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I’ve recovered just enough to arch an eyebrow.
“That way, we can discuss the next steps in privacy.” He tosses his towel near the hats and takes my hand.
Well, then. If handholding is involved, I’ll let him take me anywhere, even back into the wet heat.
* * *
A big metal contraption is sitting on the table when we return. It reminds me of a super-fancy teapot, only really tall. Must be the samovar. Next to that are two more shots of vodka.
“Doesn’t get any more Russian than that,” Art says, following my gaze.
“What about this?” I point at a cup with an orange liquid in it. “Are Russians into the juicing craze?”
“No. This is more of a banya thing. It’s very refreshing after you sweat.” He hands me the cup. “Try it.”
I take a dainty sip.
“So?” he asks.
“It’s nice.” I hand him the cup back. “For something made out of carrots, that is.”
Before he can reply, Marusja comes back.
“Your other order is ready almost,” she says. “And vodka is from the owner.”
Good, so she’s already blabbing about Art and me.
“Thanks.” Art picks up one shot glass and hands me the other. “Can you take another picture of us?” he asks Marusja.
She takes the phone and snaps a pic the very moment we down our shots.
This time, it doesn’t burn as much, though Art’s face still twists.
“Thanks,” he says to Marusja after checking on the new pics.
“You welfare,” Marusja says and sprints away.
“Ready for a massage and a chat?” Art asks.
I nod.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
The massage room is not far and is indeed private.
Very private, with a table in the middle covered in towels.
The air smells faintly of lotions and essential oils, which would usually make me gag, but since Art is here with his yummy counter-smell, I think I can survive.
He walks over to a nearby tablet and swipes at it.
Familiar posh-sounding classical music emanates from the ceiling speakers.
“That’s ‘Minuetto,’” Art says when he sees my ears perk up. “By Luigi Boccherini.”
Now I recall where I’ve heard this tune: in every movie that has a fancy banquet with high-class people mingling, dressed to the nines—in other words, as far from our setting as you can get.
