Olesya Belaya sat in a train compartment, naked. Today, this hour, this minute, would be the last of her cursed virginity. Tomorrow she'd look at herself in the mirror and say, "Happy twenty-first. You're normal. You had sex."
The man she'd chosen to do it with was her Bolshoi Ballet partner and boyfriend of three months, . They'd attempted sex before—once in Olesya's apartment on her sofa, and twice on the squeaky bed in Dima's rented room. They got as far as getting undressed. Then Olesya would freeze into a porcelain doll that Dima said he was afraid to touch. In case she broke to bits. So they decided to give it a rest.
The very next day, their ballet mistress, strolled into the studio with an air of importance. The renowned Bolshoi prima was still graceful and sharp for her sixty-two years but was looking more and more like a rat. Old Bitch, they called her behind her back. She straightened her back and announced a Swan Lake tour to Simferopol in two weeks. To Simferopol, of all places! They'd be taking the train.
While the dancers grumbled, Olesya hatched a plan. As soloists, she and qualified for a luxe two-bunk compartment. She'd ask Natasha to hang out with the girls while she and Dima—
Well . . .
This snowy morning, when riding the metro to Kursky station, Olesya whispered to him, "Let's try one more time."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. A new place. You know . . . maybe it'll work."
Dima nodded.
But now that she was sitting here, naked, watching him unbutton his pants, an unexpected calamity wrecked her plans once more.
He took off his briefs and reached for her.
Olesya stared.
In the place of his erect penis, there was TUBE.
Olesya's mouth dried up.
TUBE was a toy train engine from the train set Papa had given her on her fifth birthday. It stuck out from Dima's crotch like it belonged there, its metal body painted bright red. And it pointed at her.
Olesya scooted back on the bunk until she hit the wall.
The round headlamp lit up, the whistle blared, the tiny wheels started spinning. TUBE rolled forward, pointing between her legs.
Olesya thought she'd die. Thought it'd skewer her. Kill her.
Her breath stopped in her throat, and her heart seemed to stop beating. She couldn't be seeing what she was seeing. Couldn't. It was long gone, lost, forgotten. Yet there it was, as if mocking her. Real.
There were two ways she could deal with it: close her eyes and pretend she never saw it, or grab it to make sure it was real. She grabbed it, jerked her hand away, then screamed.
"What's wrong?" Dima said.
"TUBE," she said. Her voice cracked.
He sat next to her.
She looked at his pale body, his straw-blond hair that contrasted with his slanted brown eyes. Those eyes, he had told her, were his father's favorite reason to beat his mother while she was alive. For cheating on him with some Tatar trash.
"TUBE?"
Olesya explained.
"My what?" He looked down at himself. "A . . . what? A toy train engine?"
"Well, it was," she said. "I mean, it's gone now. I don't know how it got there, but I saw it. I saw it, okay?" Her skin goosed, and she hugged herself.
Dima draped a blanket over her shoulders. "You cold?"
"No."
"What's wrong?"
She looked at him. "What's wrong?"
"Yeah."
She looked away.
"Olesya."
"Never mind."
"No, please. What just happened?"
She sighed. "Why do you ask?"
"I don't know." He shrugged. "You said something strange about—"
"Strange?"
"Yeah, strange."
"Of course. Strange. I get it."
"Come on, help me out here. What am I supposed to think?"
"What do you want from me?"
He recoiled. "I don't want anything. I just—"
"You just want to make me feel better."
"Sure. What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing." She turned away.
They sat in silence for some time.
The train wheels beat their tempo. The snow rolled behind the window. An occasional telephone pole passed by, then it was snow again. Cold. White.
Dima got up and started putting on his clothes.
Olesya looked at him, alarmed. "Where are you going?"
"Just getting dressed."
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't go."
He looked at her.
She dropped her face in her hands. "Please. I want . . . I want to have sex with you."
"You want to have sex with me."
"Yes."
He sighed. "All right."
"Right now."
"All right, all right. I'm here." He sat back down.
"It's my birthday tomorrow."
"I know."
"I'm turning twenty-one."
"Yeah, I know."
"No, you don't understand. It's not that. It's just . . . I want to wake up and look in the mirror and say, 'Happy birthday, Olesya. You're no longer a virgin.' "
"Okay," he said.
Olesya said nothing.
"Can I ask why it's so important—"
Blood rushed to her face. "Go! Just go!" she shrieked. The force of her voice surprised her. Where did it come from? "I'm sorry, I—I don't know why I said, I really don't. Ignore it. Dima—"
He moved back, silent. Then he stood and stepped into his shoes.
"Dima, please."
He took hold of the door latch.
"Let's try it. One more time. Please." She lay down and spread her legs, waiting.
He looked at her and through her, motionless. His face lost color. "I need to get some fresh air. Be right back."
"No, you won't," she said.
He flashed her an angry look. "Why? Why did you just say that? Why do you always have to be so negative?"
"I'm not."
"I'm going."
"No. Please." She reached out to him.
He passed a hand through his hair and gazed at the floor. "Look, Olesya. The truth is . . . well, I can't. Do you hear what I'm saying?"
"What?"
"I can't, okay? Not like—I can't just . . . fuck you."
She winced.
"I want to make love to you. And I want you to make love to me back, not lie there like . . . I don't know."
She sat up and crossed her arms. "Say it. Go ahead."
He pulled at the latch.
"Like a doll. Is that what you were going to say?"
"I'm going."
"Dima." She jumped up, grabbed his arm. "Please. I need to tell you something . . ."
He waited.
Their eyes met.
She stood shivering, biting her lip.
"Can it wait?" he asked.
The train heaved, swung around a curve, and entered a tunnel.
Olesya stumbled and dropped on the bunk. The lights winked out for a few moments, to pitch-black.
When they came back on, Dima was gone.
Olesya sat still for what felt like a very long time. Then she got up, walked to the door, and banged her head against the mirror with methodical repetition until blood gushed out of her nose. She paused, but not to wipe it. Blood had never stopped her. What stopped her was what she saw by her feet.
TUBE.