast to our shadows?
But what of me, the humble narrator that has guided this journey through men’s souls? What tales do I have of my own struggles of love and loss? Oh, where to begin. Despite any appearances to the contrary, I’ve always been a private --individual, not inclined to relish focus upon my own actions and misdeeds. On occasion my disgrace has been public enough that I am loathe to encourage any more attention upon it. I prefer the distance, the freedom to contemplate what others have done. Doubtless those inclined to do so would be able to find the records of my own actions if they are willing to put the effort in.
Given any choice in the matter, I would prefer that those who have travelled this road as a passive observer to that which I have shared would allow me to remain as I sometimes like to see myself, a cipher, an everyman if you will. I can but hope that those with the intellectual curiosity that would offer them the ability to pursue further information can respect my choice and allow themselves to be satisfied with only that knowledge which I choose to make readily available. Of course, there are inevitable exceptions to this. Were it not for the excessive inquisitiveness of at least one certain individual this opportunity would not have been offered to me in the first place. For that I suppose I am obliged to be grateful, that the unwelcome intrusion into my privacy has offered me a unique and perhaps I should say novel platform for the expression of these thoughts and reflections that linger on the surface of my mind. At least the novelty of it offers its justification and clarifies that that which is acceptable the first time is truly an unnecessary intrusion if it is repeated. Thus, my gratitude for this forum is offered with the caveat and understanding that this is by no means something that will or should be repeated and that the intention to do so is something that should, in all good sense and reason, be harshly stifled and resisted.
