Page 7 of Sinful Promise

Papa treats me like a child even though I’m twenty-one. On the rare occasion I am allowed to leave, I have a curfew. Home by ten, or I’m in trouble. I live vicariously through foreign movies. I’ve seen pictures of the ocean and the Black Sea from friends who have traveled, and it sparked a fire in me to leave Minsk. There has to be more to life than being a subservient to a man. What will my future be if I stay here?

I was given an old cell phone to take calls from my brothers and Papa. My data usage is limited. I don’t want Papa yelling at me if I go over my minutes, so I seldom use it. I do use the computer I have from school. I pleaded with him to buy me one. He believes in education and eventually bought me one. He also allows me to use the library and read anything I want. The selection of reading material is limited, but Katsia hooks me up with contraband. She has stashes of travel brochures. I yearn to experience other cultures one day. It would be a dream come true to get the fuck out of here.

I love to read romance books. The trashier, the better. Katsia has a connection who gets us “spicy” books. They’re forbidden by the government, so I hide them under my mattress and dream about being ravished by a man who needs me more than the air he breathes.

We’ve all seen movies with homes the size of hotels and wonder what it would be like to live in such luxury. Me? I’d be happy to have a simple apartment with Katsia. She’s going to the university to become a teacher, a profession that’s acceptable for women. For now, all I have are dreams. Dreams that probably won’t come to fruition. Without a job or money, I’m stuck.

I open the refrigerator that’s probably been in this apartment since Stalin was in power and pull out the brisket left over from yesterday. I add it to the potatoes I’ve cooked and mashed. Papa has moved to his lounge chair in the living room to watch TV. He loves to watch football.

I’m always dressed in jeans and off-brand shirts. Papa makes sure my body is covered like a nun before I leave the house to go anywhere. Boyfriends are out of the question. He’d have a fit if a man so much as gave me a minute of attention. My friends who walked me home from school were afraid of his gruff greeting at the door and never came inside. Word of the incident passed through the school like wildfire. I was untouchable and became unnoticed overnight.

The casserole cooks in the oven while I finish the laundry. The timer on the stove goes off. Donning oven mitts, I pull dinner out of the oven and place the hot skillet on the table. Papa turns off the TV and returns to the table. I can smell the liquor he’s been drinking from across the room, a scent that reminds me of lighter fluid.

“I have friends coming over tonight to play cards. I want you to make snacks for us.”

It’s not a request.

“Fine,” I say with an edge to my voice to let him know I’m irritated, even if he doesn’t care. He’ll yell and take my phone away if I push too hard. I scoop the casserole onto his plate and try to think of something to say that’s not confrontational.

“What are your plans this week?” I ask, wondering if he’ll leave again.

“Why? Do you have plans?” he replies, and I wonder if he’s baiting me. Maybe he knows I sneak out with Katsia. If he knows, he’s never mentioned it.

“No, of course not.”

“Don’t forget your place. I put the roof over your head and food on the table.” He’s eating fast and takes a second helping before I’ve had two bites.

“I want to work. I can help,” I implore him. I want todosomething, to be useful.

“No, I can’t have that,” he says with a mouth full of food.

“Why? What’s the big deal?” I push, wanting to know what he’s thinking.

“I’m not a model citizen. I can’t have you walking around.” He points at me with his fork. “It’s not safe for you.”

“What do you mean? Are you in trouble?” I set my own fork down, my appetite gone.

“No. However, the less others know about you, the better it is for everyone.”

“I can work for you. You don’t have to pay me much,” I suggest, not knowing what I can do but anxious to get him to concede something.

His open palm smacks the table and makes me jump as high as the salt and pepper shakers.

“I don’t want you to bring it up again.” Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he’ll hit me. His cheeks are red, and the veins in his forehead are bulging. This is the first time I’ve seen him this agitated.

I advert my eyes and stare at my plate, hoping his foul mood will dissipate before morning.

* * *

Karambambulia isa national drink made of red wine mixed with liquor. It’s popular, but tonight, Papa brings out an expensive bottle of cognac to show off. The men arrive, knocking on the door. When I open it, they all greet me warmly and make their way to the table.

“Ratmim.” Andrian enthusiastically greets my father. They seem to be celebrating something, and I’m in the dark about what. The men clap each other on the back and gather around the table.

I made snacks for the night and set up a spread in the kitchen. I can’t wait until it’s after ten o’clock. I will pretend I’m tired and go to bed.

I like where my brothers live in downtown Minsk and enjoy visiting them, even though they don’t value me. I’m occasionally allowed to tag along when Papa has unimportant meetings. I observe the murals on the side of the old pre-WWII-era buildings. The dreary buildings look better in the summer when the pretty flowers bloom. We only have a few months of the year when it’s warm enough to plant things.

“Dasha, we need more pretzels,” my father grumbles.

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