Chapter Text
Ivanna shivers, her worn denim coat not quite enough to ward off the early morning chill. Every morning at the market feels the same—everyone sets up their station, avoids eye contact, surreptitiously checks out what others are selling. She feels the bulk of her worn paperback jammed into her pocket and rubs the cover. Not yet. She scans her surroundings, blinking against the weak morning sun.
The morning starts slow, only a few people out. She thinks of an English phrase she learned recently…the early bird gets the worm? A few early birds are out to get the best selection. No one makes eye contact with anyone, all wrapped in their own worlds. The few customers browse casually, trying to pretend to not be interested in anything. She watches someone across the square surreptitiously hand over a wrapped packet and accept another wrapped packet in exchange, quickly stuffing it in his satchel. No one reveals what they’re actually selling. That would be suicide.
She palms her paperback again, ready to sink into a story she knows almost better than her own. But a flash of color catches at the corner of her eye and she raises her head without thinking. It takes her longer than it should to process what she sees.
The woman is all tousled blonde curls and wide green eyes with an even wider grin. She’s wearing an insane patchwork coat with fuzzy fur cuffs and a red t-shirt with…something written on it. Her high-waisted flare Levis cinch in at her waist just so. Ivanna has never seen someone so American in her life.
The American saunters through the aisles, making intense eye contact and looking thrilled at everything she sees, still smiling like a loon. The complete opposite of everyone else in the whole square.
Ivanna tries so hard to not understand what this American with her wild curls and reckless abandon is asking her neighbors. She tries so hard to feign indifference, to feign a lack of understanding, when she hears the words "records" and "some fucking good music" float faintly on the breeze.
But the American clocks the tilt of Ivanna’s head and turns her way.
Shit shit shit.
The vendors who talk to Americans always get hauled in and roughed up by the KGB sooner or later and Ivanna doesn’t need that kind of heat. But the woman is approaching with that insane smile on her face. She knows Ivanna has overheard her, and worse, that she’s understood.
Ivanna keeps her stock of records closer than the other random contraband that comes her way. Music is a portal to another world, and American music especially allows Ivanna to close her eyes and imagine she’s as free and careless as the embassy wives who make their way to her stand looking for fucking shampoo or lipstick. Those records are home for her, a link to a place she will never go but knows she’d find a way to belong in somehow. She doesn't sell them to just anyone.
The American is saying something to her, that idiotic smile beaming out of her face like a too-bright light focused just on Ivanna. Ivanna’s response has become second nature and before she can catch herself she says, in a tone she desperately hopes is bored and uninterested, “I don’t speak English.”
The American pauses, her already wide smile somehow widening and making her look even more...crazy, Ivanna wants to say, but the smile is lighting up the woman’s face, so radiant Ivanna almost feels like she should shield her eyes. She worries she’ll catch whatever madness the woman has and start grinning too. She catches herself and forces her mouth into a frown to resist the contagion.
“Lady, I know you heard me. I know you understood me. I know you know who Fleetwood Mac is. You know, the group with that song—“
The American flings her head back and starts what Ivanna thinks is supposed to be singing but mostly sounds like yelling, “AND IF YOU DON'T LOVE ME NOW, YOU WILL—“
Ivanna looks around in horror at all of the heads turning their way and frantically shushes the woman. All Americans look crazy but this one might actually be crazy.
Ivanna mutters, “How long have you been in Moscow? I thought you Americans knew not to, to…make scene.” She knows what she’s trying to say, but the English words have gone all slippery in her mind, the way they always do when she’s stressed. Or turned on.
The American turns toward her slowly, satisfied. Like…what’s that phrase…like the cat who ate the canary. “Ah.”
They stand still, looking at each other, each waiting for the other to break first. Ivanna raises one eyebrow slowly and deliberately, making unflinching eye contact and definitely not noticing all of the shades of green dancing in the American’s eyes.
Finally, the woman sighs, looks down and says, “So. Can I give you good money for some actually decent music?”
Ivanna looks to either side, notices all of the other vendors being very careful to not notice. She motions the American to lean in across the shitty folding table. The woman does it with no hesitation, fully trusting a complete stranger in a hostile country. Ivanna tries not to notice how soft her wild curls look up close, how they smell divine. Ivanna’s only smelled that scent coming out of a contraband shampoo bottle that spilled in the bottom of her box on the way to the market one time. Ivanna allows herself one deep inhale, as quietly as possible, and then exhales and reminds herself to get her fucking shit together.
Ivanna mutters in a low voice, “I do not bring records here. They are too…value? Valuable. Too many people to kill me just to get at them.” Maybe, Ivanna plays up the danger to look intriguing and brave and mysterious to a pretty girl. So what? Men tell worse lies than this easier than they breathe all the time.
The American’s brow furrows. “Okay, so…so what? So we find another place to meet. Right? Come on. If I have to listen to Rod Stewart one more time I’ll rip my fucking ears off. I’ll take almost anything you got.”
Ivanna rolls her eyes. This American is fucking persistent. But Ivanna can’t resist the cash she knows she can get out of this. And, she thinks before she has a chance to push it down, it’ll be nice to see the woman again. God, she really needs to get a grip.
Ivanna sighs, thinks, looks around again to make sure they’re not being overheard. She says, in the lowest voice she can manage, “There is movie theater. Few blocks away, yes? We meet there for movie so no one sees us talk. No one steals records from me or you. Tomorrow at 7 night, yes? We meet in theater, not in front. I will be in 10th row from screen.”
The American’s expression has gone serious and pleading, but a grin bursts across her face at the offer, impossibly wider than before. Her eyes dance, lit by some other light than the weak morning sun.
“Hell yeah! I will see you there! Geez, I didn’t even think there’d be a cinema. When was the last time I even saw a movie. I’ll bring the cash, I promise. Plus the secret meeting. No one’s ever asked me for a secret meeting before! God, it’s like we’re spies or something!”
Ivanna’s eyes go wide and she stares at the American with her mouth hanging open. Who is this woman and did she just get to Moscow yesterday? The woman is still smiling, like she didn’t just put a target on both of them.
Ivanna takes a deep breath and says carefully, “Let me tell you thing about Moscow. This is not place to joke about spies. Not unless you want trouble. Someone listens always. We are not spies. We are…friends, meet for movie, casual. If friend gives friend American record, so what? But not spies.”
The American’s brow furrows, concentrating. She’s finally not smiling, finally taking in her surroundings. Ivanna shivers, already missing the warmth from the woman’s smile — no, that’s silly American nonsense. Smiles do not have actual warmth.
The American blows out a held breath, smiling again in that easy, carefree way only Americans can. She holds up her hands in a way that is...apologetic, maybe? “Jesus, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I do really just want some good music. That’s it, I promise.”
She inhales as if to say something else, then pauses, staring at Ivanna intently. She thrusts her hand out and says, “If we’re ‘friends’ I guess we should know each others’ names, right? I’m Twila.”
Ivanna rolls the name around in her head. Twy-lah, the American had said. Ivanna slowly reaches her hand out and grasps Twila’s. She tries to ignore the shock that goes up her arm the moment their hands touch. Twila’s hand is warm and soft, in a way that makes Ivanna conscious of her own hands, calloused and dry. It takes her a few seconds to notice that Twila is still staring at her, expecting something. What? Oh, oh shit.
“Menya zavut Ivanna.” Twila’s brows come together, confused, and Ivanna realizes her English has gone slippery again. “Means, my name is Ivanna. You speak no Russian?”
Twila laughs, making her curls bounce in a way that has no right to be so mesmerizing. “Haven’t had a chance to learn. Maybe you can teach me?” And she winks. She fucking winks.
Ivanna forces out a weak chuckle, desperate to hide the way that wink has made her brain short-circuit. “Let us start with movie, yes? I will bring records, you will bring money, we are both happy.”
Twila nods, a new, softer smile playing on her lips. “Sure, I’ll see you there, Ivanna.” She draws out the sound at the end, and Ivanna’s not sure she’s ever liked hearing her name so much.
There’s an awkward moment, broken by Twila chuckling and turning away, before quickly turning back. “Wait, can you—can you tell me how to say goodbye? In Russian?”
“Do svidaniya,” Ivanna says automatically, before remembering she’s supposed to be teaching. She repeats slowly, “Doh svee-dawn-ee-ya.”
Twila’s lips move silently, memorizing the phrase. And, oh God, Ivanna hasn’t even noticed her lips yet. Pink, plush, they look like they’d be soft to—
“Do svidaniya, Ivanna,” Twila says with surprising accuracy.
“Do svidaniya, Twila.”
Twila’s eyes linger for a second longer, then she turns with a flourish of that ridiculous coat and walks away decisively, her overconfident American gait carrying her off to…wherever.
Ivanna lets out an exhale and wonders if she's breathed at all in the last few minutes. She spares a glance at the nearby vendors, trying to size up how much her neighbors have heard and how likely they are to run to the KGB and report her. The old woman on her right and the middle aged bearded man on her left are studiously avoiding her eyes, a signal they heard everything but won’t tell anyone. That’s going to cost Ivanna a favor each down the road, but she’s grateful for their discretion.
She closes her eyes and rubs her hand over the cover of her paperback again and again, trying to soothe her racing heart.
She breathes in and out, opens her eyes, straightens her jacket and table, and schools her face into its resting apathy. She's fine.