Evening descends on the village early. The pines rustle anxiously, sending gusts of cold wind down to the ground. The air is thick with the smell of rotting leaves and stove smoke—someone in the neighborhood has already stoked their fire for the night. I return from a walk along the lake and turn up the collar of my jacket. I spot her on the dirt road leading to our row of plots. She's walking away from the bus stop, bending under the weight of two large bags. I don't recognize her right away—we saw each other a couple of times in the summer, greeting each other over the fence. Now she's wearing a chunky knit sweater, rubber boots, and the hood of an old windbreaker pulled over her head. But her gait—smooth, slightly tired—recognizes her as the neighbor. I catch up with her and offer to help. She looks up at me—light, transparent, squinting against the wind—and silently hands over one bag. We walk side by side. I steal a glance at her. Her sweater is loose, but a gust of... continue reading

This desire grew out of her fantasy of a complete change of context. We rented a house in a remote village on the border of three regions—a true wilderness, where cell phone reception was limited to the porch, and only on clear days. The house was well-built, with a huge Russian stove and a separate banya (sauna) on the shore of an overgrown pond. It was the banya that became the starting point. Karina imagined herself pleasuring the three sturdy village men we hired to mend the sagging fence and fix the roof right on the wet boards of the anteroom. This idea frightened me with its uncontrollability, but it excited me with the same force that frightened me. I agreed on the condition that everything stay in this bathhouse and in this wilderness. He found candidates through the local caretaker, posing as a swinging couple. The caretaker, a seasoned man, selected three. Sergei was a forty-year-old tractor driver, broad-shouldered and on his second marriage. Denis was a young gamekeeper... continue reading

The stuffiness in the car gave way to a sharp December chill as I stepped out into the bumpy parking lot of the Taiga bathhouse. Steam billowed from the exhaust, as if the car itself had breathed a sigh of relief. I had come alone—on purpose. After three months in the smoke-filled office, after his calls begging me to come back, I needed a shake-up. Or oblivion. A bathhouse, I decided. Alone. The old log cabin had turned black with age. Inside, it smelled of smoke, damp wood, and something deeply earthy. The owner, a woman with a tired face and nimble hands, handed me a sheet and a broom. "Are you taking the whole hour?" she asked again. "It's free until eight. Just... It's a wood-burning stove, so you have to heat it yourself. Can you handle it?" I nodded. Drowning is even better. It'll keep my hands and mind occupied. The dressing room was quiet and empty. I slowly undressed, looking at my reflection in the fogged window. The thinness he'd called &#... continue reading

Let me start with my age. I'm 54. I recently went to the countryside to get some heating installed at our dacha. They put me up with an old lady who lived next door. She was an ordinary old lady, and very easy to talk to. She often used swear words in conversation, making jokes. Her jokes were often below the belt. She was pleasant-looking, plump, with a huge ass and seven-cup breasts. Her name was Anna Semyonovna. I arrived at the site in the late afternoon. When we sat down to dinner, she poured me a shot and shared it with me. I thanked her for the treat and went to bed. The next morning, my hostess woke me to the clatter of dishes as she bustled about in the kitchen. A light breakfast and I was already at the site, which was located on the neighboring property. I worked all day, breaking only for lunch. “And I’m following you,” I heard Anna Semyonovna’s voice as I was installing the fasteners. “What is it?” I responded. "Okay, it's time for lunch. War is war, but lun... continue reading