The Model's Feat

In 2039 American troops occupied Moscow. We shall not, in this short story, describe all that preceded and accompanied this event. It all began with the strengthening of the guard on the American embassy, which had until then been subjected to fierce and destructive attacks. The embassy's guard was reinforced with a US Marine battalion, and soon the Americans and their allies fully controlled the capital. The Russian state retained only formal independence.
Moscow surrendered without a fight, even in an atmosphere of celebration, as if everyone - the government, the clergy, the bankers, the beggars, the workers, the traders - had been waiting for just this. And the celebration went on: enormous national symbols of Russia, created by laser projections, soared over the Kremlin - a giant matryoshka hung over the Kremlin cathedrals, a boundless snowman towered over the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour, over the Lubyanka images of the Russian lubok appeared and melted away. A colossal all-star concert of world stars thundered and sparkled, the song "I love you, Russia!" played everywhere, society receptions followed one after another...
A few pathetic and desperate attempts at resistance were suppressed swiftly and quietly. Only vague rumours reached the capital of an insurgent Petersburg, of the bombed cities of Southern Russia. But in Moscow they said: "They don't need us. All they want is to control the oil and gas deposits, and in return they're ready to give us freedom and merriment."
In part, those who thought so were not mistaken. But only in part.
Lavishly celebrated in Moscow was the 4th of July 2039 - by that time this date had been declared the Day of the Liberation of the Earth. Among the celebration's other events, a special fashion show was arranged for especially distinguished American officers and command staff. The commander of the American contingent in Russia, John Cowell, was also due to attend the show.
In a huge hall, along a blue backlit catwalk, beautiful girls moved back and forward. The most beautiful, the youngest and most successful models of Moscow had been chosen for this show, "Military Kiss". The clothing, naturally, responded to the themes of war and the military, but all elegantly reimagined, as if war were turning into flowers blossoming on girlish bodies. On the catwalk, protective colours, camouflage, and the bright-silver details of helmets and mini-spacesuits dominated. The hall, meanwhile, was all in white - that year a snow-white summer uniform had been introduced for all US officers and generals. Angels of Freedom - that's what the press called these figures of blinding whiteness, with golden letters V (valor) on their chests.
The longer the show went on, the less clothing remained on the girlish bodies, for it was a hot Moscow summer, and the camouflage jackets quickly shrank to tops, the military trousers studded with bulky pockets rolled up into narrow shorts, into little skirts, into dark knickers with military emblems. Towards the end the girls came out completely naked, in nothing but heavy military boots, in helmets with radios, with night-vision devices, with imitation bazookas and flamethrowers in their hands... The grace of their slender bodies contrasted with the luxurious bulkiness of the weapons. This drew hot applause from the hall. Many were already picking out mistresses for themselves and murmuring to one another, comparing the beauty of their chosen ones.
Before the show began, the girls (none of them was older than sixteen) gathered in the changing room. Amid a heap of clothes they, naked, stood in a circle, kindling a candle in the centre. Anya Panina, a fifteen-year-old beauty with piercing green eyes, opened a little volume of Akhmatova's poems and quietly said:
- Petersburg is fighting. Every street, every house... Old men and children have risen to defend our country. The grown-ups have wet themselves or been bought. Our girls and boys are perishing... Here is what I'll read to you:

We know what now lies in the balance
And what is being wrought this hour.
The hour of courage has struck upon our clock,
And courage will not forsake us!

It is not frightening to lie down dead beneath the bullets,
It is not frightening to be left without a roof,
But we will preserve you, Russian speech,
Great Russian word!

Free and pure we will carry you onward
And give you to our grandchildren, and save you from captivity.
Forever.

A brief silence fell; only the little flame of the candle in the centre of the circle of girls flickered and crackled. Then - as if on command - the lights flared up, and everyone bustled about, getting ready for the show. All the girls knew what was to happen.
At the end of the catwalk the naked Anya Panina threw up her slender arm, and in her hand glinted a supposedly prop pistol. The music fell silent.
- FUCK OFF, GRINGO! - a clear girlish voice rang out across the whole hall. With these words Anya fired into the chest of General Cowell. The swarthy, manly face tilted back with all its wrinkles and neat greying hairs, blood gushed onto the white dress uniform with its decorations for Libya and Korea.
Anya Panina's shot became the signal for the uprising of all Russia. The people awoke.
What became of the girls is unknown. They all vanished that same day, once and for all.
After the Liberation this place was named the Square of the Models.
In the centre of the square stands a bronze catwalk, at the very end of which is the slender figure of a naked girl in a helmet and military boots. She takes aim with a little pistol somewhere into the blissful void.
Along the pavements around, a stream of passers-by flows by day, by night loving couples wander, and Anya Panina keeps taking aim with her pistol, and in everyone's heart, every now and then, her ringing childish voice flares up:

FUCK OFF, GRINGO!

Moscow, 2004
To be continued...