Postcards from Moscow by Rebekah Dodson

Author:Rebekah Dodson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: russia, france, french, russian, ballet, performance, in, love, artist, moscow, st. petersburg, paris
Publisher: Rebekah Dodson
Published: 2018-02-22T00:00:00+00:00

“WE HAVEN’T BEEN HERE in a while,” Mira said, pushing through the doors to our local bar later that evening. Igor slid in after her, and I grabbed the door, holding it for Jaqui. She looked just as good as the first day I’d met her, casual in a cashmere sweater, plaid scarf, and jeans that hugged her slim hips in all the right ways. Even her hair was down, which I had only seen once so far. I loved it. Around her neck she wore a gorgeous diamond shaped ruby pendant on a gold chain, the tiny diamonds framing it sparkling in the low light of the bar.

“Not since ...” Igor mused to Mira but I nudged him not to continue.

“I’ve never been to a bar,” Jaqui said softly.

“What?” we said in unison, turning to face her.

She shrugged. “In France, the paparazzi is everywhere. It’s not safe to go out without security.”

“Allah,” Mira breathed, “it must be nice to be famous,” she murmured.

Igor tsked her. “Be nice,” he whispered.

“It awful,” Jaqui responded. “It’s like being a prisoner in your own home. Can you imagine never leaving the dorm, for fear they will pop out of the bushes and take your picture? Without make up and dressed like, well, this?” She waved a hand down her present attire.

“Must be awful,” Mira said sarcastically.

Jaqui laughed at her and shook her head. “It is nice no one in Moscow knows me, at least.”

We sat on the bar stools, spiced tea for Mira, vodkas for the rest of us, and while Igor and I threw ours back and ordered another, Jaqui sipped at hers, groaning at the strength of it. Igor laughed and slapped me on the back. “We shall have to train this girl, Vasily.”

“What?” She looked down the bar at us. “I can drink like you.” As if to demonstrate, she threw back the tumbler and gagged, throwing the glass down heavily and breathing through her teeth. “Jesus Christ,” and then in French, “how do you do it?”

“Entraine toi,” I answered her, “Practice.”

“From a young age, take it from a Jew!” Igor laughed heartily.

Mira just sipped her straw slowly, watching us.

Jaqui stared at her for a minute. “I thought Muslims...”

“She’s not, uh, practicing?” Igor looked at his girlfriend.

Mira just shrugged. Neither Igor nor I knew most days what Mira was up to. She still prayed at the Mosque and would die without her hijab, but other than that, she was the least Muslim person I had ever seen in my life; which totaled two people. Moscow wasn’t exactly a place of diversity. It could be worse, I knew— at least she wasn’t homosexual. That was a curse worse than choosing which god to worship. It was also the reason I was glad my cousin Sergei rarely came to visit. He was much safer in St. Petersburg.

“What do you think of the events in the Middle East right now?” Jaqui said, getting up and sitting on the other side of Mira. “The

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