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ChapterThirty-Nine
Fuck me.Somehow, I can smell it without even taking in breaths.
Better make this quick.
I run in, ignoring the worried calls of the hostess. What does she think, that I’m trying some sort of swelter-and-dash maneuver?
Thirty seconds into the banya’s interior, I can’t help but suck in a breath.
My eyes water, and it takes all my willpower not to puke.
It’s official.
Tarankasmell is worse than putting your nose under the tail of the stinkiest skunk in the history of skunks. Worse than rotten eggs, onion bread, and Black Swan’s (or should I say Crusty Vagina’s) perfumed armpits—combined.
My legs feel heavy from the lack of oxygen.
With the heroic effort of a triathlete approaching the finish line, I keep going.
In the distance, I spot a towel rack. Behind me, the hostess is still shouting in Russian.
Okay. If I can just make it to the towels, maybe I can survive this olfactory assault.
The shouting behind me intensifies.
Skunk.
I force myself to jog, which makes me breathe faster, which pulls more stench into my poor nose, which makes me want to fall down and curl into a ball.
No.
I’ll make it.
Somehow.
Gritting my teeth, I head toward the towels.
Almost there.
Just another foot.
Finally.
I grab a towel and try breathing through it. The stench is dampened, but breathing is much harder this way.
“What are you doing?” the hostess screams, switching to accented English.
I don’t answer. That would be wasting precious oxygen.
Towel pressed to face, I pass the nearby pool and rush toward what must be a parilka door.
The handle is hot enough to burn my hand, but I pull the door open and shout into the steamy depths, “Art, are you here?”
No reply, and the steam makes it hard to see if he’s in here or not.
I shut the door and turn.
There. On the other side of the pool, a tall, athletically built man stands with his back to me, wearing only swim trunks. Is it Art?
