Competition

Competition

Regine Rayevsky Fisher

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?”

“I said take off your clothes.”

“But…” Leila’s lips could barely form the words.

“What do you think, bitch?” Leonid got up from the sofa trying to get rid of his thick yellow sweater. Underneath was a sparkling pink shirt of an unusual kind tucked into his tight green jeans. He was unsuccessfully in the process of unbuckling his belt, his face a mask of impatience and discontent, his black eyes sending unfriendly arrows into Leila’s shaking body. He looked like an exotic big bird about to explode. Leila stifled her laughter despite the situation. Leonid barked, “You wanted to come to my house with me? I didn’t drag you.”

“Yes,” Leila recalled a quiet young man whose wheat-colored locks covered the blue of one eye. He had introduced himself as Leonid as he entered the same art class Leila had been taking for the last month. “Yes, but you said you wanted to show me your work. And you said you live with your grandmother, who is always home because she is not in good health. Where is she?”

“Oh, she’s home alright,” Leonid smirked into his own extended wrist, “in her room.”

“Then if you touch me, I will scream.”

“That’s cool. Scream.” Leonid took off his jeans, inviting Leila to do the same. “She’s deaf,” he snarled. “Deaf as death.”

“Let me go,” Leila moaned.

Leonid bent down and raised up her chin. “You don’t want to fuck?” He pronounced the last word gently with a hint of understanding. “Listen, that’s okay. It was just an extra bonus from me to you.” He let go of her chin, straightened up his body and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t get it. I thought you’d be flattered. After all, you’re an old hag, and I’m a young guy.”

“I’m only thirty-seven,” she murmured softly.

“Right,” Leonid broke out laughing, “and I’m only twenty-one, stupid woman. That makes you almost my mother.” Leonid picked up a cigarette from a pack on the coffee table. “Anyway…”

“Please don’t smoke. I have asthma.”

“Listen.” Leonid threw the cigarette away. “Let’s get to the real reason why you’re here.” This attracted Leila’s attention. “Only your and my paintings were selected for the competition. Right?”

“Right,” Leila confirmed.

The two of them were considered to be the best painters in the class. Leila was more from the classical realistic school of painting. As for Leonid, he was more inclined toward abstraction and modernism. The other students and the instructor always praised their work. It was to no one’s surprise that their pieces were presented to the competition committee.

“So, I heard from a very legitimate source that out of all the crap included in the competition, your and my pieces are being considered to win the top prize. And - listen carefully - I want that top prize. I need it.” Leonid took a deep breath. “I want you to withdraw.”

“To withdraw?” Leila frowned. “Interesting. Why do you want to win so badly? You’re a very good artist. Why do you need validation from people who may have a different taste or view of art? Believe me, you are very good.”

“It’s not that.” Leonid looked away at the heavy raindrops beating against the windowpane.

“What, then?”

Leonid brusquely turned to her. “It’s the money.”

“The money?”

“Yes.$250 dollars for the first prize.”

“Why do you need $250 dollars so badly?” Leila believed in God’s blessing again, understanding that the danger of her being raped had passed.

Leonid lowered his eyes and whispered, “To bury my grandmother.” He said it with such sadness that Leila’s heart shrank.

“I’ll give you the money,” she pronounced solemnly, finally noticing the bareness of the room, the paint peeling from the walls, an old blanket on the sofa. Everything looked to be of a Goodwill store quality.

Leonid lightened up. “You’re going to give me $250 dollars?”

He wanted to add something, but at that moment the doorbell rang, and someone opened the front door. At the next moment, an old woman – pain and anger in her wrinkles, eyes sparkling with rage - entered Leonid’s room followed by a man and a woman in white nurses uniforms. Pointing to Leonid, she said, “Here he is. Look at him, half-dressed. Shame on you! And who is this whore? Oh my God! Why is it all happening to me?” She threw her arms to the ceiling.

“Grandma! Everybody, go away,” Leonid said without conviction.

“Put your clothes on,” the male nurse said. “You’re coming back with us to the asylum. No more art classes for you. We trusted you; you failed us. Come ‘on. Quick!”

“But…”

“No buts. Let’s go.”

The grandmother sighed. “He stole my pension - $250 dollars – wanted to buy a scooter, the son-of-a-gun. What scooter when his brains are all screwed up? Maybe it’s not his fault,” she added reflectively, “but still I’m tired. His parents should have been here to take care of their sick son, but they died in a car accident, the lucky bastards.”

Leonid suddenly pulled out a gun from his pants pocket and pointed it at his grandmother. Without hesitation, she marched straight to her grandson and grabbed the gun from his shaking hands. “What do you think, we’re idiots here?” She turned to the others. “It’s a toy, a stupid cheap toy.” The man and the woman grabbed Leonid’s hands and led him out of the apartment.

Leonid’s grandmother, with a voice that sounded as if all life had been taken from her, looked at Leila. “Get out of here.”

Leila grabbed her purse and her phone that signaled an incoming message. It was from the art competition committee. It said who won. Leila, her heart skipping a beat, read the verdict. Her eyebrows rose a little, and suddenly everything inside her quieted down. She desperately had the need to share the news with someone. Her gaze fell upon Leonid’s grandmother, who was waiting for Leila to leave. “He won,” Leila said to her. “He won, dammit,” she repeated, as if saying it once was not enough. Her umbrella lay on the floor in a slowly drying puddle. She picked it up and hurriedly exited the apartment.