Natasha and Other Stories by David Bezmozgis

couldn’t explain why they liked one thing over another. They had always known exactly how they wanted her to look but none of them could give her a reason. Why did they prefer her leg raised this way and not that, why squatting from behind or holding her hand in a certain position? Some of the positions had been practically identical, and yet they had insisted on them. The only explanation they offered was that it looked good, or that it was sexy. And yet she never felt that way about men. She never cared how they looked, or what side she was viewing them from.
    –You don’t care how I look?
    –You look how you look. If you bent over it wouldn’t make any difference to me.
    I bent over.
    –That doesn’t make any difference?
    –It looks stupid. But what if I bend over? Does it look stupid?
    –No, it looks good.
    –Why is that?
    –It just does.
    –You can’t explain it?
    I thought it had to do with the forbidden. The attraction to the forbidden in the forbidden. The forbiddenest. But it still wasn’t much of an answer.
    At the same time that things with Natasha were improving my mother started to hear the first rumblings of trouble in my uncle’s marriage. My grandparents, who had been accustomed to visiting my uncle frequently, were informed that maybe they shouldn’t come over quite so often. Their habit of arriving unannounced was aggravating Zina, who insisted that she had too much to worry about without always having to accommodate my grandparents. My grandmother, although hurt, naturally made excuses for both my uncle and Zina. We were a close family, she said, but not all people can be expected to be the same way. Also, with time, as Zina became more comfortable, she was certain that she would feel differently. In any case, as long as my uncle was happy she was prepared to respect Zina’s wishes. My uncle, for his part, said nothing. The signals were mixed. There was what my grandmother said, but my mother also knew that he and Zina took a weekend trip together to Niagara-on-the-Lake and another to Quebec City. After Quebec City my uncle sported a new leather jacket and a gray Stetson. Whatever was happening between them, he wasn’t complaining.
    I heard all of these things through my mother, but I also heard other things from Natasha. I now knew more about my uncle’s life than I ever had, and certainly more than anyone else in my family. I knew, for instance, that he now spent as many nights on the living room couch as he did in the bedroom. I knew that Zina was racking up long-distance bills to Moscow, calling Natasha’s father, a drunk who had effectively abandoned them years ago. She called in the mornings as soon as my uncle left for work and made various and emphatic promises. Natasha had seen her father only infrequently as a child, and was perfectly content to go the rest of her life without seeing him again. She could say the same thing about her mother. Essentially, since the age of eight, she had been on her own. Going to school, coming home, cooking her own dinners, running around with friends. Zina, when not at work, was chasing after Natasha’s father or bringing random men into the apartment. As much as possible, Natasha avoided her.
    When Natasha was twelve a friend of hers told her about a man who paid ten dollars for some pictures of her. The girl had gone and taken a shower in the man’s bathroom and he had not only paid her but also bought her dinner. He had promised her the same again if she could bring a friend. Ten dollars each for taking a shower. Natasha remembered thinking that the man had to be an idiot. She went, took her shower, and collected her ten dollars. There wasn’t much to it and it wasn’t as boring as hanging out at her friend’s apartment. And ten dollars was ten dollars. Zina hardly gave her anything, and so it was good to have some of her own money.
    After that man was another who took pictures of her and some friends in the forest. He had them climb