Stuck in Dushanbe

Ep. 1

The hotel room in Dushanbe, the capital of Tajikistan, was filled with the dull hum of the air conditioner and with a tension that could almost be felt on the skin. The yellow dress squeezed his waist with a narrow belt, the fabric clung unpleasantly to the new hips, and from that humiliation Jack’s teeth literally clenched. He stood in front of the mirror, unwilling to look there again, his gaze dropped down and to the side.

His fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of the dress, and every time he felt it softly swaying around his hips, a shiver went through him. They were too big, as if someone had taken his old body and sketched a ridiculous, blatantly feminine caricature, with curves he wanted to turn away from, but they stubbornly reminded him of themselves with every movement.

He glanced down again, only to see how clearly the breasts pushed out under the fabric, pulling the dress forward. Even the slightest movement made them noticeable: a dragging, unpleasant sense of weight that had nothing in common with his former male body.

'Hell, this is humiliating!!!' flashed in his head, and again he looked away at the same spot on the floor, as if salvation lay there. But there was no salvation, only the reflection in the mirror and Emma’s voice, sounding far too calm for this catastrophe. She was, in fact, his only savior in this chaos.

Snorting, she adjusted the scarf on her head and leaned back slightly, settling on the edge of the bed. Before her, spread out on the blanket, was a whole “palette”: brushes, tubes of foundation, lip gloss, eyeshadow. Emma crossed her legs, tilting her head to the side, studying her finished work.

— Be grateful I managed to find even this dress, Jack, — her tone was almost annoyed, — It’s hard to get proper women’s clothing here.

Jack slowly turned his head toward her. His pressed lips trembled, and in his eyes flickered something between rage and despair.

— Grateful? — he spat out the word as if it burned his tongue.

— Would you rather walk outside in jeans and a man’s shirt? You think that wouldn’t raise questions?

— I’d rather not be… in this body at all! — he hissed through clenched teeth, yanking desperately at the hem of the yellow dress, trying to hide the protruding hips. His teeth bit into his lips, and right away he tasted the cheap lipstick in his mouth.

— Hey, careful there, — Emma raised her finger, — you’ll smear all the makeup off. I actually put effort into it, you know.

Jack jerked back sharply as if burned. The sweetish taste of cheap lipstick still clung to his tongue, twisting his face in disgust. His gaze fell on the mirror. The frozen expression staring back made the picture even more absurd. The male features — the rough jawline, the thick brows, stubbornly drawn into a grimace of anger — were outlined with bright makeup so that he looked like a ridiculous mask. The red lipstick shone too brightly, the cheeks were unnaturally pink, and the black eyeliner only emphasized the lost look in his eyes.

— You call this “effort”? — his voice cracked into a rasp. — I look like… like a clown!

— Wipe that grimace off your face and smile, — she paused, waiting until his eyes returned to the mirror, as if she wanted to savor the moment or maybe some kind of inner female revenge, not aimed at Jack specifically, but at mankind in general. — Come on, Jack. Smile. A smile would look really good on you.

— Are you fucking kidding me right now? — he turned to her, and there was so much anger in his voice that his cheeks, under the thick layer of blush, flared even brighter.

Emma raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her breasts, like a teacher watching a spoiled student.

— A little. It’s just that I’ve heard that line from men so many times I couldn’t resist, — she smirked slightly, though her eyes stayed cold. — Besides, at least in your current situation, it’s true. You need to look like a woman and not stand out. Anyway, do you remember anything at all about that place?

— No. — Jack shot back, — I already told you. I was in the room, fell asleep. Woke up to your hysterical screaming.

— And what the hell else was I supposed to do when, in my boyfriend’s hotel room, I saw a naked woman sleeping in his bed? — Emma suddenly leaned back, her voice shaking on the last word. — Do you even get how that looked?

Jack shut his eyes, as if trying to shut everything out. The word “woman” burned worse than acid. He clenched his fists, nails cutting deep into his palms.

— I told you already: that wasn’t me! Somebody… somebody did this, Emma! — he suddenly jabbed his finger at the scar on his neck. — You see?!

On the last word his voice cracked, and instead of his male voice, a female note suddenly slipped out.

Emma flinched, her eyes widening, but within a second she squinted again, as if forcing herself to keep control.

— Oh, that was… unexpected, — she drawled, slowly rising from the bed. — Looks like your voice is starting to adjust to this body.

Jack recoiled sharply, as if even he was scared by the sound that tore out of his throat. He swallowed, feeling his breasts tremble slightly with his breathing under the dress, and forced out:

— Shut up… — but at the end of the phrase, again that thin female note quivered, sending a chill down his skin.

Emma slowly stepped closer. Her steps on the carpet were measured, cold, like a doctor walking in to deliver a diagnosis.

— Do you realize you’ve been holed up in this room for four days already? — she leaned closer, eyes narrowed, her scarf slipping slightly onto her forehead. — Our flight’s in three days. You need fake documents. And for that, you need a photo. We go to the photo studio. Then to this Rustam.

Jack lifted his eyes, still clutching the hem of the yellow dress in his fingers.

— And who the hell is he anyway? — there was more fear than anger in his voice. — You want me to trust some guy in a back alley? You haven’t even seen him yourself.

— God, I swear I’ll just walk out and leave you here. I don’t know who he is, but right now he’s your only chance to get out legally. — Emma snorted, — We don’t have much time, and the hotel staff already asked where “the man who checked into the hotel” went. I had to make up a story that you got sick.

— Sick…! — Jack exhaled, and once again on the last syllable his voice cracked. If someone had been standing outside the door listening, they wouldn’t have heard a broken male voice but a pathetic female squeak, full of despair.

Jack clapped his hand over his mouth, lipstick smearing onto his palm, though he didn’t notice, his eyes squeezed shut.

— That’s enough. Stop acting like a girl. Get it together. — Emma gripped his hand. To Jack it now seemed much larger than he remembered.

His heart clenched.

— God… — he whispered. — Maybe we should at least try to find them…

Emma yanked her hand away as if he’d said something offensive.

— Find them? — her eyes flashed. — We already talked about this! We have no fucking clue who “they” are or how to find “them.” If nothing works out now, you’re stuck here. Do you get that? Right now you’re just a woman without documents in Tajikistan. Is that what you want?

Jack trembled, crossing his arms over his breasts and immediately feeling the still-unfamiliar softness pressing against his forearms.

— Well, hey, on the bright side. You’ll find yourself a husband here. Be a loyal wife. Pop out a bunch of kids. Families here are traditionally big. And women know their place. Your father will be happy. He always wanted you to have a wife like that.

Something inside Jack snapped. Emma’s words lashed his nerves like a whip.

— Don’t start! — he shouted, but again his voice betrayed him, breaking into a high, almost hysterical pitch. — Let’s just go already!

Emma gave him a long, heavy look, and across her face flickered a shadow of satisfaction.

— Finally, — she said dryly. — Don’t forget your purse.

Jack’s eyes fell on the little white purse on the chair. With its decorations, it looked ridiculous. Forcing himself, he grabbed it and slung it over his shoulder, feeling the strap bite into his skin like a burn.

Emma gave a short nod, as if ticking off a box on a checklist.

— That’s a good girl. Now let’s go.

Ep. 2

The noisy hall of the capital’s international airport buzzed like a giant beehive. Voices merged into an indistinct stream, announcements in Tajik and Russian thundered overhead, and somewhere nearby suitcases clattered and heels clicked.

Jack stood in line at the check-in counter, feeling like some kind of transvestite who, as he thought, was supposed to enjoy this public performance—but none of it was about him. He desperately wished it would all be over soon. He just wanted to go home, even if it meant in this body.

He adjusted the thin strap of a white purse on his wrist, glancing down at his slender hands. The documents in them were trembling, and from that shaking the tickets almost slipped out. His nervous gaze slid across the crowd: men in strict suits or sports jackets, women in long dresses and headscarves, exactly like the one he was wearing—just in different shades.

Ahead of him, a woman finished her check-in, and it was his turn to move forward.

'Where the hell is Emma?!' flashed in his head, and it took him a huge effort to keep a smile stretched across his face, the corners of his lips trembling with tension.

He stepped forward, feeling how his wide hips swayed from side to side again, as if on waves. At that very moment the dress tightened across his ass, the fabric clinging to it, emphasizing the overly feminine silhouette. Between him and the counter, a few meters of empty space remained.

'Couldn’t she just hold on a little at a time like this?!' His eyes darted again toward the restroom. But Emma was still nowhere in sight.

The crowd behind shifted closer, someone huffed impatiently. Jack felt the pressure of stares on his back, then someone’s rolling suitcase clipped his leg. He spun around sharply and saw a man in front of him. He didn’t stand out from the locals in any way, but with Jack’s new height he seemed like a giant. The man frowned, hinting that it was time to move instead of blocking the way, and Jack had no choice but to head to the counter.

One step. Another. Again that humiliating sway, making Jack wish he could sink through the floor. It felt like every eye in the hall was locked on him—or rather, on his ass—at the very moment he stood at the check-in desk, while the girl in uniform busied herself with something on her computer.

A second later she lifted her gaze to him. Jack swallowed the lump in his throat, freezing in a dumb stupor. It seemed to last an eternity and only ended when the girl raised her left eyebrow in a questioning gesture.

— H-here, — he hastily held out the documents. His fingers shook so badly that the corner of the passport almost slipped away, and he awkwardly pressed it between both palms, making the white purse on his wrist swing and sting painfully against his thigh.

A second of silence felt like an eternity. The girl in uniform took the passport and opened it. Jack felt cold sweat break out between his shoulder blades: her gaze slid not only across the paper, but across him as well. Over the face with bright lipstick, the scarf on his head, the yellow dress stretched tight over his figure. Then she took the ticket, but at that moment she stopped.

— Ehxma, vp oetiov povyra. — she stated firmly and sharply handed the ticket back, — vy rav fyvecuu ruk!

Jack froze, staring blankly at the documents as if they had suddenly turned into a set of incomprehensible pictures.

— What?.. — slipped from him in a whisper.

The employee frowned but didn’t repeat anything, just jabbed her finger at the ticket, then coldly waved her hand to the side. A gesture clear without knowing the language. Go away.

Jack felt the ground vanish beneath his feet. The crowd behind him started grumbling, people pressed closer. He stepped back, stumbling over his own long dress. His hips swayed, and at that very second the fabric pulled so tight across his ass that he instinctively covered it with his hand, once again physically feeling those curves.

Taking several steps away from the counter, he leaned against the wall, as if trying to merge with it and disappear. Why had he even agreed to this insane idea—flying to this country? This had all been her idea. Traveling, Jack, it’s so cool, especially to countries you don’t even fucking realize exist on the map.

The crowd bustled around him, passing him by, and suddenly he felt someone’s long stare on him. Off to the side, near a column, stood a man in a border guard uniform. His eyes lingered on Jack far too long. Jack flinched and pressed the passport to his chest, distinctly feeling under his palm the soft weight of a breast yielding beneath it.

His head started to spin.

'No… not this… if he comes over… if he asks…'

And just to spite him, the border guard moved in his direction.

— Dkhodmkuenty, — he said curtly in Russian, staring straight into his face.

Jack’s eyes shot up, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. Everything in that gaze was cold, official. The man stood too close, forcing Jack to literally look up at him. His new, low position for a man he felt with painful clarity.

He held out the passport, almost dropping it. His fingers trembled, and for a moment the red polish glistened in the light. The border guard noticed. His gaze lingered.

— Mahina Saidova? — Names sound almost the same in every dialect, but Jack stood there with the same blank expression, not reacting at all to this new name he had received together with that fake Tajik passport. It was as if he had gone deaf, as if the words had cut through the airport noise but never stuck in his head.

— You rav Mahina Saidova, da? — the guard repeated, narrowing his eyes slightly as he handed the passport back, but without stepping aside.

His hand lingered, the passport almost held back on purpose, while his stare drilled into Jack’s face.

— I… — his lips twitched, but no words came out.

— You… name… Mahina? — the guard said in heavy-accented English. — Yes? You Mahina Saido-va?

Jack blinked, as if realizing only now that the man was speaking to him in English. His heart pounded so hard it rang in his ears. His fingers clenched the white purse in a spasm.

— Y-yes… Mahina, — the words slipped out softly, but he forced himself to nod, bending his neck in that submissive, feminine gesture he had so recently thought humiliating.

The guard kept standing far too close. His nose was almost brushing the faint scent of cheap perfume Emma had sprayed on Jack’s neck. The man frowned, as if something didn’t add up.

— You rav Tajik, da? — he said again in his own tongue, nodding at the passport.

— I… — Jack coughed, feeling his throat go dry.

— Why… no speak… Tajik? — the guard cut him off, this time a bit louder, suspicion rising. — No speak… Russki?

From fear, Jack seemed to shrink even smaller. Inside, everything turned to ice. His eyes flicked to the side—and froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emma being led away by two men in uniform. They were speaking to her sharply, one even grabbed her by the elbow, and for a moment her face flashed: angry, tense.

'What… what’s happening?!'

— Answer! — the sharp bark snapped him back to the guard. The man squinted now, fingers gripping the passport so tightly the corners bent. — You Mahina Saido-va… why no speak?

Jack’s breasts rose when he drew in air too sharply, the fabric of the dress pulling tight across his nipples. He realized the man had noticed that involuntary breath too, when his eyes slid down for a second.

Jack swallowed, knowing he had no way out. He dropped his gaze, as if ashamed, and whispered:

— My… mother… Russian. Father… Tajik. I… grow… in… London.

The guard narrowed his eyes even more. His gaze slid across Jack’s face, the scarf on his head, then lingered on the hips under the yellow dress.

— London… — he repeated slowly, taking half a step closer. Now his shadow completely covered Jack. — Very strange, Mahina… very strange…

Jack felt as if the floor was vanishing beneath his feet, while the weight of his breasts dragged down, making it hard to breathe.

He looked again to where Emma had just been. But she was already gone behind the column.

'God… I’m completely alone…'

The guard kept the passport in his hand and said quietly:

— Maybe… we go… office. Talk.