Translated by Amy Babich
      from Russian (Russia/United States)

[Continued from page 73 of “Bodies,” the 2005 issue of TWO LINES]

      Sandy was not quite herself—she had very rarely gone to parties, and those she had been to were either with relatives or with old friends from school. But here everyone would be a stranger, and naked in the bargain. Other people’s nudity, especially men’s, did not bother her—she was ashamed of her own nudity, of her heavy body—or rather it depressed her that men were not interested in it. As for the body itself—well, she was quite comfortable in it.
      They drove up to a big, two-story house. The windows were closed and the shades drawn. On the footpath to the house Sandy almost turned her ankle in her high heels. She got angry, took off the shoes and carried them in her hand. The door was unlocked. Walt entered the house, and Sandy followed. Music issued from the second story. Their host made his way down the staircase to meet them. He was a tall, slim fellow in glasses, with a scornful smile on his lips. Two vertical wrinkles formed parentheses around his mouth.
      “How’s it hangin’, Walt—and what’s the name of your charming lady?”
      Sandy was hurt at first, but then persuaded herself that maybe he liked her and had called her charming in all seriousness—there were men, after all, who adored heavy women.
      “This is Sandy,” Walt introduced her lamely.
      “I’m Barry,” said their host, still elevated above her on the steps of the staircase. “Welcome to the Palace of Pleasure. Go on upstairs. Everyone’s up there watching a video.”
      Sandy started to climb the staircase, and it creaked beneath her.
      “Better go faster,” Barry said after her. “The stairs might cave in.”
      Sandy took the joke seriously, hurried her pace, and heard Walt and Barry laughing. She got to the second floor and looked down to see what was keeping Walt. She saw Walt count out money to Barry, who was saying something to him. Sandy eavesdropped.
      “... scare all the guys. We already agreed on this—foxes only.”
      “Tastes can differ,” Walt tried to joke.
      “Listen, these are no idiots here. Next time don’t come at all if you’re going to bring something like that.”
      “Okay, okay, take it easy,” Walt said soothingly, and they started up the stairs.
      Sandy stood with her heart pounding, pretending she had heard nothing. In essence, she had heard nothing new—merely that fate, for some reason, was working to destroy her pleasant illusions.
      “Come on in; don’t be shy,” said Barry, opening the door for Sandy. From behind it she could hear music and groaning. Sandy found herself in a room where a video recorder with a large screen stood by the far wall. Hard-core sex in full tilt filled the screen. Sandy had seen porn films just twice. She had gone to see them with men she scarcely knew, who did not dare take her to bed right away. The last time had been two years ago. Sandy stood looking at the screen, feeling a sudden willingness to take part in the actions displayed there.
      She noticed five or six couples sitting on the rug to her left and right. All were slender—she distinguished that right away. The majority were completely undressed, and the half-dressed did not fall behind them in energy. Some raised a head to greet the newcomers, but returned right away to interrupted business. Walt undressed quickly, threw his things into a corner and nodded to Sandy, who had stopped short. One couple disentangled themselves and went out the door to another room. Sandy undid the clasp of her bra, and her breasts danced out from under her dress. She decided to wait a while before undressing, until it was really necessary. Walt said that he would be back right away and went out. “Probably to the bathroom,” Sandy thought. She half-reclined by the wall and watched as the couples changed partners, uniting in picturesque groups. Sandy wanted to move closer, in the hope that they would invite her to join them, but she lacked the courage to take the first step. The couple that had left the room returned. The man passed by Sandy without even glancing at her and joined another couple. His partner started kissing a woman, inside of whom a well-muscled young man was exerting himself. Sandy stared in fascination at the spectacle before her and felt herself burning inside. She noticed that Walt had come into the room with a woman, his arm around her shoulder. “He’s never held me that way,” thought Sandy jealously, and looked around in the hope of seeing an unoccupied man. At that moment a tall black man detached himself from the agglomeration of bodies. Meanwhile, Walt’s bald spot glistened as he drew moans from his partner. The black man sat down next to Sandy on the rug.
      “Hello,” he said without enthusiasm. Sandy was silent, tense at his indifference. With what passion she would have flung herself upon him, had he only touched her—he was the image of a Playgirl centerfold.
      “Hey, Big Mama—how’s the action over here?” he asked, indicating the composition formed by two couples in the middle of the room. He wanted to talk, pure and simple.
      “Not bad,” Sandy fetched up out of herself.
      “Not bad? This is so baad,” he joked, then added, “But they need me.”
      He got up and harmoniously enrolled himself in the group.
      “He didn’t even want to touch me,” thought Sandy, and tears started down her face, washing away an hour’s work at the mirror.
      Sandy felt as if they had insulted her, violated her. It occurred to her that maybe a raped woman felt something like this. At this thought she started sobbing, and, after fastening her bra behind her back, heard her dress tear at the seams. Sandy groped for her shoes and quickly descended the creaking staircase. No one noticed her exit, and the last thing she heard as she left the house was the exultant moan of a woman who had just gotten what she wanted.
      The street was completely dark. Suddenly she remembered Rembrandt’s painting “Lucretia.” She had seen it in a museum she once visited on a school field trip. The thought flared up in her, not for the first time, that rape as a reason for suicide was incomprehensible. Sandy had often imagined being raped, and this fantasy depressed her only because it would never happen. Sandy walked along the street feeling complete hopelessness. Even the thought of tomorrow’s mail brought her no consolation, since she now felt aversion toward Walt, and he was inextricably entwined with her thoughts about the mail. Sandy was afraid that the joy of waiting for the mail would be hers no longer.
      The beauty of postal anticipation had been such that, once disappointed, it was restored anew the next day. There had been a daily rebirth of hope, and it had the convenient benefit that it depended not on any effort from Sandy but only on the rhythm of the mail delivery system. Now the intrusion of Walt into the impersonal delivery of mail threatened the automatic rebirth of hope.
      Sandy kept trying to flag down a car, but nobody stopped. One car did slow down, but the man in the car looked her over and drove on without stopping. Sandy began to cry again.
      Finally a car stopped. A beautiful girl was sitting in the front seat next to the driver.
      “Where are you headed?” asked the man, leaning across the girl.
      Sandy told him.
      “They’re sleeping together,” she immediately thought, noticing how the man’s hand kept a confident grip on the knee of his companion.
      “Pile in; it’s on our way,” he said, and opened the back door for her from inside.
      Sandy got in and looked at the man’s well-groomed hair. Suddenly, with great clarity, she remembered the bottle that held the sleeping pills her mother often took. Sandy found herself confronting a decision made independently of her will. Of course she had to take that bottle. She could easily be done with this heavy body! A desire had simply appeared in Sandy to be free of useless fat; there was no fear of death, only a keen curiosity. Thinking about this, Sandy was astonished that she could manage to answer the polite questions from the couple in front without ceasing to immerse herself in the morass of her joyful decision.
      Talking with the driver, Sandy described the few last turns that remained on the way to her house. It was late, but the lights were on in the living room and in her mother’s bedroom. Usually her mother turned off the lights at night to save every cent. Sandy thought of her mother with annoyance; her being awake might pose a problem. The front door was unlocked. As she entered the living room, Sandy froze. Her mother sat at the table, dressed in one of Sandy’s father’s suits and wearing Sandy’s father’s hat, a necktie wrapped around her bare neck. She sat motionless and looked straight ahead. Her face curved in a smile.
      “Mama, what’s wrong?” Sandy cried out. Her mother neither stirred nor moved her glance from whatever was fascinating her so.
      Sandy approached her mother cautiously and gently shook her shoulder. Her body was stiff and staunchly resisted Sandy’s hand.
      Sandy flung herself on the telephone, started to dial 911 for the police, dialed 9 and started looking for 11 on the dial. She was completely unable to understand why she couldn’t find the eleven. Then she realized that she should call the operator. She hung up, waited for the dial tone, and dialed 0. The usual few seconds of waiting for the connection seemed interminable, and she hung up again and managed to dial 911 correctly. Her mother still had not stirred. Sandy explained with difficulty that it was not a case of injury, heart attack, asphyxiation, or bleeding. “Well, what is it?” asked the voice on the phone. “She’s gone out of her mind!” shrieked Sandy and burst into sobs.
      Soon the police arrived at the house, and after them the paramedics. They tried to talk with Sandy’s mother, but quickly realized that there would be no conversation here. They were unable to lift her from her chair onto her feet; it was as if she had turned to stone in a seated position. When the paramedics picked her up in their arms the hat fell from her head, rolled over to where Sandy stood and lay at her feet like a dog. The paramedics took her mother out to the street, where the ambulance waited with open doors.
      “You can come with us to the hospital,” a policeman offered. Sandy shook her head no.
      “Then they’ll call you from the hospital to get the personal data, insurance, all the rest of it.”
      Sandy nodded.
      “Everything will be all right. Now, don’t go to pieces,” the policeman said, and he went out, quietly closing the door behind him. The squad car drove away from the house and a heavy silence set in.
      Suddenly the refrigerator switched on loudly and Sandy caught her breath, startled. This restored her feeling of hunger. Sandy opened the refrigerator and shoved something into her mouth. She yawned and thought about her mother, who had always been so remote that it seemed she had been gone for a lifetime.
      Sandy looked into her mother’s room—her father’s suits lay on the bed. “Nothing good can happen at this address,” she thought. “Only the contempt and coldness of the world will come here.”
      She started to pace the small living room, since she was unable to sit still. Automatically, as she had always done, Sandy went to the mail slot to check whether something was stuck there. Her fingers felt paper. She grabbed and pulled out an envelope. It was addressed to her, but the handwriting was unfamiliar and there was no return address. She frantically tore open the envelope, but it contained nothing at all; it was empty.