Free In the Red by Elena Mauli Shapiro Page B

a gifted American teenager, and now she was what? A gun moll? It wasn’t precisely rebellion that had pushed her here. It was a kind of curiosity, maybe the same spirit of query that made an addict try one harder drug after the other. There was no good place to go down this path. But down was the most fascinating direction.
    Irina’s heart beat fast as her top plopped wetly on the concrete next to Elena’s. For a couple of quiet minutes, the two girls roasted silently in the sun.
    â€œYou fluster!” Elena said with a giggle. “I can feel you fluster at your nakedness. You are such an American.”
    â€œWhat if a man saw us out of his window?”
    â€œThen he should pay us.” Elena laughed. “Men pay to see young naked girls, don’t you know?”
    Irina breathed deeply, making a conscious effort to relax.
    â€œYou should not be ashamed,” Elena said. “They are very nice.”
    Irina was unsure how to respond to that. Her customary response to compliments was a simple thank-you, but this seemed wrong under the circumstances. The second default response was to give another compliment in exchange for the first. Somehow this felt less inappropriate.
    â€œI like your haircut,” Irina said.
    â€œAh. Yes. I had long hair, like yours. Longer than yours. Down to my ass, like a princess in a fairy tale. I had the hair when I sent Vasilii my photo. Then one day I was tired of all the weight. Had it all cut off. My mother cried. I showed her I got money for it, but she cried anyway. Said it was so beautiful. She did not want any part of the money. I would have felt bad but I was so light, so light without it. No big heavy weight down my back. No catching it places, or sitting on it. Instead of the hair there was just air. Just freedom. When they sent me to Vasilii, I was told maybe it had been a mistake, to cut off the hair. Maybe he had chosen me for it. They sent me anyway. The first thing Vasilii said when I got off the plane was, ‘You cut off your hair.’ I said, ‘Is that bad?’ He said, ‘No. But you need new clothes.’”
    â€œYou have lots now.”
    â€œYes. What he meant was I needed more clothes. More clothes on my back. More covered up. He said I smelled of cigarettes, and a woman should not smoke.”
    â€œBut Vasilii smokes!”
    â€œVasilii is not a woman. Sometimes when he is not home, I steal one of his. But I try not to. I do not want to smell of it. But it is hard. I am hungry all the time. But I try not to eat. If I become fat he might send me back. He said he did not care about the hair, but he does not like his women fat.”
    It was strange, to hear of Vasilii and women. He’d seemed so unconcerned with them before the night he’d explained the appeal of young girls to his business associates.
    â€œYou don’t miss your hair at all? Sometimes I think of cutting mine, but I’m afraid I’d miss it.”
    â€œI do not miss the weight. But it’s true, the hair, it gives you something to do. Maybe I would not have cut it if I knew how much time I would have here, how little I would have to do!”
    Elena laughed then, and shook her short curls. “Come here,” she said. “Sit. Let me braid you.”
    Irina sat at the foot of the chaise longue, Elena close behind. She closed her eyes when she felt Elena’s slender fingers stroke her scalp.
    â€œYour hair,” Elena said. “Warm from the sun.”
    â€œBecause it’s black.”
    â€œNaked women braiding each other. This is like the banya.”
    â€œThe banya?”
    â€œThe public bath, in Moscow.”
    Irina pictured steam, many naked bodies. Not young and pert like the two of them, but of all sizes and ages. Scars, rolls of fat, moles, jiggling, gales of laughter. The forgetting of men. What did a fat old woman look like naked, really? Irina did not know. Those were not the kinds of nudes that were