Tall-Tale Tamara

1

Hell if I know why in 2025 I suddenly felt like going to Russia, especially considering the whole political circus, sanctions, the endless news about a “new Iron Curtain,” and the fact that, judging by what we’re fed on TV, any American here had to be either a spy or an idiot. But I, Jason Miller, stood my ground: ‘No, I’ll go and see it with my own eyes.’

The flight was hell: seven hours to Istanbul, then almost another five to Moscow, where I was greeted by heavy air and the tired faces of border guards. I was sure they’d be staring at me like I had “CIA” stamped on my forehead, but instead the woman checking my documents just raised one eyebrow, smirked, and asked if I had brought cash.

I nodded, trying to look relaxed, though inside everything was crawling: ‘Goddamn it, Jason, what the hell are you even doing here?’ The woman at the border shoved the passport back, said curtly:

— Welcome, — and pushed my suitcase aside.

Two days later I already realized Moscow wasn’t for me. Crowds, grayness, people always rushing somewhere, and I, on the contrary, wanted the “real Russia.” And somehow I ended up in some godforsaken village near Tver, with a name I still can’t pronounce right, something like “Krivopuzovo.” I stayed in a log house I rented from a guy named Semyon. That place looked like it had stepped straight out of a Soviet movie: timber walls, creaky floorboards, checkered curtains, and the smell of old wood soaked deep into the walls.

— Here, come in, — Semyon said, shoving open the massive door with his shoulder. It opened with a sound that could’ve been a baby crying. Inside it was exactly how I expected Russian backwoods to be: a low ceiling, a smoke-blackened stove, carpets with deer on the walls, and wooden benches that clearly remembered Brezhnev. The coziness was peculiar, let’s say: at once like a museum and like grandma’s cluttered storeroom.

I set down my suitcase and was just about to ask about the internet, when I realized it would sound here like asking for heated toilet paper, but I asked anyway. Semyon, in his shirt lost somewhere between centuries, gave me exactly the look I had imagined. Like I was an idiot.

— We barely even have cell service here, — he chuckled and waved his hand. — The TV picks up two channels, and only if you fix the antenna on the birch.

I smiled, but inside I sank. Well, Jason, welcome to the Stone Age.

And then my eyes caught on a massive mirror by the wall. For some reason it was covered with a faded bedsheet. I’d heard of that kind of thing but never knew the point of the “tradition.” Absentmindedly, I pointed a finger in that direction:

— And why is that, uh… covered up?

Semyon glanced over, snorted:

— Ah, the mirror. Yeah, it’s old, bad. My grandma used to say: “Don’t stare into it too long, or you won’t recognize yourself.” So I covered it.

He said it as casually as if he were talking about a leaky bucket, not about something mystical.

— Well then, rest up, — the host muttered and walked out, leaving me alone.

I dropped my suitcase by the bed and sat there for a while, just listening to the silence. Outside, the treetops rustled, a board creaked somewhere, and in my head the thought kept spinning, more and more insistent: ‘What if I take that sheet off?..’

Honestly, I knew it was idiotic. In movies, this is the point where the audience screams: “Don’t do it, you dumbass!” But in real life, sitting out in the sticks, with a light buzz from Semyon’s moonshine, you just get up and reach out your hand to that forbidden thing.

I yanked the sheet down.

2–3

For a moment I automatically squeezed my eyes shut, as if unconsciously expecting some otherworldly creature to fly out at me from there. The atmosphere was perfect for it.

When I opened my eyes again, of course there was no monster, only a huge mirror in a wooden frame and my own reflection. I snorted at myself:

— Jason, for fuck’s sake, are you serious? Scared of an ordinary mirror? You’re not in a Netflix horror movie.

The reflection was me — a tired American in a wrinkled T-shirt, three-day stubble, and eyes that clearly said: ‘I made a mistake coming to this shithole.’ All honest, all just as it should be.

But the longer I looked, the stranger it got. At first I thought maybe Semyon’s vodka had a surprise in it: instead of my usual face, the features were getting softer. Like someone invisible had hit “blur corners” in Photoshop. Cheekbones — less sharp, nose — smaller, chin — neater.

I blinked, took a step closer.

And that’s when I really lost my mind: the reflection no longer repeated my movements in sync. It lagged by a split second, and then… smirked. Not just smirked, but as if it mouthed something, before going back to copying me again.

— Holy shit… — I exhaled, running a hand across my face without thinking. In the mirror the hand was thinner, more graceful, with long fingers, but the main thing — I no longer felt my stubble.

And then it all went fast, like someone spinning an old Soviet film projector. I couldn’t tear myself away, couldn’t even look aside, as if my attention had been glued down. My body was changing right before my eyes. My shoulders narrowed, the T-shirt sagged, then seemed to melt and turn into a brick-pink sundress with little white flowers. The light fabric hugged breasts, and I suddenly felt their weight, knowing even without looking down that there were two soft orbs swaying with every breath. I actually staggered.

— No, no, no… — I muttered, hearing my changed voice, but the mirror, apparently, had already closed the vote.

In the reflection, the belly rounded, heavy with weight, and instinctively I pressed a palm to it. The fabric of the sundress stretched across the bulge.

— Oh God… am I pregnant?!

I sucked in my stomach, or rather tried to, because it was completely useless. It stayed big, firm, and with my palms I felt something — or someone — kicking inside. I put my hand to the mirror, my mouth open in shock, watching as my damn long hair braided itself into plaits. In the mirror was a girl with wide eyes, a rounded belly, and a face that made me instantly want to comfort her. But who was I supposed to comfort? Myself?

The girl in the mirror was breathing heavily — or maybe it’s more accurate to say I was breathing heavily. Cheeks flushed, lips wet, eyes like a hunted animal. It was all real.

I absentmindedly ran a hand over the belly. It answered with a soft, taut heaviness, and inside… another kick. I squeaked, and it came out too thin, too feminine, so much so that even I jumped at the sound.

— Oh shit…

4

The door to the room creaked. This time, from that sound — the same one I had earlier compared to a baby crying — everything inside me clenched so hard I almost dropped the air from my lungs. A kick in my belly matched the creak, and for a moment I thought the “baby” inside reacted to the sound too.

— Well, that’s it… — I muttered, pressing my palms to the roundness under the sundress. Instinctively, as if protecting the child.

The door slowly opened, and in the doorway appeared Semyon again. He was about to say something, but when he saw me, he froze as if he’d just run into a bear in the kitchen.

Me, in a sundress, with braids, face flushed red from panic, standing in the middle of his hut. Not a tourist. A woman. And pregnant.

— Mother of God… — he breathed out. — Who the hell are you?…

— Semyon! The mirror! — I screamed, hearing how my Russian came out without any accent, gasping for air like I could explain everything in a single word.

But how the fuck do you explain to a guy in a traditional shirt that just now, in his hut, an American turned into a pregnant Russian chick in a sundress?

Semyon blinked, stared at me, and crossed himself.

— You… where did you come from? I let a man stay here… Jason, his name was…

I swallowed hard and suddenly realized: the words were spilling out of my mouth in Russian. Clean, accent-free, like I’d lived my whole life near Tver, not in California.

— I’m Jason!.. Well… was, — I muttered, feeling the sundress stretch across my belly as I took a step forward.

Semyon backed away.

— Was?! And became… who?

I threw up my hands, almost hysterical:

— How the hell should I know! Tamara, I think, Filippova, 20 years old, — it slipped from my lips so easily, like it had always been my name. I slapped my own mouth with my palm in shock. — God… did I just say that?

Semyon crossed himself like he was watching an icon burst into tears right before his eyes.

— Ta-a-mara… Filippova? — he drawled slowly, squinting, then suddenly blurted out. — Tamara! God! What the hell are you doing here!

Your house is right next door!

I froze as if I’d been electrocuted.

— What do you mean… next door?! — I gasped, clutching my belly tighter, which once again “answered” with a kick inside.

Semyon slapped his forehead and even smirked:

— Oh come on, Tamarka. Forgot completely? Your house is next to mine, with your mother. You came to see her, look at that belly of yours.

I stared at him like he had just suggested I marry a refrigerator on the spot.

— Wait, Semyon, you seriously think that I… I live here?

— Where else would you? — he spread his hands. — You’re our loudest neighbor, I’ve known you since you were a kid.

I swallowed hard.

5

— No! No-no-no. Is this some kind of prank? A show? Hey, where are the hidden cameras? — I started waving my hands, taking a few steps, but instantly dropped them back to my belly. Walking with this thing was just impossible.

Semyon burst out laughing like I’d just delivered the best stand-up at a village fair.

— Cameras? — he snorted. — Oh, Tamarka, you haven’t changed a bit. City air really fucked up your head.

I wanted to argue, but then the belly inside gave another “kick.”

— Semyon… I… I don’t understand, — I exhaled, clutching a bench with my hand.

He squinted, stepped closer, and looked at me the way adults look at a child suddenly pretending to be insane.

— What an actress you are, — Semyon grunted, narrowing his eyes. — By the way, is it true your baby’s daddy is American?

I nearly choked on air.

— What?! — I spat out, clutching my belly, which “answered” again with a kick, like it was just as shocked as I was.

— Well, people said, — Semyon went on with the tone of a village know-it-all, — that in the city you got yourself tangled up with some overseas boyfriend. And then — bam, the belly. So you came back to your mother to cover up the shame.

I was blinking like a fish thrown onto shore. Was he seriously talking about me?!

— Wait… you mean to say everyone here is convinced that I… — I jabbed my finger at myself, at the sundress, the belly, the braids, — …knocked myself up from some American?

Semyon laughed so hard the walls shook.

— Well, who else? We don’t have many guys around here, and you always said you needed “an educated man.” So you got one. With a foreign accent.

I grabbed my head. Everything was falling into place into some absurd, ridiculous, but scarily solid picture: Jason Miller was gone, and the village only knew Tamara Filippova, a twenty-year-old pregnant girl with an “American daddy” for the child.

— Oh God… — I whispered. — This can’t be. This isn’t happening. This is all a dream.

Semyon slapped me on the shoulder (and I almost fell over, since the new body was much softer and lighter than I expected).

— Come on, stop whining! Everything’s gonna be fine! You’re a good-looking girl, you’ll find yourself a man.

I covered my face with my hands, feeling my breasts heave heavily under the sundress as the belly shifted again.

— A man… — I groaned. — I was just a man myself!

Semyon only roared with laughter, loud enough to make the furniture rattle a little:

— What a daydreamer you are, girl! Your husband won’t ever be bored!

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to figure out what was worse — the prospect of staying in this body, or the prospect of actually looking for a husband somewhere near Tver. But this was now my new reality, and problems with the internet suddenly didn’t matter at all.