Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 2. Erotic Saga

Taissia leaned closer, her voice low but insistent:

«What sort of dacha is that, then? Who owns it?»

Yarosvet shrugged lightly, not breaking the rhythm of his stride. «I have no idea. Some house beyond the edge of town. It was arranged, that is all I know.»

She narrowed her eyes, quickening her pace so as not to fall behind. «And are you planning to spend the whole night there with her, leaving me at the hotel as if I were a piece of luggage?»

His mouth twitched, half in irritation, half in restrained amusement. «First of all, as my companion you ought to endure without unnecessary questions. That is the price of being at my side. Second» — he glanced at her briefly, his gaze sombre — «I do not know how it will turn out. Inga… she wants a child. Not just any child, but one conceived deliberately, with full awareness. And such children are not brought into being in haste or by accident.»

Her lips curved in a sudden, quick smile, though her eyes kept their watchful mischief. She shifted a little closer, curling one leg beneath her, as if to make herself smaller and yet more insistent in her presence.

«So,» she whispered, tilting her head, «you speak of children as though they were born not from heat or accident, but from some… covenant. A planned miracle, weighed and measured before it even stirs in the womb. Tell me — » she paused, her gaze narrowing with a spark of mockery — «is that how you were conceived? With deliberation and solemn vows?»

She laughed softly, almost kindly, yet with a blade hidden in her tone. «Or perhaps you are merely afraid that if it happens with me, it will be too alive, too reckless, too unlike your Inga’s tidy design.»

Her laughter subsided, and for a moment she leaned nearer still, her voice dropping, low and warm. «And what if I were to want such a child — not later, not planned, but now? Would you still hide behind her wishes, or behind your rules?»

«You see, Taissia,» he said, his voice calm though carrying that inner weight of finality, «life grants us little that is chosen, even less that is lasting. If she believes a child may be called into this world with intent rather than blind chance, then I cannot mock that wish. It is serious, and I must treat it seriously. You may laugh, you may tease — but do not think I treat you so. With you I need no pretence. Only patience. And indeed, me dear, I have been told by my mother that I am what I am precisely because of a conception guided, as she put it, by… intention. Neither she nor my father, though they lived long — my father past eighty, my mother nearly a century — trod beyond the bounds of ordinary lives. It seems, then, that even amidst the mundane, a certain care at the very beginning may shape what endures beyond mere years. One might scoff, yet here I stand — or rather sit — as living testament.»

Taissia’s playful demeanor softened, her eyes clouding with a trace of wistfulness. She drew a slow breath, as if weighing the thought carefully before speaking. «It is… a pity,» she murmured, her voice low and thoughtful, «that I never knew my true parents. I might have asked them… asked how they conceived me, what they hoped for, what they intended.» Her fingers absentmindedly traced a delicate pattern along the table, betraying the quiet gravity settling over her, the fleeting shift from jest to reflection. Then, with a faint, wry smile tugging at the corner of her lips, she added under her breath, «But perhaps some questions are better left for the imagination, lest one finds the answers rather less amusing than expected.»

He allowed a quiet nod, a shadow of a smile playing at his lips, eyes softening with a mixture of understanding and gentle amusement. «Perhaps,» he said, his voice measured yet warm, «yet imagination often proves a far more generous tutor than reality. One may find truths inconvenient, or intentions far less poetic than the mind dares to dream. It seems, in some matters, it is better to let the question linger and the fancy flourish.»

He paused, letting the words settle, his gaze briefly meeting hers with a subtle insistence that was neither pressing nor commanding, but quietly attentive — acknowledging the turn of her thoughts, while offering the solace of discretion and the delicate charm of shared understanding.

Taissia’s gaze flickered downward, a faint shadow of a smile tugging at her lips. «Do not mind me,» she murmured, voice soft yet edged with a teasing insistence. «You are quite right — I am merely jealous of your attentions to Inga. But that is my concern, not yours. I have no claim here, no right to barge into your affairs or disturb your purpose. I — » she hesitated, a light laugh escaping her — «I am simply not ready to think of children yet. I have little experience in such matters, and I wish, for a time at least, to live for my own amusement.»

Her eyes lifted, catching his in a glance half-serious, half-mischievous, and her tone lowered into something almost conspiratorial. «So, for now, you may practise as you will,» she added, her lips curling with playful intent, «so that when the time comes, you may give me a child… the very best of the best.»

Her words lingered between them like a soft, fragrant promise, teasing the edges of propriety, and Yarosvet could see the spark of delight in her expression, the thrill of saying aloud what she half-meant and half-played.

He regarded her for a long moment. «Then be assured,» he said softly, «that I shall take no offence should you, having gathered experience at my side, one day choose to live and bear children with another. I will not impose, nor linger where my presence is unwelcome.»

Taissia’s lips curved into a half-mocking, half-exasperated smile. «Then if you are so grown-up, why, I wonder, are you so singularly foolish, and so hopelessly unaware of women?» Her eyes gleamed with gentle defiance. «I have made my choice. If it does not weary you, if you do not send me away, I shall remain with you always — until I, too, grow old, like that past lady of yours we glimpsed in the café at Voronezh.»

Their first courses were cleared with quiet efficiency, the aromatic consommé leaving a gentle warmth that seemed to linger in the space between them. The waiter arrived promptly with the sautéed chicken, its herb-scented steam curling upward, promising a subtle richness. Taissia delicately pushed the plate closer, her fingers brushing the edge, and Yarosvet followed suit, allowing the pause for their eyes to meet briefly over the shared warmth. The simple act of moving to the main course provided a natural interlude, a small moment of silence before their conversation resumed, threaded now with lighter laughter and renewed curiosity.

Taissia set down her fork for a moment, her gaze sharpening with mild curiosity. «Do you know,» she asked, her voice measured yet probing, «how to recognize a… doll, like Inga or her friend Liza? Have you noticed anything in common between them?»

Yarosvet’s eyes flicked toward her, calm but thoughtful. «I believe I mentioned it once aboard the train,» he said quietly, «that for the moment, it is they themselves who point me toward those I am meant to visit. I inquired of my first „doll,“ Samira, with my mother — but Olga Vladimirovna’s answer was far too elusive. Apparently, she preferred to guard her feminine secrets rather than share them with me.»

He let the pause linger just long enough for her to absorb the weight of his words, the murmuring clinks of their utensils against porcelain the only backdrop to the unspoken layers of understanding threading between them.

«If it is truly a „woman’s secret,“» she finally murmured, «perhaps I might be able to unravel it… provided, of course, that you ever choose to introduce me to such girls, rather than hiding me away in hotel rooms.»

Her glance lingered on him, bright with teasing curiosity, daring him to respond, while the gentle clatter of their meal continued around them, as if the world itself held its breath for his answer.

Yarosvet allowed the faintest shadow of a smile to trace his lips. «An intriguing notion,» he said, his voice calm yet lightly amused. «I have no objection, truly. Only… it would be wiser to postpone such introductions until after I have fulfilled my current purpose.»

She only lifted her shoulders in a light, almost careless shrug, as if to show that his reservation neither offended nor surprised her. Then, with an air of deliberate unconcern, she bent again to her plate, the silver fork flashing briefly between her fingers. The rhythm of her eating was calm, measured, as though his words had slipped past her like a passing draft, noted but not worth clinging to. A faint glimmer of mischief still played in her eyes, however, betraying that she had not abandoned the idea, merely set it aside, as one tucks away a card for later play.

After their meal, they rose from the table and departed the restaurant, heading upstairs to freshen themselves before venturing out. Once in his room, Yarosvet offered her his coat, complimenting her lighter attire, and they made their way to the reception desk.

At the front desk, Yarosvet inquired in quiet tones, «Could you tell us which shops downtown — both for men’s and women’s ready-made clothing — are available? We would like to walk and see what might suit.»

The clerk, adjusting his spectacles with discreet pride, offered guidance: «On Moskovskaya Street, just beyond the old bazaar, there are several «ready-made dress’ shops — men’s frocks, ladies’ garments, hats and gloves. Not yet boutiques as in Petersburg, but fine in their offering: coats, gowns, travelling frocks, a mix of imported fabrics and local tailoring.»

Taissia smiled with a quick spark of excitement. «Perfect,» she said warmly. «Let’s walk and see what catches our eye,» she added, buttoning her coat with deliberate grace.

Arm in arm, they descended and stepped out into the early evening, the air crisp against the fading warmth of the bath and dinner. The gaslights had just been lit, casting a soft glow on the busy Moskovskaya. Merchants’ lanterns blinked behind shop windows displaying garments — dark wool coats, silk scarves embroidered with floral patterns, modest frocks suitable for provincial elegance.

They passed under a sign reading «Готовое платье» (Ready-Made Dress), pausing to observe a display of wool walking coats and delicate, lace-trimmed camisoles. Around the corner, a separate window framed fine men’s waistcoats and silk ties — worn, dark green velvet vests, accented with brass buttons that caught the lamplight.

Yarosvet offered her his arm in the gentlemanly way he always did, asking softly, «Shall we start with the women’s side first?» She nodded, eyes shining with anticipation — not for extravagance, but for something quiet and well-chosen.

They stepped into the merchant’s shop as though crossing a threshold into another life. The air smelled faintly of wool, starch, and polished wood, the aroma of order and permanence, in strange contrast with the fleeting, almost stolen quality of their journey. For Taissia, the racks and folded piles seemed like a sudden revelation: she had nothing but the clothes on her back, the hurried garments in which she had leapt onto the train. Now each dress that the shopgirl unfolded before her was not merely fabric but a suggestion of a future, of belonging, of some shape her days might take. She laughed, half-mocking, half-dazzled, as silk slips whispered across her fingers, as a heavy winter coat was lifted to her shoulders, making her appear almost solemn, like a lady of rank.

Yarosvet, for his part, approached the business with the restrained calm of a man long accustomed to necessities and propriety, yet even he found himself tempted by variety — another waistcoat, a softer scarf, a fine shirt whose cut promised a discreet elegance. He did not need them, not truly; yet to watch her eyes widen at her own reflection, to see her bare existence clothed in layers of colour and texture, lent his own purchases the charm of complicity. She was choosing, inventing herself anew in each garment, and he, though silent, felt the subtle tug of destiny in these simple transactions. For it was not fabric alone they carried away, but a shared step into the semblance of a common life.

Under the faint glitter of the gas lamps they made their way back to the hotel, parcels pressed close against their sides. At the desk Yarosvet received the key with courteous nod, and soon the hush of their chamber enfolded them once more. The faint warmth of bathwater lingered still in the air, now mingling with the sharper scent of new fabrics — stiff silk, fresh wool, polished wood from the counters where they had been chosen.

Taissia carried her bundles with mock solemnity, but the moment the door closed behind them, her composure broke into laughter. She threw the parcels onto the bed and turned to him with the gleam of conspiracy in her eyes. «Wait,» she said, already reaching for the fastenings of her frock. «It is no good to try them on piece by piece. I must begin from nothing, like a true mannequin.»

Without hesitation, she stripped away her travelling dress, her shift, her stockings, each garment falling with a soft, matter-of-fact whisper onto the floor. Soon she stood before him entirely bare, pale as a statue and yet warm with life, her body neither flaunted nor concealed, but simply offered to the light. The contrast between her nudity and the untouched piles of shop-fresh clothing was striking — like some mythic Eve amid bolts of man-made finery.

Laughing softly, she sat upon the bed and tore open the first bundle, drawing out a lace chemisette. She slipped it over her head so that the fine fabric clung to her breasts and belly, translucent enough to reveal more than it hid. Rising to her feet, she paraded before the mirror with exaggerated dignity. «Here I am a respectable young lady,» she declared, pursing her lips primly. A heartbeat later she pulled it off again, tossing it aside, the lace collapsing upon the coverlet like a discarded veil.

Next she tried on a sober winter coat, heavy with dark wool, but wore it open over her naked form, so that its severity only heightened the intimacy of what it failed to conceal. She turned slowly, solemn as a governor’s wife, then dropped into laughter again, letting it slide from her shoulders. Then a blush-coloured muslin gown, which she pressed against herself before slipping into it, pirouetting clumsily until the fabric tightened across her hips, making her seem for an instant like a provincial bride.

Not content, she rifled through Yarosvet’s parcel and stole a velvet waistcoat meant for him, buttoning it crookedly across her breasts, the hem falling absurdly to her thighs. «See?» she teased, striking a mock-heroic pose. «I am the gentleman now.» A bonnet followed, its ribbons tied beneath her chin while her body remained otherwise bare, a parody so bold she could not help but collapse into fresh laughter.

Each costume lasted only moments before she stripped it away, leaving the garments strewn like defeated masks about the room. Naked once more, she climbed onto the bed amidst the coloured fabrics, stretching her limbs across them as though they were offerings at her feet. The lamplight gilded her skin, touched the hollow of her collarbone, shimmered along her thigh where a length of silk half-covered her.

She looked at him with eyes still bright from play, her voice now lower, softened by the intimacy of the hour: «You see, I can be all of them, or none at all. But for you — perhaps I should remain only myself.»

Yarosvet, until now silent in his chair, rose and approached, his hand brushing over the scattered garments as if to still their restless whisper. He gazed down at her — no longer the playful mannequin, but the girl herself, revealed, unmasked. In that gaze, her laughter softened into quiet expectancy, and the room, thick with the mingled scents of cloth and flesh, seemed to draw its breath and hold it.

Taissia, flushed from her playful parades and the lingering warmth of the lamplight, suddenly surged forward, wrapping her arms around Yarosvet’s neck. Her lips met his in a kiss that was at once urgent and teasing, pressing, searching, leaving a faint echo of laughter in its wake. He responded instinctively, his hands settling around her waist, holding her close as though to measure the very heartbeat of her delight.

When at last he drew back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes, his expression carried that measured gravity he often wore, tempered now by affection. «Will you be a good girl for me,» he asked quietly, his voice a low murmur against the rustle of silks and wool scattered about the bed, «while I am gone?»

«Already leaving?» she asked, half in jest, half in a hint of reproach, tracing a fingertip along the lapel of his coat.

Yarosvet’s hand moved to the small pocket of his waistcoat, drawing forth the glint of polished brass and silver — the chain of his pocket watch. He studied it with the calm precision of a man who measures both time and consequence, and then replaced it, closing his fingers around her with the faint pressure of reassurance. «Yes,» he said finally, voice steady, «in half an hour I must find a cabman to take Inga to her uncle’s country house. It pains me to leave you so soon, but duty calls.»

Taissia’s gaze flickered, half mock indignation, half the subtle longing of someone unaccustomed to absence. Yet in that moment, she allowed herself a softer smile, pressing once more to his chest before reluctantly stepping back. The parcels of clothes, the scattered silks, the lingering warmth of their shared laughter — all seemed suspended, awaiting his return, while outside the lamplight continued to pool over the quiet streets of Rostov.

He released her slowly, with care, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. «Be patient, Taissia,» he added, his tone both gentle and firm, «and I shall return before the evening grows too old.»

She nodded, letting a delicate sigh escape, eyes shining with mischief and promise. «I will,» she said, her voice soft yet ringing with certainty, «and perhaps I shall find ways to amuse myself in your absence.»

Yarosvet’s gaze lingered a moment longer, the subtle tug of duty pressing upon him even as desire lingered in the air between them. Then, with deliberate calm, he began gathering his coat and hat, preparing to depart, while she remained amidst the scattered garments, a radiant vision of impatience and playful grace.

He stepped out into the street, the cool air of Rostov brushing against his face, fresh with the scent of damp stone and faint horse-sweat from the waiting cabmen. He hailed one with a quiet motion of his hand, the driver shifting on the box, whip in hand, lantern swinging faintly from the shaft. Settling into the carriage, Yarosvet let the wheels begin their slow roll over the uneven cobbles, carrying him towards the quieter quarter where Inga’s office had stood during the day, now closed and darkened.

The rhythm of hooves gave his mind space for thought, and Taissia’s image returned, vivid, as though she had remained pressed against his breast even now. Her laughter, her reckless nudity among the strewn parcels, the sudden urgency of her kiss — all rose before him with a force both sweet and troubling. He felt for her a kind of sorrow: the girl had been swept into a current stronger than her own choosing, and perhaps, in her youth, she had begun to weave feelings around him that were not mere play. If she indeed nourished true affection, her heart might soon ache with an earnestness that he could not afford to repay in equal coin.

Yet, even as pity stirred in him, he was conscious that he had never lied to her, never promised what he could not give. She had leapt into his life like a flame thrown upon dry straw, bold, uninvited, demanding to be seen. It was she who had thrust herself into this strange procession of duties and allegiances, not he who had lured her with false hopes. And what was more — his path had been chosen long before her arrival. The rules that bound him were not arbitrary trifles; they were threads in a larger weave, a solemn design to which he had sworn obedience.

He followed them not from caprice nor selfish gain, but for a higher cause — for the benefit of many, though most would never know the nature of the service rendered in their name. His mission was not a thing he could discard because a girl, however enchanting, grew jealous or restless at his absences. To deviate now, for the sake of indulging her possessive tenderness, would be to betray not only his calling but also her, in a deeper sense — for then he would make her complicit in his abandonment of duty.

The carriage clattered to a slower pace as they neared the appointed corner. The street was darker here, the shops shuttered, their painted signs faintly visible in the flickering gaslight. He saw ahead the outline of the familiar building, Inga’s office by day, now silent, its windows black and unwelcoming. Yarosvet leaned slightly forward, his hand upon the seat’s worn leather, and felt the weight of the moment pressing upon him: the delicate balance between his tenderness for Taissia and the unyielding obligations that pulled him elsewhere.

As the horse stamped and the cab halted, he drew a slow breath. The night was not yet deep, and his task awaited. Whatever storm brewed in the heart of the young girl he had left amidst silks and laughter, he must keep to his road, for that was the condition of his life, the very covenant he had accepted long ago.

If she could only learn to trust him fully — if she could bring herself to believe that these encounters of his with the so-called «dolls» were not mere indulgence, not some roving libertinism, but a duty he bore, almost a form of labour — then perhaps her jealousy might soften into something nobler. For in truth, these meetings were never only for pleasure, though pleasure was inevitably interwoven. They were part of a design, a hidden service, a continuity greater than himself.

Should Taissia come to see it in that light, to glimpse the necessity beneath the apparent betrayal, she might cease to regard those women as rivals. Instead, she could begin to see them as pieces of a larger code — a riddle written in flesh and blood, which he alone had been set to decipher. And if she, sharp as she was, learned to read that code beside him, to discern in their gestures and voices the secret markers that distinguished them from the multitude, then she might become not his wounded lover, but his ally, his feminine counterpart, his mirror in this strange vocation.

Such a shift of vision would change everything. No longer would his departures wound her pride; instead, they might quicken her own sense of purpose. She could point him toward the chosen ones, guide his steps, and in so doing make his path hers as well. The thought stirred him: to have by his side not a jealous girl but a companion who understood, who lent her own intuition to his mission — this was no idle dream. It would root her more firmly in his life than any vow of affection could.

Taissia must, sooner or later, meet Inga. Not in rivalry, not as a wounded spectator, but as a witness to truth — so that she might grasp, with her own sharp senses, the meaning behind his path and the mystery of those women whose destinies intersected his. Only through such revelation could she truly become his comrade, his counterpart, not merely the impetuous girl he had plucked from her narrow life.

Yet timing was everything. To bring them together before the appointed act, before the seed was sown, would risk discord, shadowing Inga’s heart with hesitation. The conception must unfold under the spell of clarity, untroubled, with Inga’s whole being turned towards him as towards the father of her child. Any flicker of doubt, any intrusion of jealousy, might poison the moment, twist it awry, and the balance of their secret labour would be lost.