MOSCOW-TULA, 5 February 1989, 10:27

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Olesya Belaya sat in a train compartment, naked. Today, this hour, this minute, would be the last of her cursed virginity. Tomorrow she'd look at herself in the mirror and say, "Happy twenty-first. You're normal. You had sex."

The man she'd chosen to do it with was her Bolshoi Ballet partner and boyfriend of three months, . They'd attempted sex before—once in Olesya's apartment on her sofa, and twice on the squeaky bed in Dima's rented room. They got as far as getting undressed. Then Olesya would freeze into a porcelain doll that Dima said he was afraid to touch. In case she broke to bits. So they decided to give it a rest.

The very next day, their ballet mistress, strolled into the studio with an air of importance. The renowned Bolshoi prima was still graceful and sharp for her sixty-two years but was looking more and more like a rat. Old Bitch, they called her behind her back. She straightened her back and announced a Swan Lake tour to Simferopol in two weeks. To Simferopol, of all places! They'd be taking the train.

While the dancers grumbled, Olesya hatched a plan. As soloists, she and qualified for a luxe two-bunk compartment. She'd ask Natasha to hang out with the girls while she and Dima—

Well . . .

This snowy morning, when riding the metro to Kursky station, Olesya whispered to him, "Let's try one more time."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. A new place. You know . . . maybe it'll work."

Dima nodded.

But now that she was sitting here, naked, watching him unbutton his pants, an unexpected calamity wrecked her plans once more.

He took off his briefs and reached for her.

Olesya stared.

In the place of his erect penis, there was TUBE.

Olesya's mouth dried up.

TUBE was a toy train engine from the train set Papa had given her on her fifth birthday. It stuck out from Dima's crotch like it belonged there, its metal body painted bright red. And it pointed at her.

Olesya scooted back on the bunk until she hit the wall.

The round headlamp lit up, the whistle blared, the tiny wheels started spinning. TUBE rolled forward, pointing between her legs.

Olesya thought she'd die. Thought it'd skewer her. Kill her.

Her breath stopped in her throat, and her heart seemed to stop beating. She couldn't be seeing what she was seeing. Couldn't. It was long gone, lost, forgotten. Yet there it was, as if mocking her. Real.

There were two ways she could deal with it: close her eyes and pretend she never saw it, or grab it to make sure it was real. She grabbed it, jerked her hand away, then screamed.

"What's wrong?" Dima said.

"TUBE," she said. Her voice cracked.

He sat next to her.

She looked at his pale body, his straw-blond hair that contrasted with his slanted brown eyes. Those eyes, he had told her, were his father's favorite reason to beat his mother while she was alive. For cheating on him with some Tatar trash.

"TUBE?"

Olesya explained.

"My what?" He looked down at himself. "A . . . what? A toy train engine?"

"Well, it was," she said. "I mean, it's gone now. I don't know how it got there, but I saw it. I saw it, okay?" Her skin goosed, and she hugged herself.

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