Snow White and Russian Red by Dorota Maslowska & Krzysztof Ostrowski

Author:Dorota Maslowska & Krzysztof Ostrowski
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2005-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Thanks—Angela smiles pretty hazily, like rarely changed water in a fish tank. What kind of music do you listen to?

A little of everything—Natasha answers, looking down, and I’m afraid for a moment that she’s lost it, that she’s going to take a speaker from off the stand and bring it down on her face.

But happy or sad—Angela insists, not realizing the threat.

A bit of this, a bit of that—Natasha says, I’m afraid she’s gathering drool to deceive Angela. Different kinds. Both slow and sometimes fast.

And what kind of fast do you like?—Angela investigates, propping herself on her elbow, and then a wheezing, a coughing shoots out of her, and she spits a considerable white cloud of dust or powder into the air.

Different kinds, for the most part I like music videos most—Natasha responds. But not with some fucking lesbos singing about how if somebody’s not screwing them at that moment, they’re getting themselves off. I just prefer when men sing. Hip-hop, for example, English songs about how terror happens, that we live in the ghetto, you know.

I like that, too—Angela says. And what kinds of books do you read? To which she adds: Or newspapers?

To which Natasha answers: Ha, I could say a lot. A bit of everything. The TV guide. The teletext. A bit of adventure stuff, Conan the Destroyer, Conan the Barbarian, Conan in the Big City, I read that whole series once. I love posters. Jokes. Anecdotes. Programs.

That’s cool—Angela says. Just like me. And do you like to diet?

At which Natasha sort of stares her down, freezes for a minute, and leans unexpectedly over Angela, such that Angela stops being able to breathe normally, and the purple shadow from Natasha’s eyes seeps under her eyelids. I don’t really know what to do so that Natasha wouldn’t feel offended, because she feels free in my house and maybe simply wants to talk more intimately with Angela.

Who the fuck’s paying you?—Natasha says into Angela’s mouth. Fucking talk. Now. Chop-chop.

But what for?—Angela says tearfully, with surprise, since she’s suddenly totally surprised, as if she wants to straighten out the whole situation.

For the fucking information, about me—Natasha says into her mouth.

What information?—Angela whispers.

I’m not asking what information, I’m only asking who, listen to the fucking questions. If you lie, you die. Who’s paying you? Moscow?

Don’t kill her, okay?—I say calmly to Natasha. Nails, go beat yourself off—she says, gets up, and comes up to me. So that I duck, since I’m afraid of this cold, rough girl. What the fuck, Nails? Maybe you’re behind this, and your ass is listening in on me, and as soon as I turn around, she’ll pull out a flashlight and shine it right in my eye? We’re chatting here, the weather’s nice, partly cloudy, culture and fine literature, and in a second she’s going to call Zdzisław Sztorm on her cell phone and will sing it all to Russki intelligence, my every word plus her own impressions on the matter? Huh? Who’s behind this, say it! Lefty? Vargas?

Do you know Zdzisław Sztorm?—Angela brightens up at once.

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