The Banya on Piyonerskaya, Part III

I had had enough of the banya. I showered and went to the dressing area where Kirill was already very drunk, and giggling with his friends. I told him that I was leaving.

“Wait,” he followed me to my locker, standing behind me as I dried off. “Why don’t you stay?”

“I have things to do.”

“But we only just got here.” It was true, we had only been there for an hour or so. People came to the banya and usually spent hours.

“I know, I’m sorry,” I continued to dress and he had a look on his face as through I had punched him in the stomach.

“Don’t you like it here?”

“I do like it,” I said politely. “But I have to go.”

“But…” he began as though he had something terribly important to tell me.

“But what, Kirill?”

“But…I think I love you.”

“Kiril, that’s lovely,” I said disbelievingly. This was like a scene out of one of those dreadful Latin American soap operas, people so lovingly watched here, such as "Esmerelda." I couldn’t say much more since my vocabulary in the Russian language was really not so strong. In the year I’d been here, I was like a gay baby, just learning how to walk and to speak, having difficulty making myself understood.

He clung to my arm drunkenly and I shook it off. Kirill was just a stupid boy, but nonetheless, I apologized, concerned about offending him. In fact, I suddenly felt very nervous about being in the banya altogether, especially the way everyone was looking at me about what kind of trouble I could be getting myself into. I dressed quickly – politely kissed on the forehead a crestfallen Kirill crumpled in the corner behind me, not taking his eyes off of me. “I’ll see you again soon.”

I ran out of there and hailed a gypsy cab on the street and thought -- I finally saw the gay subculture of Tashkent. I felt like I had really seen something that no one else had seen. However, I felt a wave of dread: once you’ve been there, you are “out” you have made your “debut” the whole underground becomes abuzz with the news of a new initiate to the secret brotherhood – and there’s no turning back or hiding after that. I was a bit concerned about how I could possibly keep a low profile, especially being an American – that really would make me stick out.

Though it’s risky to be out in Uzbekistan, and sometimes this concerned me, I can’t say that anything truly terrible ever happened to me. If anything would have, I would probably have left the country, returned home. If anything, though, once I became exposed to this side of Tashkent, and once I got a cell phone, things got interesting.  ¶ 5:12 PM