Minimalist Gossip Magazine Cover (49).pdf (23) - Flipbook - Page 80
piece, puts in into her mouth quickly, her eyes still downcast. Verinka watches her.
‘Eat up’ she says and Ania does as she’s told. Then she goes into the bedroom. Verinka can
hear the bedsprings and Ania´s quiet sobs. Back when Ania was little she would have
comforted her, read her a fairytale. There was always a wolf in them or a witch and then a
princess or a maid turning straw to gold; something to make Ania's eyes shine. Verinka can
no longer make Ania's eyes shine.
Verinka understands. It's the man who makes Ania's eyes sparkle now. He's not like the
boys here - rough-hewn and pink faced as piglets - or the old men - shrunken, browning and
soft like rotting potatoes. He is a man with money and American sunglasses promising her a
life as idyllic and impossible as the scene inside a snowglobe.
She sits down and waits until she can hear Ania’s sniffles give way to even breathing. Then
she finds the card in the back of a drawer. A woman gave it to her years ago, when she came
to the village, pressing it into Verinka’s hand and whispering a sum that would easily buy a
scooter or a smartphone. It's a dog-eared card with a name and an address and the words
“Virgin Slavic Blonde”.
Verinka listens to Ania’s breathing. It is even. The poppyseed cake will give her vivid dreams,
pull her deep into a maelstrom of colours and shapes. Verinka finds the scissors in the cutlery
drawer, fishes out a crumpled plastic bag and sneaks into the darkness of the bedroom. When
she comes out, her hands are shaking. She walks to the kitchen sink, above which there is a
small mirror, spotted with black. Verinka looks at herself. She takes the pins out of her hair
and her braid unravels, drops heavily. Not a single grey hair in it. She thinks briefly of her
mother, her grandmother, their braids, their admonitions never to cut. She doesn't hesitate,
moves the scissors as far up as she can go. It makes a sound like a high-pitched sigh, cutting
through the braid, severing it. A little click when the scissors close and Verinka is holding the
big yellow rope. She doesn't look at it, doesn´t dare. She takes the crumpled plastic bag and
lowers the braid into it, on top of Ania's which is already coiled in there, limp, peaceful, as if it
too were in a drugged sleep.
See how much he'll love you now, thinks Verinka. See how much use you'll be to him when
you look like a shorn sheep. He will leave you behind now, safe as Rapunzel in her tower and
broken-hearted.
She runs a hand through her hair which is tufty now and sticking out at odd angles. She
undoes the scarf around her neck and ties it over her hair. She doesn't look in the mirror
again. She leaves the house, quietly locking the front door behind her. Nikolai will be drunk,
asleep by now, so she walks quickly to his house where his bike is leaning against the
crumbling wall as if it too had been on the moonshine. It's been a while since she´s ridden
one but after a couple of attempts she manages. The fat plastic bag is tucked into the basket
at the back; a bulging bag of Virgin Slavic Blonde; hair like spun gold, priced at three hundred
American dollars per 100 grams. To be worn by women with patent leather shoes and big
dangerous cars.
The village road is dark; a fox crosses furtively. Verinka can hear the pained cries of mating
hedgehogs in the undergrowth. The bicycle squeaks. It's a long journey but Verinka knows
that she will be back by dawn. With money for a smartphone, probably even a scooter.
Underneath her, the bicycle screeches like a hungry little demon.
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