Inside the crowded gallery, the girl from Vermont had her hand halfway down the pants pocket of the tall, older gentleman who was standing in front of her. It annoyed her that the man seemed to be missing a wallet, and for that matter, a pulse and everything else. While discreetly continuing to feel around, Eve began to glance at what he was looking at. She saw the photograph of a braided girl, map in her hands, standing above snow covered rooftops.
Suddenly, she recognized the girl. Indeed, it happened to be an old photograph of herself!
In fact, Eve still remembered the day and night she first visited Brooklyn quite clearly. She had traveled to Brooklyn by bus in search of her Russian roots. That first night she had trudged through dirty slush and a howling wind to find the Brooklyn Banya.
The brass door opened as she approached. A heavily tattooed matron, cigarette dangling from her wide mouth, naked to the waist, invited her in. The cyka blyat took her by the hand and announced those memorable words, “You strip now.” Eve knowingly recalled the intense scrutiny the Russian lady had given her. The woman’s eyes had judged her.
“My little pizda,” she had said, ”follow me”. She had led Eve down a dimly lit hall way, lined with richly colored portraits of busty women and murals of beautiful rustic landscapes. Finally, they came to a room with a glow from the bursting fire in the middle. Many naked couples glistened with sweat as some threw buckets of water against the walls of red brick, causing clouds of steam to fill the room. The intense heat that accompanied the steam made Eve drip.
In front of an empty bench, the blyad had told her to lay face down. The bitch pinched her and told her,