The Mammoth Book of International Erotica

Could she make small talk in New-Yorkese? Yes, of course. During these years she had learned how to be an insider-foreigner, a New-Yorker-foreigner, along with other resident and non-resident aliens, legal and illegal city dwellers. Anya was among the lucky green-card-carrying New Yorkers and could show her picture with the properly exposed right ear and the finger print. New York felt like home. It struck her now that she was much more comfortable in a place like home than she was at home. She was a regular at Lox Around the Clock, and could spell her name fast over the phone. R-o-s-en-b-l-u-m A-n-y-a no, it’s not Annie, it’s N-Y, like in ‘New-York’ – Thank you – You too.”

Surely, she had an accent, but it was “so very charming”, a delicious little extra, like the dressing on a salad that comes free with an order of Manhattan chowder – “What dressing would you like on your salad, dear?” the waiter would ask her. “Italian, French, Russian, or blue cheese?” “Russian, please,” she would say, “with lots of fresh pepper…”

She worked free-lance doing voice-overs for commercials, whenever they needed someone with an accent. The last one she had done was “La Larta. European youglette. Passion. Fat-free – I can’t believe it’s not yogurt.” Female voice: “Remember your first taste of Larta? Was it in Lisboa? Sofia? Odessa? (A mountain landscape, Caucasian peaks and a sparkling sea – a woman with Isabella Rossellini’s lips, her face radiant with Lancome) Remember La Larta – natural and fresh like first love.”

“Oh,” said the director, “you have to pronounce each sound distinctly. L is soft and French, the back of your tongue touches the palate – let me show you… look here, softly but firmly, and then breathe out on the A, open your lips, yes, yes as if for a kiss… Then tease me, yes, tease me with your Rrr - roll it deep in your throat – yes – rr stands for mystique, and then – suddenly – you let your tongue tickle your teeth – playful and light Ta-ta-ta-Larrta-ta ta-ta-the audience wants to taste it now, yes, yes, yes. ‘La Larta. Passion. Fat-free.’”

And then Anya had done several AT amp;T commercials, she did a voice over the video of falling Berlin Wall. But that happened a few years ago, when it was still news. In any case, these were only temporary jobs. Eastern European accents went in and out of fashion. Anya had been an understudy for the new line of soft drinks: “A Revolution is brewing in the Orient. A Revolution in Cola,” but the role was given to a Romanian. She must have had better connections.

“Are you in line for information?”

“Yes…”

“And where is the line for addresses?”

“It’s here too.”

“Well, what I really need is a phone number… And it would be great to get a home address too, but I know they’re not listed… It’s dangerous now… I don’t blame them. What you need nowadays is an iron door… Don’t look at me like that… You think I’m joking… I know you’re young, miss, you probably think – an iron door, well that’s a bit much… but let me tell you, I know a really honest guy, who was an engineer in the good old days… he makes excellent iron doors. Real quality iron. You can call him, tell him I gave you his number…”

“Thanks, I’ll think about it…”

“Well, don’t think too long or it’ll be too late… Sorry, you should spit when you say it, that or touch wood – we don’t wish anything bad to happen… Maybe we’ll have law and order here some day… or at least order…”

“Hm…”

“Come to think of it, maybe they don’t list the phone numbers either… Have you got a pen, miss? Oh this is a great one! ‘Ai luf Niu lork!’ Did you get it in Gostiny Dvor or in the House of Friendship?”

Anya began to fill out her “inquiry cards” to avoid any further discussion of iron doors. She wanted to find her teenage loves, Sasha and Misha with whom she had had her first failed perfect moments. Both relationships had been interrupted. In the case of Sasha, they had split up after he told her she was frigid; with Misha, they had parted after sealing the secret erotic pact of Napoleonic proportions. She wanted to write an end to their love stories, to recover a few missing links, to fill in the blanks. They were complete antipodes, Sasha and Misha. Sasha was blond, Misha dark, Sasha was her official boyfriend, Misha was a secret one. Sasha was beautiful, Misha intellectual. Sasha had known too many girls, Misha had read too much Nietzsche at a young age. It was almost twenty years ago and the popular song of the day had been “First Love”. “Oh, first love, it comes and goes with the tide,” sang the Yugoslav pop star, the beautiful Radmila Karaklaic, as she blew kisses out to the sparkling sea somewhere near the recently bombed town of Dubrovnik…

In his white coat with blood-red lining… Sasha was beautiful, he wore a long black scarf and the aura of a black market professional. He sang the popular song by Salvatore Adamo about falling snow: “The snow was falling. You wouldn’t come this evening. The snow was falling. Everything was white with despair…” Tombait la neige. Tu ne viendras pas ce soir. His masculine voice caressed her with the foreign warmth. French snow was falling over and over again, slowly and softly, slowly and softly… Was it possible for her not to come that evening, how was it possible that she wouldn’t come that evening? Oh, she would have to come… and she just couldn’t resist. She recalled the shape of his lips, soft, full and cracked, but she couldn’t remember at all what they had talked about. Oh, yes, she had been a bit taken aback when she found out he had never read Pasternak. On the other hand, he was a real man and sang beautiful songs. He had put his hand under her sweater. Touched her. Tried to unfasten her bra. But those silly little hooks in the back wouldn’t come undone. “Oh, it doesn’t matter, let me help…” But he felt that a man should be a man, that there were things a man should do himself. Just at that moment a noise in the corridor had interrupted them. It was Sasha’s father, a former sea captain, coming home after work. So, once again, they had nowhere else to go; there were no drive-ins, no cars, no back seats, no contraception, and only cheap Bulgarian wine. Like all Leningrad teenagers they went to walk on the roofs of the Peter and Paul Fortress. They walked under the sign that said: “No dogs allowed. Walking on the roofs is strictly prohibited…” It would get all icy there and one could easily slip down, distracted by the gorgeous panorama of the Neva embankment. But it was quite spectacular: the imperial palace, dissolving in the mist, the dark grey ripples on the river, a poem or two… Wait, do you remember how it goes…? “Life is a lie, but with a charming sorrow…” Yes, she would say, “yes…”.

They had parted that day at the park entrance. On the way there she had worried that her nose was getting too frozen and red and that she didn’t look good any more. She was too embarrassed to look at him and could only catch glimpses of his blond curls, his scarf and the dark birth mark on his cheek. Then there were some clumsy gestures and an unexpected wetness on her lips. Did she kiss him or not? She tried to concentrate because this was supposed to be her perfect moment.

“You’re frigid,” he said very seriously.

Frigid… frigid… a blushing goddess. So, that’s what it was called? This clumsiness, arousal, alienation, excitement, tongue-tiedness, humidity, humility, humiliation.

“Are you waiting for apricot juice?”

“No…”

“You mean, it’s gone? I don’t believe it… this is really incredible… All they have is the Scottish Whisky”…

“Miss, where are you from?”

This time Anya did not protest. She began to fill out the card for Misha – all in red ink. Misha didn’t know any French songs and he didn’t care much about Salvatore Adamo. They spoke only about Nietzsche, orgasms and will to power. “Orgasms: they have to be simultaneous, or nothing at all. They’re beyond good and evil… For protection women can simply insert a little piece of lemon inside them. It’s the most natural method, favoured by poets of the Silver Age…” If her relationship with Sasha had been a conventional romance with indispensable walks on the roofs of the fortress, then her relationship with Misha was an example of teenage non-conformism. They had dated mostly on the phone and had seen each other only about three times during their two-year-long erotic conversation. She could still hear his voice which had already lost its boyish pitch and acquired a deep guttural masculinity, resounding in her right ear.

When she thought of Misha, she saw herself sitting on an uncomfortable chair near the “communal” telephone, counting the black squares on the tiled floor. The telephone was in the hall and was shared by everyone in the apartment. While talking to Misha she had had to lower her voice, because Valentina Petrovna, the voracious gossip, would conspicuously walk back and forth between her room and the kitchen, slowing down as she neared the phone. The rest of the time she was probably standing behind the door to her room, busily filling in the gaps in Anya’s and Misha’s fragmented conversation. With Misha Anya had been very intimate but theirs was a safe intimacy, and distance had protected them from self-censorship. They knew they were part of a larger system