Echoes from the Wombs of Tartaria — 3

“What is your real name?” he asked quietly, still holding her against him as though to warm her chilled skin.

She faltered a moment, then whispered: “Elena… Lena.”

He repeated it softly, as if trying it on his tongue: “Lena.” And after a pause, with a faint half-smile: “And you are nineteen, still?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, her voice low, her eyes lowered.

Barefoot, unclothed, a little shivering from the cool air yet not leaving his embrace, she appeared fragile, uncertain, almost pitiful — and at the same time strangely touching.

“How many clients do you usually receive in a day?” he asked, his tone calm, almost clinical, though his arm still held her against him.

“It depends,” she answered with a faint shrug, her breath brushing his chest. “Sometimes five… sometimes none at all. Today I have been lucky.”

“Do you never fear?”

She looked up at him, puzzled. “Fear what?”

“That men — especially when faced with a naked beauty — might lose their heads. And that your light-hearted daring could cost you dearly.”

Her eyes lifted fully to his, searching, vulnerable yet proud. “You truly think I am… a beauty?”

He bent down then, unhesitating, his beard brushing her lips as he kissed her. And when he drew back, his voice was low but unfeigned: “Yours is the most beautiful, the most eloquent body I have seen in a long time.”

She looked at him with wide, admiring eyes, then her gaze softened into something more thoughtful. “Perhaps I should feel flattered,” she said quietly, “for surely a man like you must see many naked women all the time.”

He smiled, arching one brow. “And why do you think that?”

Her cheeks tinged with pink. “Because… you seem very attractive to me,” she admitted, voice low. “I noticed it the first time I saw you last week.”

He regarded her steadily, without interrupting.

“And… I like you very much,” she added, a little rush of colour rising across her neck. “And… somehow, when I am with you, I do not feel at all shy about being… naked.”

“You are… almost right about women,” he said softly, a faint amusement in his voice. “But at the moment, I have a little time before the evening. I could take you, let us say, to lunch, if you do not mind. I would like to know more about you.”

Her face lit up instantly, eyes sparkling. “Oh, thank you!” she exclaimed, and, unable to contain her joy, she ran toward the screen to dress.

Lena approached it with a subtle, teasing lift of her head, her bare feet barely touching the cool floor as she gave it a gentle nudge. The screen shuddered and toppled with a soft clatter. She threw back her head and laughed, the sound ringing bright in the intimate room, a musical punctuation to her little theatre of movement. Yarosvet stood close by, observing with measured attention, his hands resting lightly at his sides, a silent witness to her lively display.

She bent gracefully to retrieve her small, delicately embroidered boots, the worn leather faintly gleaming in the candlelight. Slipping each foot into its snug enclosure, she flexed her ankles, testing the fit with a careful twist of her toes, the lines of her slender legs tracing gentle arcs as she moved. The motion was precise yet fluid, a combination of practical dexterity and unspoken elegance.

Next came her chemise, a soft cotton garment that she drew over her head, letting it slip down to her knees. As the fabric settled, it gently veiled the swell of her breasts, concealing the firm peaks that had caught the candlelight moments before. Her slender shoulders and upper arms were hidden under its folds, yet the lightness of the material allowed every subtle movement of her body to be glimpsed, a whispered echo of the form beneath.

She stepped into her drawers, guiding them up over her hips. In the brief moment of their ascent, the curve of her buttocks, the shadowed sweep of hair at her mons, disappeared beneath the fine cotton. She adjusted the waistband, smoothing the edges, and the garment embraced her with a quiet intimacy, hiding yet hinting, covering what had been laid bare with a gentle, teasing precision.

Her corset followed, laced up with careful, deliberate motions. As she tightened it, the garment hugged her waist and sides, pressing softly against the contours of her torso. The gentle curve of her waist was now veiled beneath the structured fabric, the corset smoothing the lines of her torso while leaving only a hint of the supple form beneath. Each tug of the laces reshaped the silhouette, shaping yet concealing, a layer of disciplined elegance over her supple nudity.

She lifted the petticoat and stepped into it, letting the voluminous folds fall over her hips and thighs. The billowing layers veiled the lower rise of her body, masking the soft shadows of her thighs and the delicate slope of her buttocks. Every movement caused the cotton to sway and brush lightly against her legs, a rustling whisper of modesty that was at once practical and intimate.

Finally, she donned her dress. She stepped into the skirt first, the fabric sliding smoothly over the petticoat, covering what had remained hidden until now. The bodice followed, drawn snugly over the corset, the neckline tracing the gentle curve of her shoulders, hiding the last hints of the firm peaks that had stirred desire moments before. Each fold, each adjustment, was executed with a dancer’s grace, and as the dress settled over her form, the layers of cotton and silk concealed her bare body while preserving the memory of every motion she had performed for her audience.

She drew her outer coat over her shoulders. The rich material draped heavily, contrasting with the lightness of the garments beneath, yet she allowed the front to fall slightly open, a casual reveal of the careful arrangement underneath. With a glance toward Yarosvet that mingled mischief and delight, she smoothed the coat with a gentle hand, lingering for a moment as if imprinting the sensation of fabric against skin before completing the ritual of dressing.

By now, Yarosvet had walked around the room and extinguished each of the trembling candle flames. Shadows pooled in the corners, leaving the space steeped in soft darkness.

Elena smiled softly, slipping her hand into his as they made their way to the door. “Thank you,” she murmured, her voice warm yet lightly playful. Together they stepped beneath the archway, and she turned back briefly to fasten the lock behind them, the click of the key echoing faintly in the quiet space.

“Am I… am I troubling you with my presence?” she asked once they emerged into the open air of the square, her gaze lifting to his with a mixture of curiosity and self-consciousness.

“Stop fretting over trifles,” he replied gently, his tone measured, confident. “I am master of my own affairs — and of those women whom fate brings before me. No one will glance at me askance.”

He studied her briefly, a quiet, approving gleam in his eyes. “And tell me,” he continued, “where would you like to go? I confess I do not yet know the city as well as you, so I shall follow your lead.”

She squeezed his hand lightly, a shy smile flickering across her features. “I… I am relatively new here myself,” she admitted, lowering her eyes for a moment. “Not exactly a local.”

With that, she led him forward, her steps measured yet full of life, and he followed, content to be guided by her through streets and alleys that still carried the quiet hum of midday, the soft clarity of sunlight casting gentle shadows across the square.

Elena guided him until they reached a small café tucked into a corner of the square. Its simple awning and modest tables suggested a place frequented by locals seeking a quick bite, and Yarosvet immediately sensed that this was a familiar haunt for her. He smiled faintly, his gaze assessing the scene.

“This looks… comfortable enough,” he said gently, his tone warm, “but perhaps we might trust to Providence and find somewhere more fitting for a proper meal, rather than merely a snack.”

Elena looked up at him, a trace of surprise flickering in her eyes, quickly replaced by a playful tilt of her head. “You mean somewhere… nicer?” she asked, her voice light, almost teasing.

“Precisely,” he replied, inclining his head. “I would like to dine where the food and the surroundings are worthy of the occasion — and of my companion.”

Her lips curved into a bright, approving smile. “Then lead the way,” she said, taking a step beside him, her hand brushing lightly against his as they turned back toward the streets, the sun casting gentle highlights across her hair and the soft folds of her dress.

They soon came upon the first restaurant that caught their eyes, a modest façade with a painted sign swinging gently above the door. In the entrance stood a rotund man, his round belly prominent beneath a slightly stained apron, calling out to passersby with hearty enthusiasm.

Yarosvet slowed, a faint smile on his lips, and engaged the man in a casual, easy conversation. “Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly. “What might you recommend for a proper meal?”

The chef’s eyes brightened immediately. “Ah, signore!” he exclaimed, his voice rich with a thick Italian accent. “You are in luck! I offer the finest Italian menu, fresh, delicate, made with care! You will not be disappointed!”

Elena glanced at Yarosvet, amusement sparkling in her eyes, and he gave a slight nod, the faintest encouragement. They stepped inside together. The dining hall was almost empty, the sunlight filtering through the tall windows revealing polished tables set neatly with white cloths and silverware.

“Ah,” the chef explained, following them in, “we have opened only recently. The local patrons… they have not yet discovered the pleasures of our cuisine. But you, signore, will have the first taste!”

Yarosvet inclined his head with a small smile, taking in the quiet space, the neatness of the interior, and the gentle promise of a leisurely, unhurried meal. Elena, walking beside him, seemed delighted by the novelty, her curiosity mingling with the faint thrill of the day’s unfolding adventures.

Elena guided Yarosvet to a small table by the window, where sunlight streamed in, illuminating the simple elegance of the white cloth and polished silverware. They settled into their chairs, the street outside providing a gentle backdrop of midday bustle, distant voices, and the occasional rumble of carriage wheels.

“I leave the choice to you,” Yarosvet said, his tone light, yet carrying a quiet authority. “Let the chef surprise us.”

The rotund Italian’s eyes lit up at once, his broad smile revealing a row of slightly uneven teeth. “Ah! Magnifico!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “You shall see, signore. I will have my kitchen prepare the finest selection!”

With a cheerful nod, he disappeared swiftly into the kitchen, his heavy frame moving with surprising agility. A dark-haired young waiter, alert and quick, soon appeared, bearing the first courses with practiced ease. One by one, they were served a succession of delicate Italian appetizers — marinated vegetables, thinly sliced meats, fragrant breads.

Soon after came plates of hot dishes, steam rising from rich sauces, each bite promising both comfort and refinement. The waiter moved silently between kitchen and table, attentive but unobtrusive, ensuring their plates were replenished and their glasses kept full. Finally, small, elegant desserts were brought forth, each a perfect, sweet punctuation to the meal, leaving Elena and Yarosvet equally impressed by the care and skill behind every offering.

Throughout, Yarosvet observed Elena with a quiet, appreciative glance, noting the way her eyes brightened at each new dish, the soft pleasure of discovery mirrored in her gentle smiles. He took a delicate slice of marinated zucchini from the appetizer plate, its subtle tang awakening his palate, and glanced at Elena with quiet interest. “Tell me,” he began, his tone easy, almost conversational, “how it came to pass that you arrived in Rostov? I imagine every journey has its story.”

Elena smiled faintly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her gaze drifting to the sunlit street outside for a moment. “It is not particularly grand,” she admitted, a faint laugh in her voice. “I came… well, to seek work, mostly. Opportunities in my own town were scarce, and a friend suggested Rostov. I arrived with little more than a trunk and my curiosity. The rest… well, the rest has been learning to find one’s place, day by day.”

“And have you?” Yarosvet asked, raising an eyebrow, still delicately tasting a slice of soft, fragrant bread topped with a thin smear of olive paste.

“I believe so,” she said thoughtfully, her fingers tracing absent-minded circles along the rim of her glass. “It has been easier, perhaps, because one must adapt. And because… I met people who made the city seem less intimidating. People like you,” she added, a small blush rising to her cheeks.

“And how,” Yarosvet asked, leaning slightly forward as he broke off a thin slice of soft bread topped with a delicate smear of olive paste, “did they allow you to leave — alone, in a city not your own?”

He thought briefly of Zlata and the difficulties she had faced when venturing out, recalling his conversation with Inga. It struck him that Elena’s departure must have been equally fraught.

Elena’s expression darkened slightly, a shadow passing over her features. “My father… he died nearly two years back,” she began softly. “And my mother… she married again only a few months ago. But my stepfather — he has… improper inclinations toward me. Mother, fearing to lose even this husband, did not intervene. I could not remain there, enduring his attentions. So I decided to leave, to live my own life, and — perhaps selfishly — to avoid further scandal.”

Yarosvet reclined just a bit, easing into the moment, and asked gently, “How, then, did you manage to settle here, in Rostov?”

Elena’s gaze flickered briefly toward the street outside before returning to him. “I have an aunt here,” she began, “with whom I have stayed — temporarily, of course. She has a strong character, and… well, she has her own opinions about propriety. I fear she believes me nearly incorrigible, especially since someone — God knows who — whispered in her ear that her niece parades her bare backside before an artist.”

Yarosvet leaned slightly closer, a trace of a smile on his lips. “I heard, this morning by the embankment, that you had been modelling — nude — for some artist.”

Elena’s brow lifted. “And who told you that?” she asked, curiosity mingled with a faint wariness.

“Two rather tipsy gentlemen,” he replied lightly, “who seemed… more interested in gossip than in the truth.”

A shadow of a smile passed over her lips, tinged with resignation. “Ah,” she said quietly, “yes, some such types visited me yesterday. One does not always get to choose one’s audience. I must make do with what comes. Freedom requires a means, and I try to earn it as best I can.”

She shook her head with a faint laugh, a touch bitter. “As for the artist — he proved miserly beyond words.”

Yarosvet regarded her with measured curiosity. “And how,” he asked, “did you conceive this… rather daring, and certainly precarious, method of earning?”

A faint, reflective smile ghosted across Elena’s lips. “The artist, though miserly, had a fondness for all manner of risqué literature — particularly French,” she explained. “One afternoon, during a pause between sessions, I read about how in Paris some ladies hosted similar private salons. The idea… well, it lodged in my mind.”

She glanced briefly toward the street outside. “My aunt lives nearby, and I became acquainted with a local janitor. He allows me into an empty room, which I have arranged with screens, candles, and even an old gramophone. It is modest, yet it serves its purpose.”

Elena picked up a piece of marinated artichoke from the small plate before her, tasting it delicately, her eyes lifting to meet Yarosvet’s. “You know,” she murmured, a faint blush coloring her cheeks, “after your words, I feel… a little uneasy, truly.” She set the morsel down, fingers lingering on the edge of the plate. “Before, I never quite believed that anyone could actually harm me there. I mean… of course, I considered the possibility, but I trusted my own judgment — I choose my audience carefully, and I have a good eye for people, as I had for you. I felt safe in that knowledge.”

Her gaze softened, a shadow of vulnerability slipping into her features. “Now, though… after hearing you speak, I am less certain. It seems the world may be less predictable than I had thought.”

Yarosvet regarded her thoughtfully. “And tell me,” he asked, “how did you come by such a remarkable physique? Did you practise sports, ballet perhaps?”

Elena’s eyes brightened with a spark of reminiscence. “Ah… it began long ago, in the little town where I grew up. Each winter, a circus troupe — shapito — would spend the season there. I was still very small then, and my father, who was alive at the time, introduced me to some of the performers he knew.”

She smiled faintly, a trace of nostalgia in her voice. “I was captivated by the feats of the acrobats, and they began giving me lessons. I took to it quickly, and it became a passion. When they left for their tours, I kept practising on my own. I had even thought to join them, yet one harsh winter they never returned, and I was left to see them no more.”

Yarosvet let his gaze linger for a moment, admiration clear in his tone. “Truly, your body… it is a rare harmony of strength and grace.”

Elena’s lips curved in a faint, modest smile. “Oh, that is hardly my achievement,” she said softly. “It is nature’s gift, I think. I merely try to preserve and maintain what I was given from birth.”

Yarosvet’s voice carried a quiet conviction. “Of course, you hardly need my compliments to know how striking you are. You must be well aware of your own allure — how could you not, having stood as a model or performed bare as an acrobat? And if freedom is truly what you seek, and money the key to it, then why not turn to the stage? The theatre, the circus — such places would surely welcome a figure like yours.”

Elena gave a small laugh, though not without a serious undertone, and shook her head. “No, the stage is not for me. To stand beneath a director’s gaze, to move when someone else commands, to repeat the same tricks each night until they no longer belong to you — what freedom is there in that? I have watched actresses, acrobats, dancers, all brilliant in their own way, yet bound tighter than any corset to the whims of others. Applause may be loud, but it is never truly theirs. It belongs to the crowd, to the managers, to the theatre that owns their very breath.”

She lifted her glass, turning it slowly between her fingers, as if watching her thoughts reflected in the trembling wine. “I would rather risk uncertainty than trade my choices for chains disguised as ribbons. When I decide to perform, I choose the hour, the place, the eyes that may see me. It may earn me less, it may leave me alone at times, but at least each gesture, each glance, each daring step is mine alone. No one sets the curtain down but me.”

Her gaze met his now, steady and unflinching, though a flicker of vulnerability crossed her face. “And besides… in a troupe I would be only one more silhouette, a moving limb lost in the pattern of many. Here, my body is my only stage. My voice, my skin, my smile — they are the instruments I command. With them I can speak more truthfully than I ever could beneath painted scenery. Perhaps it is folly, perhaps pride, but it feels closer to life. To my life.”

A faint, defiant smile touched her lips. “Better to be alone with one’s own fire than swallowed by the glare of borrowed torches.”

Yarosvet let his fingers drum idly against the stem of his glass before he spoke. “And does it never trouble you — that the censors in Russia guard so jealously against the smallest hint of impropriety? They have made enemies of pens and brushes for far less than what you risk.”

A wry, knowing smile played upon Elena’s lips, a glint of shrewdness lighting her eyes. “It is precisely their zeal that makes such ventures worth the trouble,” she said. “The moment something is forbidden, it becomes desirable — and desire, as I have discovered, pays well. The painter told me as much, though he paid little himself. If one avoids noise, keeps away from proclamations, and trusts instead in whispers passed from mouth to mouth… one may earn comfortably. And comfort is enough for me. I do not dream of estates or grand houses — I keep what I have, and that suffices. What matters is a steady circle of those who return.”

His head dipped gently, as if acknowledging unspoken thoughts, his gaze weighing her words. “Then you seek to make your living by your nakedness.”

She did not flinch; rather, she leaned back a little, meeting his eyes with frank composure. “And why not? Other labours may wait their time. For now, this — my youth, my body, the freedom of showing what I choose to show — this is my true capital. Later I may earn by different means, but for the present… yes. My bare skin is both my bread and my banner.”

Yarosvet regarded her steadily, his posture calm, composed, attentive. “Tell me,” he said, voice even, measured, “with that artist… did you ever sleep with him?”

Her lips lifted in the barest hint of a smile, her eyes briefly clouded with a passing memory. “No,” she said softly, almost regretfully. “He sometimes… let his hands wander, but never with the violence of my stepfather. Nothing more intimate than that.”

He met her gaze directly, letting the question linger. “And your spectators, those who came to watch… did you ever…?”

“No,” she answered promptly, her voice firm despite the faint blush rising to her cheeks. “Not one of them. I kept myself safe, always.”

He paused, weighing the silence, then asked quietly, “And if someone had offered… would you have?”

Her eyes flickered, a brief hesitation betraying the thought passing through her mind. “Someone did… just yesterday,” she admitted, “but I refused. I always refuse.” She drew a slow breath, meeting his eyes with sudden candor. “Except… perhaps for one person.”

Yarosvet let a brief pause settle between them, then shifted the conversation with careful precision, drawing her gaze to his. “Lena… when you consider yourself, what do you truly wish to be? How do you see yourself in the paths you are opening?”

Her eyes met his steadily, a subtle spark of thoughtfulness flickering there. “I wish to show women that they can inhabit themselves fully — without shame, without fear. To breathe, to move, to desire as they will, and to meet the world on their own terms.”

He observed her closely, noting the quiet force of her conviction, but now, guided by an undercurrent of practical curiosity, he added, “And… would you awaken them only in theory, or would you — if need be — walk beside them? Help them, in ways they cannot yet perceive for themselves?”

A faint, reflective smile curved her lips, and for the first time a glimmer of playful understanding danced in her eyes. “I would not lead them,” she said softly, “but I can reveal what is possible. Even in small gestures, even in a glance or a touch of encouragement, one can remind them of what they already are — and what they might dare to be.”

He let the words linger, sensing the subtle power in her modest phrasing. Here was someone who could stir courage and kindle desire, who might illuminate hidden strengths, adding a delicate counterpoint to Taissia’s mastery. Elena could awaken without pressing, provoke reflection without command, and inspire confidence through presence alone.

“And… you think you could do this for strangers as well as for yourself?” he asked lightly, probing the practical side of her potential.