The Last of the Vostyachs by Diego Marani Page B

hair, and leotard. Then she picked up the bottle and filled the two glasses on the bedside table, downing one in a single gulp and reaching out to hand the other to the Vostyach, keeping him prudently at arm’s length. Ivan shook his head and backed up against the door. He had never seen a woman dressed like that. He did not know that they wore such items beneath their outer garments. In the turnip-growers’ village the innkeeper’s wife wore felt boots and voluminous coarse cloth breeches beneath her heavy overcoat. Ivan had seen them once when he was spying on her in the back of the shop. And the eyes of the fair-haired woman who collected his words were nothing like the lying, threatening eyes of the woman he had before him now. He stayed where he was, shaking.
    â€˜I’m Katia.’ In an effort to stifle an incipient coughing fit the woman now emptied Ivan’s glass as well. Swaying her hips, she slipped off her leotard and approached her client, who stared at her in horrified fascination. Making a smacking sound with her fleshy lips, she gave him a slight peck, allowing her breasts to brush against him, but then promptly recoiled, again overwhelmed by the stench.
    â€˜And you? What are you called? Where are you from?’ She stood with her legs apart, her heels wedged firmly into the carpet. She spoke a broken Finnish, and Ivan could not understand a word of what she said. He stared in bewilderment at the hairless white body he saw wiggling before him.
    â€˜Katia,’ he repeated in a strangled voice.
    â€˜You too?’ said the woman, laughing. She took a few steps backwards, put her hands behind her back and undid her bra, which rolled down over her stomach and landed between her feet. Ivan stared at the skimpy red garment where it lay, amazed that something so small could contain so much swollen softness. He would have liked to pick it up and have a closer look. But then his interest was caught by the sight of the woman’s chest. Katia took him in her arms and let him spread himself against her, then stretched out on the bed, kicking her clogs into the air. The Vostyach had not so much as loosened a fastening of his heavy leather jacket. Trickles of sweat were making their way down his temples and neck. Now he was shuffling his boots on the moquette, clutching his sack and drum. Bothered by the smoke from the incense, he wrinkled his nose and tried to keep his distance from the brazier; but there was nowhere to retreat to.
    â€˜Come on, give them a feel! Just see how smooth they are!’ the woman said, stroking her breasts with her hands. Her legs were still apart, and she was moving her pelvis up and down. Under the red triangle of her panties Ivan could now see a black shape from which he found it impossible to look away.
    â€˜Come on!’ she said again, invitingly. She rolled around on top of the sheets and then lay still, stretched out on her stomach. The Vostyach could still see that mesmerising black shape between her thighs, below those big white buttocks. He felt like touching them. He put his things down and knelt on the bed. First he brushed the white surface with his fingertips, then he felt the soft skin with the flat of his hand. It was warm and tender, he liked pressing it between his fingers, then letting it go and pressing it again, like soft dough which kept the mark of the outline of his hands. She was no ordinary woman, he could see that. She must be a city creature, who had grown up indoors, under electric light, amidst noisy crowds, without ever breathing the cold air of the woods, which flays your skin, makes your eyes stream and hardens your limbs. Such a creature could live only in the stifling heat of this room, she must feed off soap and the white juice in that bottle, and breathe the bitter smoke from the little metal mask on the bedside table. Perhaps she had been born of one of the coloured fish in the fish tank. A gleaming little cartilaginous