Translation of Olga Lobastova (Australia)
Bespelled
“Come on, John, tell me… Was she screaming?” Michael nestles himself on top of a trunk of a cut down tree. His prominent ears shining through, fine auburn wood chips barely visible on his sweaty face, blending in with the multitude of ginger freckles.
“How many times have I told you that it doesn’t hurt!” John breaks a tree branch over his knee and throws it into the bucket of the tractor.
“Yes, you have, indeed,” agrees Mike and continues, unwilling to give up the conversation. “You’re saying it doesn’t hurt… then, what does it feel like?
“It just feels good… Very good. Throughout all of your body.” John moved to Canada five years ago and is still struggling to find the right words. “Look there! Squirrels are fighting over the nut.”
“Do they actually laugh?”
“Who? Squirrels?”
“No. Do they laugh when… er, you know, you do your whipping?” asks Mike, obviously not at all keen on changing the subject.
“It depends, you know. But I’ve seen it all… people smiling, even moaning. And… yeah, I saw tears also. Twice… I remember a couple of them crying.”
“And was she crying?” Clearly, the answer is important for Mike.
“Oh… You know… It was kind of weird with her. Her husband rocked up out of the blue.”
“Yeah… I recall that,” agrees the redhead, carefully touching a bump on his head and smiling to himself. He gives John a disapproving look. Perhaps jealous that it was John and not him spending time with Eve. Or wondering why someone would even want to pay John for what he does.
John and Mike are employed by a private cottage resort. A fancy name for a handful of small wooden cabins scattered along the water line. A pier with docked boats, a covered veranda and a fish cleaning station.
Michal is a summer worker, engaged by the owners through some student employment programme, part of his wage subsidized by the government of Ontario. John works here all year round, his salary paid by the resort owners. Besides money, John has the roof over his head and the proud title of Superintendent. The earnings aren’t that big but the good thing is that nobody interferes when he wants to make extra cash on a side. Like today for an example, he’s been selling firewood for 7 dollars a bunch. The owners seem to pay no attention to all those extras. In March, however, they would always remind him of submitting his annual tax returns. They really want John to become a good Canadian.
Mike’s seventeen but he looks younger. Skin and bones, with ginger red hair and always smiling. He has the wide shoulders of an axeman, angular arms and surprisingly elegant-looking hands with long musical fingers. With the peak of his “Ottawa Senators” baseball cap facing backwards, Mike looks like a typical villager. But in fact, he is studying at the University and dreams of becoming an engineer one day.
John is around 50 and he looks exactly his age. Short hair, thick eyebrows and a hefty nose. An array of chins and a sweaty wheeze after climbing a flight of stairs. John’s real name is Ivan Palych and in his dreams, he always goes back to his laid back office life.
Together with the flame-like hair, Mike inherited a special power over fire. He is capable of starting it in any weather, get a boiler going in a blink of an eye or infuse smoke with pretty much any aroma. Mike explains his gift by sealing a deal with the spirit of fire and often tells John scary legends about the Lord of the Forests. John doesn’t believe the legends, yet enjoys Mike’s innate storytelling abilities.
John is quite overweight, Mike is thin. John is still stuck somewhere in the past, Mike is holding on to the future. John has travelled the world and the seven seas, Mike has never stepped foot beyond Ontario. Mike and John have nothing in common… Nothing, other than work, neighbours and now… talking about Eve.
They came at the beginning of August, checked in for three days, having to pay for the whole week. But this is the only way to get a booking here at this time of the year.
John found out that Eve had arrived by hearing a loud thump, and then someone exclaiming, “Are you all right?” The alarmed male voice belonged to a man, who was leaning over the blown lawn-mower. He looked like a giant. Heavy jaws and hairy arms, resembling grizzly paws.
“Yes. I’m fine. Thanks,” says Mike, trying to get up from the ground, rubbing his forehead.
“Oh, God!” exclaims John, coming closer.
“Don’t worry. It’s just a scratch.” The grizzly guy has already made sure that the cut isn’t dangerous.
“Oh, God!” John is almost moaning. The right side of the lawn-mower is practically destroyed and the grass collecting bucket has cracked.
“I am so sorry, man. It was an accident.” Mike sounds genuinely upset and guilty.
“Don’t worry. It was my fault.” John shouldn’t have allowed some student to use the machine.
“Guys, are you ok?”
John turns his head to check who’s talking and immediately understands what’s just happened.
The cause of the accident, with her body half-turned toward the men, sits in the driver’s seat of a luxury crossover. The door of the car is wide open. Her long skirt revealing an elegant leg. Fingers with bright nail polish hold the slit, preventing the garment from exposing even more flesh. Sunglasses covering her face, charming dimples lurking at the corners of her mouth. Tight crimson top perfectly matches the colour of her bright lips and the poppies, scattered all over the whiteness of her skirt.
“Hey! We’re ok, honey,” says the giant, showing the woman an OK sign and then extends his hand to John to introduce himself.
“Hi! I am Mike. Mike Barry.”
“Hi, Mike. I am Super John. Welcome to our resort!” John says a flat welcoming slogan.
He reaches his hand out to greet Mike but freezes halfway, his eyes glued to the woman, travelling slowly over her body, lingering on her cleavage, beaded with tiny pearls of sweat, captivated by the fullness of her breasts, contained within the red velvet top. John’s hand misses Mike’s and remains hanging in the air, as he tries to get his eyes off her.
“Nice to meet you,” says Big Mike, catching the astray hand and giving John a double hander. He seems to be used to the aftereffect of the tight crimson garment.
“Nice car,” John says finally.
“Yeah… Everyone likes it.”
“My name’s also Mike.” The redhead is finally up from the ground, avoiding to look in the direction the car.
“How are you doing, Namesake?”
Their hands meet, the younger Mike adding as much firmness to the grip as possible, as if trying to prove something to the visitor. Big Mike feels the challenge and returns the handshake with just as much strength to confirm that the redhead has been taken seriously.
“And I’m Eve.” Finally, the girl steps out of the car, extending her hand for a greeting.
“Nice meeting you, Eve. I’m John,” she accepts his steady handshake.
“John says, he’s Super!” Apparently, some grizzlies have a sense of humour.
“Is it true, John?” Her fingers insist on getting an answer.
“It’s just a joke. I am a superintendent and obviously “Super” is just a short version.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I’m going to call you Super?”
Sounds flattering but John believes that Eve is simply way too lazy to memorize his name.
“And this is Mike.” John switches everyone’s attention to his partner.
“Hi, Mike! Hope you’re OK?”
The redhead still feels awkward over the incident. Red in the face, he tries to avoid Eve’s look.
“I can play violin,” announces Mike out of the blue.
“Oh… It’s awesome! Awesome!” Her curiosity quickly transforms into delight. “I absolutely adore the sound of a violin.”
She repeats the word “awesome” twice, articulating well every syllable of it. Her lips fluttering, throbbing as she pronounces the letters, one after another. First time she exhales the word, as if blowing a kiss. Then, she takes a breath to repeat it again and the future engineer is lost in her, captivated by her charms.
John deliberately squints his eyes to find an excuse to put the sunglasses on. Now he can gaze at her without anyone noticing it. Her soft blonde hair glowing on her shoulders. Her top, so dangerously low, barely holds in her chest, a white strip of skin indicating that she does wear outfits that are far more discreet than this one. Her revealing skirt. Diluted by the sunshine, soft folds of the lightweight fabric are transparent, blabbing all the secrets of her firm thighs.
“Nice place,” Eve commends.
“Whatever we do, we do it for you!” John continues with repeating advertising slogans. “For your convenience, we have play rooms, beaches, fishing facilities, private sauna and lots of rental equipment that will allow you to fully experience all the benefits of our resort.”
“It was definitely worth coming here,” she says, smiling, “all the way from New York.”
“It is only a 9-hour drive,” Big Mike doesn’t seem to like making a big deal out of nothing.
“There is a big Irish community gathering tomorrow in the town next door,” Eve explains the reason of their visit here.
“My Irish grand grand-mother started her journey across the American continent right here,” says Mr. Barry, “and I’ve settled in New York,” he adds proudly.
“I’ve heard about New York. Big city.” Naïve compliment from the redhead. “They say a lot of people came here from there in the 60’s.”
“Oh yes, it is a big city,” her husband agrees, ignoring Mike’s last statement. After all, history books of any country are full of disgraceful pages that one would burn, if they could.
Eve smiles coldly and John begins to suspect that the redhead is not as simple as he may seem to be.
“Shall we take our luggage in?” The question is obviously addressed to her husband but the redhead is already ready to help.
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage. But thanks anyway.” Cold smile, followed by the refusal.
“If you need anything, please, don’t hesitate to let me know,” offers Mike, though it sounds more like begging.
“You are too sweet!” She gives him a forgiving smile and the Barries begin unloading their car. Looking distressed, the two workers bend over the dead lawn-mower.
“You can undress. I’ll wait outside.” John gets up on his feet and is about to leave the room when she says, “Don’t worry. I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” and starts taking her chunky-knit dress off.
John lowers himself back into the seat. It’s drizzling outside and he definitely doesn’t feel like getting wet. Half an hour later he’ll be begging to get under the refreshing sprays of water.
“You do it often?
“Not really. I am not that young anymore.” John isn’t pretending. His heart’s been giving him quite a bit of troubles lately.
“So… You’re saying you are the best?
“No complaints from anyone so far,” he says, showing off a little bit.
“And what does your wife think about it?”
“Work is work.” John’s heard these questions million times and he knows how to respond in a pretty decent English.
After all, what else can he say about being a sauna master? Tough work, good tips.
One fluid motion and her dress is over her head, stuck for a second, fighting with a hair pin. When it’s finally free, the dress jumps into the chair, cuddling up like a cat.
“Is it ok now?”
Beautifully-shaped breasts, soft stomach and a firm back. Her round shoulders are riddled with barely visible fine hair that get slightly thicker on her arms. The same fine, light hair stream down to the very bottom of her stomach.
“Yeah. Just right,” another standard answer.
In fact, the sauna’s dress code is far more versatile, than any other one. Germans in the nude, simplicity of Finnish sauna hats, towels slipping off the shoulders to reveal ample Slavic breasts, Canadian high neck swim wear or American swim shorts, sticking to the legs when wet. John has seen a lot in the last five years of his work. And for anyone having doubts, he has always had one and the same honest answer, “Yes, it is fine!” John’s indeed OK with pretty much anything, as long as his clients feel great. And he has also noticed that less clothes brings better tips.
“Please, come in,” says John, opening the door that leads to the steam room, letting in his guest first. A blast of heat hits her into the face. Miss Barry shrinks back, but ashamed of her weakness, pulls herself together, puts a smile on her face and steps in. She seats herself on the top bench, looking casual, her posture devoid of any false humility.
“I like it here,” she says, hiding a mix of anticipation and fear underneath her smile.
“Welcome to the Russian sauna! I hope you don’t mind me guiding you through this adventure that I’m sure you’ll never forget.”
The very first session is introductory. John eagerly tells her stories, in which he explains what she is about to experience. Like some magician, he pulls thick steaming hot bundles of leafy tree branches out of the bucket filled with boiling hot water – a source of fear for all newbies. Artfully waving them above his head, he continues with the stories, spicing them up with a little bit of lie and exaggeration as he goes along.
“Sauna is a temple for human body. Our ancestors believed that the spirits of the nature confer sauna masters with special powers.” Go check what our ancestors actually believed in. John, however, has noticed that bringing spirits into his stories, without a doubt, adds a whole new dimension, making the narratives sound truly vivid and insightful. And he knows that’s exactly what tourists need.
Miss Barry is an exemplary student. Listening attentively, following his orders to the T. Amplifying her emotions, like most Americans do, confiding out loud that it feels so good, every time John catches hot air with his leafy bundles and pulls it down onto her shoulders. “Amazing!” she exclaims prematurely, when soft birch leaves lightly dab the palms of her hands, making big eyes when she hears the water sizzle as it hits the burning stones.
“The spirits are getting upset,” says John seriously, splashing herbs infused water on the rocks.
The stones accept the offering, sizzling with less anger and the steam room fills up with the enchanted scent of herbs, uprising between the rocks. Tranquil mint, intimate tingling of thyme, oily aroma of eucalyptus and sweet bitterness of camomile. Devoured by the spirits of the earth, Eve feels overwhelmed, unable to say anything, breathing heavily. Her guards are off, slowly melting away, primeval excitement shining on her face. John turns his sand clock upside down and quietly leaves the room.
It’s time for the break. Fifteen minutes of good silence. The flames are about to reach her bare feet, but the thick glass of the oven keeps the fire at bay. Eve smells like herbs, exuding bliss and serenity. John gently covers her shoulders with a warm towel. It feels a lot better when the skin is covered. And it usually tops up his tips by another couple of dollars.
John steps outside to cool down a little bit and bring more wood for the fire. His favourite axe seems to be missing, so he picks up smaller pieces of wood. The rustling rain is whispering in the air over the lake.
The murmuring of the water falling off the sky is suddenly interrupted by an approaching vehicle, which sounds like a golf cart. It can only be the redhead. What is he busy doing? John finds it strange that Mike decides to drive an open cart completely ignoring the rain that is pouring like hell.
“Shall we continue? We shouldn’t not make the spirit of fire wait for far too long.”
“Sure. I’m ready.”
“Could you please lie down on your stomach?”
“Is it all right like this?”
“Better if your head faces the window.”
Miss Barry stretches on the top bench, her arms along her body. John places several eucalyptus branches right next to her face and on top of the ice-cubes, which are barely visible through the leaves of the fragrant foliage. She presses her cheek against the cold leafy pillow, her back stiff in anticipation.
“Hot air tends to rise up all the way to the ceiling and I use these bundles as hand-fans to bring it back down,” says John, making her feel more relaxed.
In his hands, he holds two heavy bundles of leafy tree branches – the most important tools of any genuine sauna master. In his right hand he has a thick bundle of oak branches, with big leaves hanging off the thin twigs. The branches are tied up at the bottom with a cotton string which makes the handle fit nicely into his hand. With his left hand he holds a similar bouquet of birch branches, twigs barely visible, hidden under the leaves, each one is the size of a two-dollar coin.
Gentle sway of the foliage and the waves of warmth are already down on her body, working hard. Hot air, gentle at first, quickly loses its softness, and another heat wave pins Miss Barry back to the bench. Wisps of burning air fall on the shoulders, massaging her back, tingling the calves. Her skin quickly turns pink, her soul blissfully mellow. The prelude is over.
The leaves now work harder by the ceiling. The disturbed swarm of heat rushes down, biting her skin, attacking the body with a multitude of hot needles.
The sauna master, waving his bundles vigorously, looks like a mad maestro di cappella who believes that even Prestissimo lacks the energy that he desperately needs. Shaggy shades dance on the walls. The noise of the leaves cutting through the air sounds more like middle of the summer thunderstorm. John grabs the flame off the ceiling and wraps her glowing body in it.
She can take no more, pinned down to the bench, mere seconds away from screaming in exuberance, feeling an extreme urge to fly, fear of falling down absent from her mind. Now is the time when the sauna master finally opens the door slightly and fetches a handful of cold air to massage it into Eve’s exhausted body.
Like a gentle lover, the cloud of cool air takes her from behind, carefully embracing the body, touching her breasts. She responds and her body becomes obedient and mellow and Eve’s lost in blissful slumber, drowning into sweet oblivion.
“How do you do it?” Eve asks John with the whisper that he is so used to hear, but under different circumstances.
“Now, back to the spirit of water.”
Eve is going crazy in a little yard hidden behind the high fence. Her delight, so abundant, oozes out of her body, creating an aura of hot steam around her. She no longer seems to care about her look. Dancing around, joyfully raising her arms toward the rain that is falling heavily off the clouds, laughing like kids usually do. She is floating, dancing, drinking heavenly water, throwing tiny balls of steam high into the sky, as if paying dues for her treats.
The spirit of water, however, doesn’t seem to be satisfied with her humble gifts. Heavy sprays of rain thrashing through the mist of ecstasy, conquer Eve’s body, teasing, pushing, lashing at her. The scathing slaps of water finally bring Eve back to reality and all of a sudden, ashamed of the nakedness of her emotions, she quickly puts the smile back on her face and hides into the safety of the sauna.
“Thank you. It was very good,” Miss Barry, suddenly politely arrogant, wraps herself into the fluffy gown.
The third session is the most important one. John is busy arranging fresh herbs on the bed of ice. Eve is relaxed, her stiffness evaporated.
Gentle, almost triumphant sway and the leafy bundles finally embrace her obedient shoulders, pressing gently against her skin. Eve feels as if two huge hands are massaging wisps of heat very deep into her body.
“It feels so incredibly good,” her whisper is barely audible.
“Please, don’t say anything.”
Another spin of the foliage and she feels as if the same warm hands are on her lower back, massaging it gently. Another sway and her calves melt away. Her body mellow from the soft touches. The leaves are fluttering, moving up and down. Eve can still feel the sweetness of the quick embraces on her shoulders, but the bundles have already reached lower, caressing her bottom and the thighs. Two huge leafy hands slowly explore her, anointing her skin with an aromatic remedy.
Her body sings, longing for more. No longer embarrassed, Eve doesn’t want John to stop. Her uneasiness has vanished, her thighs demanding even more attention. Calves, hands and feet, every single part of her body asking for no mercy. The bundles, having understood how much power they now have over the stretched woman, are now all over her body, pressing even harder against the skin, whispering something dirty into her ears and quickly vanishing into nowhere.
“Ohhh,” Eve groans, unable to keep her emotions under control.
The oak leaves, no longer tender and gentle, slap her back with a heavy blow.
“Swish,” the birch comes into the scene. Its leaves feel much lighter on the skin, though very scathing.
It has been pleasant so far, but as every pleasure needs to be paid for, the heavy bundles are slapping hard, pretending no more. No longer gentle, they grab her, squeeze her, exploring every inch of her body. Hot twigs cut into the shoulders and then, releasing the grip, they crawl down. Stop for a moment… Leaves murmuring and another heavy blow, shattering her body into thousands of pieces.
It’s now the time when the bundles of foliage reveal their true character. The oak, brutal and straight-forward, resembling heavy, rough and oily hands, presses hard against her skin, holds tight, each leaf burning hot. Its caresses are rough and demanding, working her muscles to the bone.
The birch is more feminine. Yet, deceptive. Terrifying when it whistles by the ceiling, but its wet slaps are unexpectedly soft. Embraces aren’t burning. The birch leaves feel like thousands of fingers slowly releasing the warmth hidden in between, deep into the flesh. The play of tiny leaves hypnotises, her senses breaking into millions of pieces. But the birch gets tired way too quickly, loses the leaves and upset, burns the skin with its bare twigs.
But once the oak and the birch meet, working hard on the glowing skin, it feels like a mayhem, a mad quadrille of the determined oak and the fancy birch. Blow, slap, burning hot leaves creeping which feel like thousands of warm fingers.
It’s dark in the steam room but Eve’s body is glowing, mellow, blissful and yearning. John feels that it is now the time…
“Ice?”
“Ice!”
John grabs a handful of crushed ice and rubs it into her skin.
“Ohhh… I can’t! I can’t handle it anymore!”
“More?”
“Yes!”
That ice isn’t that simple. A frozen mix of herbs and oils that the sauna master applies onto her glowing flesh. The ice is melting, anointing the skin, filling the air with a mind-blowing mix of scents. Aromatic coolness brings a few moments of peace. But moments don’t last long and the whispering of the leaves is amplified, multitudes of glistening icicles quickly melting away. The bundles are working hard and the heat is maturing again. The coolness of ice, the heat penetrating under the skin and the steam devouring her. Too many changes too quickly and she feels all those touches merging into one.
“Turn on your back, please.”
The wild dance of the leaves continues, quickly moving to her sides and her breasts. “Whizz,” and the birch is down on her stomach. “Ohhh,” and the oak hits her under the ribs. But the blows are soft, causing no pain. John is much more careful from the front.
“And now, breathe in,” he commands and the bundle saturated with hot steam is pressed against her breasts and Eve can feel the bitter aroma of autumn oaks. The oak has cooled down and crawls down her stomach, followed by the birch that sneaks everywhere, without missing not even one inch of her body. Motionless by the calves, the leafy hands grab tight and crawl up the legs, embracing her thighs. Then, the bundles suddenly recall the rules and jump back onto the stomach.
“Hands. Lift up your hands, please,” and the stingy birch fixes her life lines, stealing income from palm-readers.
“Now feet. It’s going to be hot now,” threatens the master.
The bundles take a deep breath over the sizzling stones and bring the flames down onto her flesh. Burning hot leaves snuggle against the feet and the hot wave rises up through her body, pulsing and throbbing in the stomach, bringing relief that bursts through her lips. Her body is ablaze and the scathing birch twigs continue working hard, taking away all the sicknesses and worries out of her exhausted body. It’s time for ice again. She no longer feels the coldness of the icicles, only exuberating heatwaves rising up in her stomach and leaving the body through her mouth.
Short break and it’s time for the final session. The bundles no longer have to store their strength and are having a ball. Caressing the thighs, falling on her lower back with heavy blows… Like some experienced pastry-chef, the sauna master uses his bundles as whisks, whipping up burning embraces and vibrant fragrances into the cocktail of mellow and exuberating pleasure, spiced up with delightful blaze. John continues to work hard until her blissfulness transforms into mind-blowing ecstasy, collapsing into the black hole to explode a supernova in her mind.
“Ohhh… I am done. Really… I am so done.”
“Do you know what comes next?”
“I trust you.”
Fatal mistake. One should never trust a sauna master.
He is a mad servant in the temple of human body, a missionary of pleasure beyond any limits. Without leaving Eve a chance to object, John takes her into the rain. Pulling her out of the flames and heat, he pushes the woman outside. Thrown into the waters that are frustrated with jealousy, the rain is lashing at Eve, punishing her for not being obedient and faithful, whipping mercilessly for treason. Taking revenge for pleasures she has shared with someone else. Aroused from spying on her through the window, the water sprays are helpless, humiliating her, screaming obscenities. This hysteria is useless, for the rain knows that Eve’s stronger.
Finally, the rain submits to her, moving from rebuking to comforting and from comforting to tears of humiliation. And failing to gain forgiveness, it humbles down to her feet, like a dog. Eve, enjoying her new powers, steps with her bare feet into the little pool of water, the leftovers of the undivided love.
Eve is done scoffing. She stretches her arms up, allowing the rain to cool her passion down, the passion that has been stirred by someone else. But the rain is glad to do even this little and like a dog, licks her feet, yet taking chances, wets her hair and spits mud on her legs. Eve looks stunning, her mind floating elsewhere, her body ready to fly any second. The broom needs to be taken away to avoid unnecessary gossips in the neighbourhood.
But the flight is cancelled and the magic is ruined by scuffing noise of a golf cart, which comes very close, stops by the door and quickly drives away toward the restaurant, returning Eve back to reality.
Long rest in silence. John is busy feeding the fire with more wood, drying up the towels and listening to the noise coming from behind the fence. Unsettling mix of shouts and screams, the sounds of axe and engines. His mind orders that he should go outside and sort things out but John is tired of relying on his thinking.
Eve isn’t here. Her head is pushed back, eyes half closed, her hand has slipped off the couch and is touching her thighs, stomach, breasts. The woman refuses to believe that the source of pleasure is actually inside her. The windows of the lounge are conveniently covered up with the steam.
And now it’s time for dessert. And the sauna master spreads the towel on the upper bench and brings the basswood bundles in.
Basswood leaves are like a delicacy, delightful digestive, a magic ingredient which is rarely available. Birch leaves feel like soft female fingers, carefully caressing the body. Oak bundles are like rough males. Basswood is a perfect lover. Strong branches, soft temper. And most importantly is the scratchy feel of the oval leaves on the skin.
The basswood bundles willingly caress the flesh, like an aging lover would, unable to satisfy a longing body. The leaves come fluttering off the ceiling and settle on her neck, smothering it with a multitude of kisses. Reaching lower, they tingle and tickle, gently caressing the skin, adamant to reach even lower. With no resistance met from her flesh, the leaves lick the wetness off her skin, lose interest and fly back under the hot ceiling of the steam room.
Eve’s body is weightless, ethereal on the inside. Subtle tenderness of basswood is terrifying. Such intimate gifts can only be accepted from someone very close, with whom warmth and affection of the first embraces, as well as the fierce madness of shared ecstasy have been experienced.
Finished caressing her skin, the exhausted lover apologizes for his weakness and covers her body with thousands of kisses.
The sacred ritual is over. The sauna master splashes a pink essence on the stones, accidental mix of nature and technology. John isn’t particularly fond of any essences, as they lack the natural wildness of herbs, power of the earth also missing. But this formula is going to help release Eve from his magic, wrapping her body with aroma that is overly sweet, hiding the new person inside her. When Mike is in bed with his wife tonight, he won’t be able to feel the wild power of herbs or the aroma of the excited flesh or her passion. Only light pink fragrance that is way too sweet.
Eve gets up on her feet and steps outside, her mind wandering elsewhere, eyes blank. Wet hair. Bright colours of her bikini.
“The shower is there,” says John, pointing at the door and giving her a dry towel. “No need to hurry. You are the last one for today.”
Without saying a word, Eve takes the towel and hides in the safety of the shower. John is busy cleaning the yard, when suddenly he hears someone running towards his place and then, the frustrated breath of the irritated grizzly, whose attempt to kick the door out fails but John know that it is too flimsy to last long, so he opens the door.
Big Mike is standing in the door way, frustrated and dishevelled, holding the missing axe in his hand. John is glad to have found it but would have preferred to find his axe and Mike separately. However, angry grizzlies are better not to be met at all.
“Eve’s here?” The giant is adamant to get in.
“How can I help you?” The phrase-book doesn’t seem to help that much.
“I am looking for Eve.”
“I’m here, honey,” Eve comes out from behind John’s back. One hand holding the towel wrapped around her body and quickly wiping her face with another one. It doesn’t help though. They have already noticed that she was crying.
“Eve!” All of a sudden the giant looks perplexed at the sight of his crying wife.
“What’s happened?” She remains calm.
“Eve, we’re burning!” announces Mike, forgetting what he was thinking about few seconds back. Having said that, he calms down. His task is complete.
Eve thinks for a moment, then looks at Mike, upset, then, at John, indifferent, at the door leading into the sauna, sad.
She touches her hair and starts speaking with Miss Barry’s voice.
“Super, could you please check for me what’s happening there?” She smiles and gives him a commanding nod.
“Sure,” and the two go running towards the cabin, John barely catching up with Mike’s pace. His soaking wet shorts flapping around his legs, accompanied by the annoying chomping of his wet T-shirt.
The cabin is around 200 meters away. Clouds of smoke belching out of the front door but fire is nowhere to be seen. In fact, nothing can be seen. The alarm is squeaking hysterically. John decides to walks around the house and opens the back door. The draft pulls the black smoke out and finally he can see the inside of the cabin, furniture and ceiling blackened with the smoke. There is no fire and the smoke is coming out of the fireplace.
John is already inside holding a metal bucket. Making use of the fire-tongs, he quickly empties the inside of the fireplace into the bucket and takes it outside. Mike throws water on the wood. Water is sizzling, spitting black soot around. The delightful bliss is gone, destroyed by the pungent smoke. At least, it’s good that the neighbours haven’t called the fire brigade.
In the evening John was busy fixing the broken lawn-mower. It was stinking like a burnt hamburger and his family asked him to finish whatever he was doing outside the house. The redhead had a very busy evening also. Swearing at the fireplace, he was helping Eve clean their cabin. Now the young Mike is at home and the Barries are out, watching the sunset.
At this hour the resort looks like all the other resorts in Ontario that are advertised all over the country. It is getting dark. Couples are sitting in their chairs on the shore of the lake, holding hands and enjoying their cocktails. All the special moments, those small bits of happiness have just been buried in the digital archives of their cameras. Following the sun, the chairs are turning slowly to the north, like some gigantic sunflowers.
The bright red shining ball of the late afternoon sun touched the lake, and swallowed by the blue depth of the waters, is now painting the horizon with dark purple colours. The sky, line after line, is slowly melting away, with stars cutting up on the black canvas.
The sunset breeze wrinkles the smoothness of the lake, creating rippling circles, as if the sun has just dived into the blue depth of the waters. The waves are tense as strings, therefore a faint sound of a violin playing in the distance seems to surprise no one. The melody is getting louder and everyone around looks sympathetic to the sadness of an invisible violinist. Sadness that sounds tense and triumphant at the same time.
In the morning, the redhead was sitting on the tree trunk, upset. Eve didn’t even bother to say good-bye when she was leaving the place. Nor did she even stop her car to flash him a smile in appreciation. At least Big Mike came in this morning.
“Thanks, John. We really enjoyed it,” a firm handshake, “and sorry for the troubles. You know, Eve can be weird sometimes.”
“Thanks for choosing us. Will be glad to see you here again sometime,” John repeats the sentences out of his phrase-book without even trying to understand what this giant has actually meant.
“Good-bye, Mike, drive carefully.”
“Cheers, Mike. It was nice meeting you.”
The workers are busy with the chain-saw, watching the grizzly guy carrying the luggage back into the car. Then, the Barries stand by the lake, holding each other and enjoying the view. They seal their short stay with a kiss and the door of their car closes behind them, cutting everything and everyone off. Things that haven’t been captured by their camera no longer exist for the couple. And the memory card is way too full to keep any reminiscence of the redhead.
Dust from the cars driving off slowly hides fresh wood chips, scattered all over the ground. The sun melts bodies out of their clothes.
“I can’t understand why her husband came so suddenly,” repeats John, looking suspiciously at the redhead.
He is wiping the wood chips off his face, placid and imperturbable, but his eyes oozing sad happiness of a youngster fallen in love.
“Was it you playing the violin yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to let her know that my heart belongs to her.”
“Man, you’re crazy. She’s from New York. She already knows that she owns everything and everyone.”
“You just don’t understand.”
“What I don’t understand is what the hell has happened with their fireplace?”
“Nothing. He simply asked me to bring cheaper wood.”
“So, was it you who brought that wood?”
“Yes.”
“And the firelighter?”
“Yes, and the firelighter.”
“Well, why wouldn’t it start then?”
“How many times should I explain? It all depends on the spirit of fire.”
The violin player looks sadly at the wooden cabin in which Eve stayed the other night, sly smile in his eyes. John is smiling, too. Smiling at the sun, the lake… at the redhead and at this beautiful maple country. The country where nothing bad can happen… If, of course, you submit your annual tax returns on time and don’t upset the spirit of fire.
Hot and Cold
Translation Sofy Cook (UK)
‘Say, John, did she scream?’ Mike follows the disappearing red convertible with a long, languid gaze. His ears stick out so much, that they are almost transparent. On his face, beaded with sweat, the tawny sawdust mingles with his freckles.
‘I’ve told you a hundred times, it doesn’t hurt,’ John snaps a branch in two over his knee, and flings it into the tractor bucket.
‘Yes, you did,’ the red-haired youth agrees, and continues: ‘If it doesn’t hurt though, what does it feel like?’
‘It’s just good. Very good. For the whole body,’ John only moved to Canada five years ago, and still has trouble choosing his words. ‘Look, the squirrels are fighting over a nut.’
‘Do they really laugh?’
‘The squirrels?’ He asked disingenuously.
‘No! Do they really laugh while they’re doing it?’ Mike is not going to let the conversation go off on a different tack.
‘Sometimes. Some smile. Sometimes, they moan. Or they might cry afterwards. I’ve had them cry a couple of times.’
‘Did she cry?’ The answer is clearly very important to Mike.
‘It all went a bit wrong with her. Her husband arrived at a really bad moment.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ the redhead nods. Smiling to himself, he touches the bump on his head gingerly. He glowers at John, jealous that the man was with Eve. He still doesn’t understand how John could expect payment for it.
John and Mike are both handymen at the local resort, which consists of a dozen cottages dotted around the waterfront. There’s a pier with boats, a covered terrace and fish freezing station.
Mike’s here for the summer as part of a student programme. His board is partly covered by the Government of Ontario. John is here permanently, with his wages paid by the resort owners. Besides the salary, John gets a roof over his head, and the important-sounding title of superintendent. The money’s not great, but he’s free to moonlight. The firewood he’s chopped today will bring in seven dollars a bundle. The owners turn a blind eye to these activities, but every March, they remind him to fill out his tax return. They want John to be a good Canadian.
Mike is seventeen, but looks younger. Skinny, red-haired and full of smiles, he has the rounded shoulders of a lumberjack. The hands are awkward, but his are fingers elegant. With his back-to-front Ottawa Senators cap, Mike can seem like a typical village guy. Yet he is actually a university student, and dreams of becoming an engineer.
John is almost fifty, and looks it. With short hair, thick eyebrows and a fleshy nose, he has multiple chins, and gets sweaty and short of breath climbing the stairs. His real name is Ivan Palych, and his dreams are of his cosy old office job with his personal chauffeur and even more personal secretary.
Together with his red hair, Mike inherited the power to control fire. He can start a fire in any weather, burn herbs to ward off evil spirits and get a stove going in seconds. Mike says he gets his gift from the Fire God, with whom he is in league, and likes to scare John with tales of this powerful master of the forest. John studied all the properties of fire at university, but here, in the wild, Mike’s skills are far more useful.
John is stocky, Mike thin. John lives in the past, while Mike has a future. John has travelled half the globe, Mike has never left Ontario. John and Mike have nothing in common, except their work, their neighbours, and now, their memories of Eve.
John learned of the Barrys’ arrival with a resounding thump. Lawnmower broken, Mike had been knocked to the ground: he had been staring at the woman in the red convertible and had hit a rock. John couldn’t blame him: a smile like Eve’s had no place in an open-top car.
‘Are you OK?’ a huge man with thickset jaw and hairy arms like a grizzly leapt to Mike’s aid, questioning him in a concerned falsetto.
‘Yes, thanks, I’m fine,’ Mike gets up slowly, hand pressed to his cut forehead.
‘Oh my God!’ John rushes up, shocked.
‘Don’t worry, it’s just a scratch,’ the grizzly-man is confident the cut is not serious.
‘Oh my God!’ John repeats, crestfallen. The right side of the lawnmower is in tatters, the grass box cracked.
‘I’m Alex Barry,’ the giant offers John his hand. ‘And this is my wife Eve.’
‘Hi Alex! I’m Super John. Welcome!’ John supplies his standard welcome joke and reaches out his hand to shake Alex’s, but finds his attention usurped by Eve. His gaze glides smoothly past her collarbones, hesitates at the abrupt rise of her breast, and gets stuck at the neckline of her scarlet top. Peeling itself from the velvety curve, still faltering at every detail, it stalls again in the ‘Y’ of her cleavage, noticing the tiny silvery pearls of sweat. So concerned is John with pulling his eyes out of that fatal chasm, that his hand misses that of Alex, and hangs limp in the air.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Alex catches the straying hand, and covers it with his own hairy left palm for safety.
‘Hi Eve,’ John forces himself to direct his gaze to the woman’s face.
‘John says he’s super,’ the grizzly guest has a sense of humour.
‘Is that so?’ Eve takes John’s hand, her fingers demanding a response.
‘It’s just a joke. I’m a superintendent, “super” for short,’ John explains.
‘I’m going to call you super, anyway,’ it seems Mrs. Barry would rather not bother with names.
‘Hi Alex, I’m Mike,’ the youth comes closer.
‘Hi Mike,’ the two men’s hands meet. The teenager puts all his strength into the handshake, as if trying to prove something to Eve’s husband. Mr. Barry is aware of this, and responds sensitively. He returns the handshake, signalling to Mike that he is being taken seriously.
‘Hello Mike,’ Eve studies the cuts on the young man’s forehead. ‘I hope you’re OK.’
Embarrassed because of his accident, Mike has gone a bright red. He avoids Eve’s eye.
‘I can play the violin,’ he changes topic awkwardly.
‘That’s so great!’ She jumps from curiosity to glee. ‘I love the violin!’
While the Barrys focus on Mike, John pointedly squints up at the sun before pulling his shades from his head over his eyes. This way, he can continue to stare at Eve without being noticed.
She is certainly a desirable woman. Soft lips, cold eyes. A dangerously low-cut top sits precariously on the very tip of her breasts, revealing a strip of soft stomach below. Her long snow-white skirt is aflame with the predatory maws of large poppies. Lighting up its gauzy folds, the sun renders it almost translucent, subtly revealing the secrets of her taut thighs.
‘It’s lovely here,’ Mrs. Barry enthuses.
‘Everything we do, we do for you!’ John produces another slogan from the promo booklet. ‘For the convenience of our guests, we have games rooms, beaches, fishing, a private sauna and lots of equipment for hire.’
‘We’ll have plenty to do. There’s an Irish gathering in the neighbouring town tomorrow,’ Mrs. Barry explains the purpose of their visit.
‘My Irish great-grandmother began her journey across the American continent here,’ Mr. Barry adds with pride. ‘And later, I made it to New York.’
‘I’ve heard of New York, it’s a big city,’ red-haired Mike admits. ‘A lot of people from there came here in the sixties.’
‘Yes, it’s big,’ Mr. Barry nods. He does not respond to Mike’s ironic statement. The hippie exodus during the Vietnam War is not an event that many Americans like to discuss.
‘Shall we move our things?’ Mrs. Barry turns to her husband. Mike leaps up to help like an eager puppy. ‘It’s OK, we can manage,’ she stops him gently.
‘My wife just about trusts me to unload the car,’ Mr. Barry explains, sarcastically.
‘I trust you with everything, honey,’ his wife quips. ‘Everything that doesn’t involve making decisions.’
‘If you need help, I’m here,’ Mike tells Eve.
‘Your sauna session is on Monday at six,’ John hands Eve a liability waiver form.
‘You can get changed now, I’ll step outside,’ Ivan rises.
‘I’ve nothing to hide.’ The chunky knit dress begins its upward journey.
Ivan sits down again: it’s raining outside, and he has no desire to get wet. In half an hour it will be a different story, and surrendering his overheated body to the slashing cold rain will bring immense pleasure.
‘Do you often do this?’
‘Not really, my health isn’t what it was,’ Ivan isn’t being facetious; his heart has been giving him warning signals with alarming regularity.
‘Are you really the best?’
‘No one’s ever complained.’
‘What does your wife make of it?’
‘It’s just a job,’ he states dismissively. Ivan’s heard these questions a hundred times and can answer in decent English now.
What more could he say about being a sauna master, anyhow? Hard work. Good tips.
Turning inside out above her head, the dress catches the comb in her hair, before finally separating from Mrs. Barry.
‘Like this OK?’ she turns a few times, as if staring at herself in a mirror. Generous chest, toned back, a vivid bruise beneath her right buttock.
‘Like that is good,’ he gives his stock response.
The sauna dress code is more complex than that of a diplomat. Germans, with their natural nudity; the minimalism of the Finns’ hats; the towels almost falling from Slavic busts; Canadian closed bathing suits, and American shorts that stick to your ankles. In his five years here, Ivan has seen it all. Each time someone asks, his response is the same: ‘Yes, that’s good!’ Because it is. Whatever the client feels comfortable in, the sauna master approves of. Ivan is not the first to note that fewer clothes generally mean higher tips, however.
‘After you,’ Ivan opens the door to the steam room.
A wave of heat billows out. Wavering for a second, Mrs. Barry gathers her wits, ashamed of her momentary weakness. Her smile intact, she steps over the threshold and chooses the highest bench, settling in a natural pose. None of that fake modesty, with the knees pressed deliberately together.
‘I like this,’ she smiles with wary expectation.
‘Welcome to the Russian sauna!’
The first stage is a demonstration, with Ivan explaining the process. Exaggerating his movements, he pulls the hot leaves out of their boiling water with a conjuror’s flourish. All newbies are terrified of the leaves, he knows. Putting on a dramatic show, he waves them above his head.
‘The sauna is the temple of the body. Our ancestors believed that the sauna masters can harness the energy of the spirits of all the elements.’
Well, it’s not like anyone can check. And tales of spirits and energy make the whole thing that little bit livelier. It’s educational, too, and tourists always like something educational. In the past, Ivan used to tell guests about his studies in London and his dissertation. The guests would always nod with interest, but they seem more convinced by the spirits, somehow.
Mrs. Barry is an excellent learner. Listening attentively, she does everything as instructed. Exaggerating her responses with typical American politeness, she shouts ‘That’s great!’ as Ivan sweeps up the hot air with his leaves, and brushes it over her shoulders. She’s quick to exclaim ‘Wonderful!’ as the soft birch leaves caress her hands. The hissing of the water on the stone stove makes her open her eyes wide.
‘The spirits are angry,’ the sauna master explains, pouring water sweet with herbs onto the hot stones.
The stove accepts the submission. Its hissing becomes less violent, as the magic of the herbs bursts forth from the stone with a cloud of fragrant steam. The heady peace of mint, the tender tickle of thyme, the oily touch of eucalyptus, the bitter softness of camomile. The spirits of the earth take over Ivan’s guest. Eve doesn’t even have time to offer a polite ‘This is great.’ She just breathes. Her face is filled with primal delight. John turns the hourglass and leaves quietly.
She rests in the antechamber: fifteen cosy, peaceful minutes. The flames reach hungrily for her outstretched soles, but the glass around the fireplace keeps the fire in check. Eve’s body gives off a scent of wild grasses and bliss. Ivan throws a warm towel over her shoulders: this tends to increase the tip by a couple of dollars, he’s noticed.
He steps outside for firewood. His favourite axe seems to have disappeared, so he picks the smaller logs. The purring of an engine rises above the rustling of the rain on the lake. It sounds like a golf cart. What was the redhead up to, in weather like this?
‘Let’s continue. The spirits of the fire await us.’
‘I’m ready.’
‘If you could lie on your stomach.’
‘Like this?’
‘Better to have your head to the window.’
Mrs. Barry stretches out on the top bench, arms by her sides. Next to her head, eucalyptus branches rest on ice. She touches the aromatic leaves with her cheek. Her back stiffens in anxious anticipation.
The sauna master is wielding two heavy bunches of leaves. In his right hand, a thick bundle of oak branches with large leaves on thin stems. The branches are bound together with paper twine, the end resting comfortably in Ivan’s grip. In his left hand, he bears a bunch of birch switches, with leaves the size of two-dollar coins. The stems are barely visible.
Ivan raises the bunches with a fluid wave, and the heat begins its work on Eve. At first, the air caresses her body gently, in soft puffs. Quickly though, it becomes more demanding, as a wave of heat pins her to the bench. Fiery impulses tap her shoulders, pummel her back and rub her calves. Her skin grows pink as she relaxes and surrenders. The overture comes to an end.
Raised high above Ivan’s head, the leaves begin to move faster. Swooping down in a frenzied swarm, they fall upon all of Eve’s body at once, nipping her skin, pricking her with hundreds of fiery stings.
For the finale, the sauna master waves the leaves like a wild conductor leading an orchestra. Intricate shadows dance on the walls. The thrashing leaves rumble like a gathering storm. Even prestissimo is too slow for Ivan now; grabbing the naked flame from the ceiling, he hurls it at Eve’s blistering body.
And at the very moment when the guest is about to yell out in exalted horror, when their body is set alight inside, when the poor soul is unable to bear it a second longer – then, and only then does the sauna master open the door, drawing a handful of cool air to fling onto the long-suffering woman’s back.
The fresh mist clings to Eve from behind like an attentive lover. Enveloping her entire body, it caresses her breast, bringing icy oblivion. Thankful for the sweet relief, Eve’s body responds by relaxing.
‘How do you do it?’ Eve asks awkwardly. Ivan is used to hearing this question in a different context.
‘Now for the water spirits.’
Eve dances shamelessly in the yard surrounded with a high fence. Swirling, she reaches out her hands to touch the rain, and laughs. Nimble on her feet, she drinks the water from the heavens, flinging handfuls of mint-scented steam into the air in gratitude.
Not content with her modest offering, the water spirits cool the steam with their icy blades. The harsh rain rips through Eve’s warm cloud of exaltation, reaching for her body, stabbing, striking, mocking. Its cold slaps bring Eve to her senses. She feels ashamed at the nakedness of her expression and hurries to pull on her habitual smile, hiding in the sauna antechamber.
‘Thank you, that was good,’ Mrs. Barry wraps herself in a bathrobe and polite haughtiness.
The third part is the most important. The sauna master has spread fresh grasses on a pillow of ice. The woman on the bench no longer appears anxious.
The leaves rise in slow, graceful motion, and fall, finally daring to approach Eve’s willing shoulders. Caressing her flesh, they move tenderly. To Eve, they seem like two huge hands, rubbing soft, fluid warmth deep in, under her skin.
‘That’s so good,’ Eve exhales quietly.
‘Please, don’t speak.’
The leaves pirouette suddenly, and Eve feels the ardent hands move onto her back. Another wave, and they reach her calves. Her body dissolves with the tender touch as the leaves rustle softly around her. Her shoulders are still warm from their caress as they settle on her buttocks, and lovingly stroke her thighs. Like two huge verdant hands, they pat her sides affectionately, rubbing fragrant potion into her skin.
Eve’s body is triumphant. It demands more, her lower back begging for exclusive attention. Her fiery thighs dream of new games, as her calves, hands and feet implore the leaves to show no mercy. Feeling their power over Eve’s willing body, the leaves descend on her once more, hurrying to reach all of her at once. Pressing close, they whisper sweet ribaldries before moving on, leaving her breathless.
‘Ooh,’ Eve groans in breathless appreciation for his art.
The oak has had enough of pretending to be gentle. The mighty bundle lands heavily on Eve’s back with a thud.
‘Whew!’ whistles the birch. Its switches are lighter, but they have a sting.
It’s time for Eve to pay for her pleasure. The branches slap her hard, now, no longer thoughtful or delicate. Groping, slapping, pawing, they scald her shoulders before moving lower. A slight pause, the whisper of the leaves, then a blistering smack. A second of heated frenzy.
This is where the leaves show their true colours. The oak is a coarse brute, forceful and direct, powerful and demanding, with rough, oily hands. Pressing into Eve’s body with passion, he feels every inch. Each leaf is like a hot, heavy compress that smoothes the muscles out against the bone, before withdrawing with a lewd smack.
The birch is more feminine, tender yet wily. She likes to whistle fearsomely whilst up in the air, yet lands gently, with a moist slap. The birch does not burn. Her leaves explore the guest’s back with hundreds of curious fingers, gradually releasing the warmth stored between them. The play of delicate leaves is hypnotic, creating dozens of interconnected, mobile sensations. The birch loses her leaves and wearies faster than the oak. Sad at losing her beauty, she can become bitter and sting you with her bare switches.
When oak and birch dance together on your hot back, everything dissolves, entwined in a passionate tango of macho oak and light-footed coquettish birch: a swift slap, an avalanche of heavy fragrant leaves, the diligent strumming of hundreds of knowing fingers.
Eve’s body glows a deep scarlet in the half-light of the sauna. She is in languorous ecstasy. John senses that the time has come.
‘Ice?’
‘Ice!’
John scoops the ice and rubs it into Eve’s back.
‘Oooh! I can’t take it!’
‘More?’
‘Yes please!’
The ice is actually a frozen infusion with herbs and oils. Melting against Eve’s hot flesh, it softens her skin, releasing aromatic vapour. The sweet coolness brings momentary relief, but the rustling of the leaves grows with every second, and it’s not long before they plunge down from the ceiling onto the gleaming icy crystals. Sweet rivulets trickle down Eve’s sides as the leaves busy themselves once more. The heat grows. The ice’s tickle, the fire’s touch, the steam’s caress – even with the rapid stream of changes, Eve’s body does not experience the sensations as separate.
‘You can turn over.’
The leaves continue their dance on Eve’s sides and chest. ‘Swiiiiish,’ the birch lands on her tummy. ‘Whoosh,’ the oak makes for her ribs. They fall lovingly, hugging her close without causing pain. Working with her front, the sauna master is a lot more gentle.
‘Now, breathe.’ He presses a bundle of leaves saturated with hot steam to her chest. Eve breathes in the bitter-sweet smells of an autumn oak forest. Cooling, the oak rustles down her stomach, inquisitive birch pattering close behind, covering every inch of Eve’s body with a myriad of swishing fingers. Pausing at Eve’s ankles, the leafy hands lock together and begin their upward journey along Eve’s calves. Pawing her thighs impudently, they decide to behave and switch reluctantly to her stomach.
‘Your palms. Raise your arms,’ the sharp birch leaps to work on Eve’s lifeline. No need for acupuncture now!
‘Your heels. This will feel hot,’ the master warns.
Inhaling deeply over the hissing, scalding stones, the leaves fly downwards, to press against the soles of Eve’s feet. A fiery wave travels up through her body, pulsing in her stomach with infinite pleasure, releasing from her lips with an ecstatic sigh. As her body revels in pure voluptuousness, the birch whips all ill health, worry and cares out of her feet. Taking over suddenly, the ice embraces her with its freezing caress. She feels no pain, just waves of flaming exultation rising from her stomach.
A short rest before the final beating. The leaves no longer hold back, but strike with full force, pummelling Eve’s sides, groping her thighs, kneading her buttocks. Working with the leaves like a pastry chef with his whisk, the sauna master whips up stinging embraces, poignant impulses and fragrant scents into a cocktail of pure pleasure.
‘Ah, I really am done.’
‘Want to rest?’
‘As you say.’
A fatal mistake: one should never trust the sauna master. A terrible man, he is a fanatical votary of the temple of the body, a missionary in the cult of extreme pleasure. Giving her no time to recover, Ivan pushes Eve outside.
From the fire’s lustful embrace, Eve falls into the clutches of adulterous rain. As she is abandoned to the whims of this insecure tormentor, he falls upon her with his lashes. Flogging her for betrayal, he punishes Eve for the pleasure she found with another. Aroused by the scenes it witnessed through the sauna window, the rain spits its abuse at Eve, covering her with angry muddy splatters. This is merely the hysteria of helplessness, though: the rain knows that Eve is more powerful, now, and it fears her strength. The reproaches turn to pleas, the admonitions end in tears. Receiving no pardon, the rain curls up at her feet, like a sorrowful dog. Enjoying her newfound witch’s powers, Eve splashes noisily through the puddles, barefoot.
Having quashed the rain’s rebellion, Eve shows mercy. Reaching her hands to the heavens, she allows the rain to cool the ardour aroused in her by another. Pleased even at this favour, the rain kisses her palms adoringly, licking her fingers like a loyal pet. It plays some petty tricks, nonetheless, soaking her hair, splashing her ankles with grey mud. As Mistress of the Elements, Eve is magnificent. She could almost take off, leaving this earth altogether. Not wishing to give the neighbours anything to gossip about, Ivan decides to hide the broom.
The sudden noise of a golf cart dispels the magic. No broomsticks, tonight! Trundling angrily up to the sauna, the cart halts for a while, before growling off again to the cafe. Mrs. Barry returns to earth with a bump.
She rests in silence. Ivan busies himself with chores, throwing logs on the fire, drying towels. Eve is somewhere in a different dimension. Head thrown back, eyes closed, her hand strays from the windowsill to touch her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. The woman still cannot believe that she possesses a source of such pleasure inside. The window of the antechamber has misted up delicately.
‘Now for dessert,’ the master spreads a towel on the top bench and gets out his linden leaves.
Linden leaves are a true delicacy. A fine dessert wine, the magic ingredient that not every sauna master possesses in his arsenal. If the birch is a tender woman, and the oak rough and brutish, the linden is an ideal lover. Strong boughs, a gentle touch, and, above all, a rough surface to its elongated leaves.
Linden leaves caress the skin like an ageing philanderer, incapable of taking the proffered body in one go. The tongues of the leaves flit gracefully down from the heated ceiling, landing on Eve’s neck in a cluster of sensuous kisses. After caressing her neck, they move downwards, snaking this way and that, spreading their persistent touch along her body. Moving lower, they encounter no resistance. Brushing the sweat off Eve’s fervent body, they lose interest, leaping back towards the low lintel.
Eve is weightless. The final wave, she experiences from within. The tenderness of the linden is almost frightening: such intimate touch can be offered only by someone very close. The leaves stay a few more minutes before acknowledging that they are finished. Making their excuses, they kiss their beloved one last time, from her defenceless neck to her open legs.
The ritual is over. The sauna master flings rose essence on the cooling stones. Ivan is not overly fond of essences, seeing them as the product of a chance liaison between nature and progress. Lacking the wild natural freshness of herbs, they have none of the earth’s visceral life force. This return of the civilised world will nonetheless set Eve free from the bonds of pagan magic. The sickly sweet scent will coat her body with its rosy sheen, concealing her new identity. When he hugs his wife close, Mr. Barry will smell neither pungent wild grasses, nor the aromatic jubilation of the flesh, nor the sweaty passion of a witch. Merely a light scent of roses.
Eve rises and goes outside. Her gaze is thoughtful; she seems a million miles away. Hair escaping from its comb, the ties of her bikini hang loose on her sides.
‘The shower’s over there,’ Ivan points out the door, handing her a dry towel. He continues with his chores in the yard. A sudden clatter makes him raise his head: the grizzly is there, breathing heavily with fury. His first attempt to uproot the gatepost was unsuccessful, but the light fence will not stand up to such treatment, Ivan knows. He opens the latch.
Alex is angry and dishevelled. In his hand is Ivan’s lost axe. Pleased to see it, Ivan would nonetheless have preferred to find it under different circumstances. An angry grizzly is best left well alone.
‘Is Eve here?’ the giant asks forcefully.
‘Can I help you?’ the stock question from Ivan’s phrasebook fails to calm Mr. Barry.
‘I must see Eve.’
‘I’m here, honey,’ Eve appears behind Ivan. Holding her towel with one arm, she wipes her tears away hastily with the other.
‘Eve!’ The sight of his wife wrapped in a towel and crying confuses Mr. Barry.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Eve, the cottage is on fire!’ Mr. Barry cries. Reporting this fact to his wife appears to calm him, however; he relaxes a little.
Eve appears thoughtful. She gazes sadly at Alex, indifferently at the sauna master, regretfully at the open sauna door. Finally, in the voice of Mrs. Barry, she responds.
‘Maybe you could go and see what the matter is, Super?’ Her smile signals that this is an order; her nod sends him on his way.
‘Sure,’ John and Alex hurry off to the cottage. The giant leads the way with his huge strides, the superintendent quickens his pace to a trot. Shorts slapping against his knees, his wet T-shirt makes unpleasant squelching sounds.
The cottage is some two hundred metres away. Thick smoke is billowing out of the doorway. They can’t see any flames – or anything else, for that matter. The smoke alarm is in full cry. Walking around the cottage, John opens the back door. The through draft helps the foul-smelling black air leave the building. Soon, sooty furniture and a darkened ceiling come into view. Smoke is still issuing out of the open stove. Grabbing the smouldering logs, John takes them outside in a metal bucket. Raindrops hiss, inky soot spits: the sauna’s pleasures are stifled by acrid fumes. The cottage is saturated with smoke; the broken lawnmower incident pales in comparison. The Barrys’ belongings have been ruined too.
John spends the evening trying to fix the broken equipment. He smells like an overdone hamburger, and his family beg him to stay out of the house. Red-haired Mike has gone home happy: he found a special cleaning agent, so Mrs. Barry was unable to refuse his offer of help. They even managed to get the cottage looking presentable again.
At twilight, the resort looks like any other Ontario retreat from a holiday brochure. Evening falls on the lakeshore. All the happy events of the day have been meticulously archived in digital images. Contented couples sit in their deckchairs with drinks, arms intertwined. Following the sun, the chairs keep turning towards the north, like so many giant four-legged sunflowers.
The crimson sun has dropped into the lake, fusing with its deep violet and bleeding thick purple gouache all across the horizon. The dome of the sky disappears, line by line. Stars begin to peek through the bright gashes in the canvas of the heavens.
A light sunset breeze stipples the water’s smooth surface. It is as if the sun had taken a running jump into the lake from the low-slung horizon, spreading ripples. The wavelets play like plucked strings; the soft music of a violin can be heard. The sound grows, as all hearts turn to the invisible player, whose mood goes from anxious to jubilant. No one is surprised at the music.
The following morning, red-haired Mike sits on a fresh tree stump, forlorn. Eve left without saying goodbye, without stopping the car to flash him her icy smile of gratitude. Mr. Barry, at least, had called in before leaving.
‘Thanks John, we enjoyed ourselves.’ A lordly handshake. ‘Sorry for all the disruption.’
‘Thanks for coming, we’ll be pleased to have you again,’ John’s command of phrasebook expressions is faultless.
‘Goodbye Alex, drive safely.’
‘Goodbye Mike, good to meet you.’
Busy with their chainsaw, the handymen watch as the grizzly packs the couple’s belongings. When he has finished, Mr. and Mrs. Barry take a moment on the lakeshore to embrace. Their exemplary kiss for the camera officially ends the vacation. The car door slams, leaving all else behind. Whatever is not in the picture, no longer exists. And there was no room on the memory stick for the redhead, or the fat guy.
Dust from the departing cars flies onto the fresh sawdust. Soon, the hot sun will force the men out of their overalls.
‘Her husband came at a very bad time,’ John repeats, gazing at Mike suspiciously.
Rubbing the sawdust from his face, the redhead stares at the road. The red convertible has long disappeared in the dust. In Mike’s eyes, the ecstatic sadness of the lovelorn teenager.
‘Was that you yesterday, playing the violin?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Why?’
‘So she knows my heart belongs to her.’
‘She’s from New York, you idiot. She already knows that everything belongs to her.’
‘You don’t understand.’
‘The only thing I don’t understand is what happened to the stove?’
‘Nothing happened to the stove. He wanted some cheaper firewood.’
‘So it was you that brought the firewood?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the kindling?’
‘And the kindling.’
‘So why didn’t it burn properly?’
‘I told you, the Fire God is jealous.’
The violin player gazes forlornly at the cottage where Eve stayed, but his eyes have a mischievous light. John’s face breaks into a smile. He is smiling at the sun, at the lake, at red-haired Mike, at this whole wonderful maple-tree country, where nothing bad can ever happen.
That is, of course, if you do your taxes on time, and do not anger the God of Fire.