| (An
excerpt
from
my
recently finished first novel, currently unpublished. —Summer 2008)
Sasha
calls
on
Saturday
afternoon,
'Are
you
free?'
Sasha
is
a
Russian
escort,
28,
slim,
dark-haired,
with
dreamy
green
eyes.
She
needs
a
ride
in
an
hour
to
Plaza
Hotel,
downtown.
After
a
three-day
break,
she
accepted
a
two-hour
job
today,
but
her
car
will
not
start.
'I'll
make
up
to
you,'
she
adds
suggestively.
Ved
imagines
her
pacing
the
living
room
in
her
red
silk
robe.
He
can
practically
smell
her
perfume
on
the
phone.
'I'll
pick
you
up
in
fifty
minutes.
Be
ready
and
wait
downstairs.'
He
showers,
gets
dressed,
and
leaves.
He found her nine months
ago on an escort girls website. Fragments of her online ad have stayed
with him: I am all natural and very fit. I specialize in fantasy
role-plays: nurse, housemaid, nun, schoolgirl, Greek goddess (special
requests welcome). My Russian accent will make you putty in my hands, in
all seven languages I speak.
In one online photo, a
profile pose, she was down on all fours on what seemed open grassland. Her
makeup and ornate dress, bunched above her bare butt, evoked for him
disreputable belly dancers. Another was a close-up shot of her bust,
donning nothing but a two-string pearl necklace. He vividly remembers their
first meeting last winter in a mid-range hotel. It was Friday. After much
uneasy deliberation, he had called her during the day for a two-hour
appointment. He left work an hour early that day to allow time for a
shower and snack. On a whim, on his way out of his apartment, he picked up
the Russian Matryoshka doll that a friend gave him a long time ago and to
which he had built no special attachment. The
lobby
was
almost
empty
when
he
arrived.
No
one
noticed
his
nerves
as
he
went
through
a
long
corridor
and
knocked
on
her
room. The
door
opened
to
reveal
her
face.
She
signaled
him
in
from
behind
the
door.
Inside,
he
introduced
himself
and
gave
her
the doll.
It
amused
her
instantly,
broke
the
ice.
She
was
polite
and
friendly.
He
was
at
once
charmed
by
her
youthful
voice
and
accent.
Putty
in her
hands,
huh.
She
wore
a
"Greek
goddess
outfit"—she
had
offered
to
wear
it
on
the
phone
and
he
agreed
to
it
indifferently—pleated
pink
chiffon,
knee-length,
along
with
a
headband
of
fake
olive
leaves.
Not
for
Athena,
her
flimsy
attire,
more
befitting
Aphrodite
in
her
Oriental
form,
as
the
Greeks
imagined
beauties
from
the
Orient
back
then. Hardly
a
reason
to
complain,
he
decided,
settling
down
on
the
couch. The
studio
suite
she
had
rented
for
the
evening
was
tidy,
clean,
and
bathed
in
a
soft
white
light.
He
settled
the
charges
upfront:
$400
for
the
session.
How
many
infants
would
this
vaccinate
in
India?
Images
of
malnourished
children
from
the
unsolicited,
beseeching
mail
he
receives
from international
charities
flooded
his
mind.
She
stuffed
the
money
in
her
purse
and
sat
close
to
him
on
the
couch,
her
knee
barely
an
inch
away
from
his.
Raised in St. Petersburg,
she had come to the US almost 18 months before. 'I am not illegal person,'
she clarified that evening. It sounded strange: illegal person. 'I have
permit to stay but not to work. How else can I survive?' Until a year
earlier, before turning into an upmarket prostitute, which she prefers for
both the money and the flexible hours, she was an "exotic dancer" in a
nightclub. Her roommate, a Ukrainian woman, introduced her to both jobs.
None of her friends or family knows about her current work.
He studied her high
cheekbones, the delicate chin, long black hair, gleaming white teeth. 'So
what do you like to do in your free time, Sasha ?'
'Read books and watch TV,'
she said, flashing her sweet, friendly smile, and looking him straight in
the eye while talking.
'Do you have any
favorites ?'
'I read mystery novels
mostly, but Pushkin and Gogol are my favorites. Russian writers. Ah, you
know them? I don't like American TV—most of it is so stupid you know—I
only like PBS and Discovery channels.'
'Very
nice,'
he
said,
letting
his
imagination
roam
her
curves,
her
smooth
burnished
skin.
'Your
English
is
very
good.'
The
conversational
foreplay
felt
decadent, delicious,
for
he
knew
it
would
happen.
It
was
just
a
matter
of
minutes.
She
adores
the
idea
of
being
an
artist
and
wants
to
do
art
after
quitting
this
job:
photography,
or
perhaps
painting,
she
has
dabbled
with
both.
'I
am
very
passionate
person,'
she
said
that
night,
'as
all
true
artists
need
to
be.'
Artists
are
everywhere
these
days:
body artists,
computer
artists,
porn
artists.
He
did
not
inquire
about
her
notion
of
art.
He
shared
with
her
the
basic
facts
of
his
life:
his
Indian
roots,
job
at
Omnicon,
pastimes.
'I
like
Indian
music,'
she
said,
'flute
and
sitar
music.'
He
gives
her
credit
for
never
asking
why
they
worshipped
cows
in
his
country.
He
mentioned
his
visit
to
St.
Petersburg
years
ago.
She
turned
nostalgic
with
a
far-off
look
as
he
recalled
some
tourist
sights:
Nevsky
Prospekt,
Peter-Paul
Cathedral,
the
new
Admiralty,
summer
and
winter
palaces.
He
did
not
tell
her
that
a
young
couple
with
knives
mugged
him
there
one night.
He
remembers
vividly
the
rage
and
hatred
in
the
woman's
eyes,
her
clenched
teeth,
as
she
held
him
by
the
collar
while
her
companion
emptied
his
wallet.
She
has
never
had
an
Indian
client,
except
perhaps
one
who,
unlike
him,
spoke
with
an
American
accent.
'Why
not
get
a
wife
from
India?'
she
snickered,
'No
more
loneliness.'
'I
have
never
considered
that
option
in
my
adult
life,'
he
said.
'Now
it's
too
late—all
the
good
women,
as
my
mother
says,
are
taken.'
That
made
her
laugh.
She
inched
closer,
brushed
a
finger
on
his
chin,
slid
it
down
his
right
arm,
lifted
his
hand,
and
pressed
it
to
her
bosom.
Well
practiced,
then,
a
professional.
He
leaned
over,
nuzzled
his
nose
on
her
slender
neck.
She
smelled
nice.
At
the
barest
of
hints,
she turned,
reclined
on
her
back,
and
sidled
into
an
embrace.
He
let
his
hand
wade
through
her
long
hair,
down
her
shoulder,
pausing
over
her
breast
beneath
the
gauzy
fabric.
Soon
they
moved
to
the
bedroom.
He
undressed
when
she
disappeared
into
the
bathroom.
She
emerged
to
find
him
tucked
beneath
the
soft
white
sheets.
Reclining
on
a
pillow,
he
watched
her
slip
off
the
Greek
dress
before
him:
Pericles
with
a
courtesan,
a
hetairai,
perhaps
from
a subject
colony
in
Ionia.
Amused
awhile,
he
was
quick
to
remember:
officially,
he
is
a
resident
alien.
He
too
is
only
a
metic
in
a
foreign
land;
they
have
that
in
common.
She
climbed
into
bed
and
fell
into
his
embrace.
She
was
pliant,
eager
to
please,
and
skilled
at
touching
a
man.
He
groped,
his
thirst
for
her
body
astounded
him.
They
had
intercourse
missionary
style.
She
grunted
at
his
frantic
thrusts,
responding
with
joyous
abandon-feigned,
no
doubt,
but well
enough
to
make
him
imagine
otherwise
during
the
act.
When
it
was
over,
he
promptly
rolled
off
to
her
right,
exhausted.
Suddenly
the
fog
lifted.
For
a
few
moments
afterwards,
he
reflected
on
their
coupling.
Man:
half
reason,
half
appetite.
How
ridiculous,
to
be
held
hostage
by
a
silly
appendage
between
his
legs.
Humiliating,
in
fact.
They
lay
together
and
talked
with
her
head
on
his
chest,
a
pseudo-intimate
moment.
He
gently
massaged
her
head,
neck,
and
shoulders.
'I
like
your
touch,'
she
said,
'you
are
a
good
lover.
I
think
you
are
a
good
man
too.'
Safe is
probably
what
she
meant,
better
behaved
than
most
clients.
'How
many
others
do
you
say
this
to?'
'You
don't
believe?'
she
asked,
then
explained,
'I
think
of
eyes
as
windows
to
the
soul.
I
see
kindness
in
your
eyes,
and
sadness too.
Is
there
something
troubling
to
your
heart?'
He
said
nothing.
Whereof
one
cannot
speak,
thereof
one
should
be
silent.
She
has
received
many
offers
for
marriage
from
lonely
white
men.
She
not
only
hoped
to
do
art
some
day,
she
also
hoped
for
true
love,
marriage,
children,
and
a
normal
family
life.
Prior
to
this
work,
she
had
slept
with
only
two
men,
both
boyfriends.
Now
she services
two
or
three
men
daily,
on
occasion
with
her
roommate,
i.e.,
threesomes.
'I
have
many
boyfriends
now,'
she
snickered.
Part
of
her
job,
to
put
up
pleasant
faces:
service
with
a
smile,
the
secret
of
customer
loyalty.
'An
escort
girl
in
Moscow
makes
a
tenth
of
what
I
make,'
she
said.
Money
eases
daily
qualms.
What,
he
wondered,
would
cave-in
first:
her
body
or
her
soul?
Despite
her
apparent
nonchalance,
and
her
lack
of
visible
anguish,
he
hoped
her
soul
would
rebel
first.
Yet,
for the
services
he
wants,
isn't
this
exactly
what
he
would
rather
have:
an
untroubled
whore?
He
asked
himself:
is
there
a
balance
of
power
between
them—his
power
of
money
versus
her
power
of
beauty?
Alas,
if
only
the
morality
of
all
this
were
as
plain
as
the
cost-benefit
metrics
of
Omnicon's
products.
He
reasoned:
if
not
he,
then
another
man.
At
least
she is
safe
with
him.
She
even
finds
him
agreeable.
If
he
is
using
her,
she
too
is
using
him:
is
symbiosis
immoral?
A
form
of
income
distribution
too—didn't
the
Buddha
say
that
hoarding
money
is
a
worse
deed
than
most?
Only
much
later
did
it
strike
him
that
such
is
the
cunning
of
reason—it
can
rationalize
almost
anything
the
mind
fancies.
'Have
you
encountered
any
abusive
men
in
this
line
of
work?'
he
asked
her
that
evening.
'No,
not
yet,'
she
tapped
on
wood,
'but
I
came
close
once.
I
just
throw
his
money
at
him
and
left.
I
am
careful.
If
I
dislike
a
caller's
voice
I
say
no.
No
house
calls
in
bad
parts
of
city.
I
leave
if
I
see
hard
drugs.
See this?'
she
pointed
to
a
Nokia
handset,
'This
is
the
best
thing.
My
roommate
and
I
always
exchange
our
working
address.'
She
shuns
hard
drugs
but
she
has
smoked
pot
with
some
clients.
Good
for
sex,
she
said
teasingly.
Her
roommate
kept
a
stash
for
her
own
regular
use.
Might
he
be
interested
in
smoking
some
the
next
time?
Her
phone
rang
as
he
was
getting
dressed.
She
looked
at
him:
would
you
mind?
She
stepped
into
the
bathroom
to
take
the
call.
He
heard
her
giving
directions.
Another
client
is
due
in
thirty
minutes.
Time
enough
to
make
the
bed,
replace
the
towels,
air
the
room, wash
herself
clean
of
him,
and
slip
on
that
Greek
dress
again.
-----------------------------------------
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