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“That smell,” I gasp out.
He sniffs the air. “What smell?”
“Not here. At the banya place.”
He cocks his head. “I didn’t smell anything that warrants that reaction.”
I take a deep breath. We’re going to be fake-married soon, so he might as well get to know his bride. “I’m extremely sensitive to smells. It’s a curse. The foulness might’ve just seemed like a slightly unpleasant odor to you.”
His eyebrows furrow. “Have you always been like this?”
I shrug. “I’ve been sensitive for as long as I can recall, but it started to really affect my day-to-day after a horrible incident at my parents’ farm. On the day I was moving out to the city, a skunk sprayed me.” I shudder, as I do every time I relive those terrible memories. “Sorry.” I gulp in some fresh air. “I don’t like to talk about that dark time of my life.”
That was when the word “skunk” became the worst insult in my arsenal—also “Pepe LePew,” which I’m saving for someone particularly heinous.
“No worries,” he says soothingly. “You don’t need to go into it. So what was the smell at the banya like for you? Was it yeasty? That place lets you bring your own beer.”
I nod. “Notes of beer, but that wasn’t the horrific part. There was something horribly fishy. Do they serve surströmming?”
He slowly repeats the strange word. “What’s that?”
“A Swedish dish. Herring fermented in barrels for a couple of months, then kept in cans for a year. Naturally, it’s famous for its pungent odor.”
He smacks himself on the forehead theatrically. “Ah. You must’ve smelled taranka.”
I shiver. Whatever taranka is, it even sounds sinister, probably because it shares a root with tarantula.
“Do Russians eat fermented tarantulas?” I ask, just in case. If the answer is yes, I’m not marrying a Russian, even if he’s as hot as Art, and even if the whole thing is fake. Who knew that fermented tarantulas would be where I draw the line?
Art grins, making me almost rethink that line. “No. Those aren’t native to Russia. Taranka is salted and dried fish.”
I do my best not to gag. Sure, it’s not as gross as a fermented arachnid, but fish is renowned for its smell, and drying things isn’t known to make them smell better. “I didn’t know that Russians eat fish jerky,” is all I manage to say.
“Jerky is a little different,” he says. “Taranka is the whole fish, not just trimmed meat. But yes, Russians love it, especially with beer, and particularly at social gatherings, like in a banya.”
A whole fish? Sounds like a choking hazard, but hey, choking would be an easy death considering the smell.
“Sounds like banyas are not for me. Maybe we sit on the sand instead?” I wave at the nearby beach.
That could be pretty romantic, now that I think about it.
He strokes his chin. “We could go to Sleepy Fly. It’s a fancier banya, so they don’t allow anyone to bring in outside food and drink, and I’m pretty sure taranka isn’t on their menu—not fancy enough. It’s just a short walk that way.” He points in the direction of Coney Island. “It might work even better for our purposes.”
Before I can ask what purposes he’s talking about, Art strides down the boardwalk so fast I have to run to keep up.
Great. We haven’t reached the sauna yet, and I’m already sweaty. But hey, he moves with such grace it’s a pleasure to watch.
A few blocks later, he leads me to a building with a sign in Cyrillic that presumably states “Sleepy Fly,” whatever that means.
Stepping inside warily, I take a big sniff.
“How is it?” he asks, looking at my nose.
I sigh. There’s no stink of taranka, thank heavens. But there is a smell of beer, dill, garlic, fried potatoes, and other pungent food items. There’s also a strong woodsy smell overlaying everything, and enough body odors to fill a dozen NFL locker rooms.
“I think I can manage this.” Mostly because I need that money and don’t want him to think I’m too much of a diva to fake-marry.
He beams at me. “You’ll enjoy yourself, I promise.”
