Orest Stelmach - The Treachery of Russian Nesting Dolls

Another unexpected emotion hit me. Not only had I experienced a stab of guilt, I was a bit flush from flattery.

We both stood there looking at each other until he finally took his eyes off the ripples in my abdomen and looked beyond me into my dimly lit office. His head began bobbing up and down slightly, and I was reminded that there was music playing in the background.

“Scorpions,” he said, with a lovely English accent. “That’s very nice.” His eyes drifted to my torso before he pulled them back up. “There’s no one like you.”

If I hadn’t been tanned, he might have seen me blush. “That’s very sweet of you…”

“No. I mean the Scorpions song. There’s No One Like You . That’s my favorite—wait, you’re American?” He frowned as though this was a shocking observation, which of course, I was sure it was.

“I’m a citizen of the world,” I said.

“Don’t think I saw any American women on my last trip. Can I come in and listen to the Scorpions with you?”

“I’m sorry, honey,” I said. “I don’t think that’s realistic.”

“Just kidding. I had something in mind along your usual line of business. How much for half an hour? I know the standard time is fifteen minutes, but it takes me a little longer… “

“I’m sorry, really I am…”

“No, no. My John Thomas works. You don’t have to worry about that. All I want is a little rumpy-pumpy. Nothing kinky. Just a little ride on my motorbike will do. Look…” He fumbled with a fanny pack. “I’m minted. I can show you.”

I bent down, put my hand on his, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “You need to find another girl.”

“Oh. I understand.”

His eyes turned to slits. He maneuvered a lever. The motor attached to his wheelchair whirred. The wheels rolled backward.

“No,” I said. “It’s not that. This has nothing to do with your handicap.”

He stopped the wheelchair mid-turn and glanced at me one last time. “Then what does it have to do with?”

I couldn’t be honest with him and to lie would have been an even bigger insult. I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain.”

The young man in the wheelchair considered my words and nodded. “Yeah. I like that one, too.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Excuse me?”

He measured me head-to-toe once more, this time with a look of disgust appropriate for a fraud. “ I Can’t Explain. It’s a song. Do you even like the Scorpions?” He shook his head. “Bloody Yanks. Can’t trust them. Can’t shag them, either.” He wheeled himself away.

I closed the door and headed straight for the water, wishing it were wine instead. Every De Wallen window girl has the legal right to quote any price for any service and to turn away any potential customer for no reason whatsoever. That’s what gave me the audacity to set up shop in the first place. I figured I needed to open my door and appear to be congenial, lest someone start rapping on my window and create a scene. But I didn’t need to even quote a price to anyone for any kind of service if I didn’t want to. And I sure as hell didn’t want to.

I thought posing as a window prostitute would be deceptively straightforward, but like most enterprises that came with such expectations, it was obviously going to be the opposite.

I returned to my post five feet from the window, smiling and flashing my teeth to the occasional solitary passer-by, swaying my hips a barely perceptible amount to the beat, trying not to look as preposterous as I felt.

If only the faithful from my childhood church could have seen me now. I pictured them gasping collectively and covering their mouths with shock and dismay. I imagined my mother shaking her head, criticizing my figure, the clothes, and the wig. The thought of my deceased father seeing me caused my face to burn. There were no circumstances under which he would have accepted my standing in this window. He would have told me I was too intelligent and educated for such a masquerade. He would have expected me to be making a living in a more elegant fashion. In fact, all enterprises that promote elegance have roots in the gutter.

The same could have been said about my dead husband, who’d been a professor of religion at Yale. He would have called me trash and dashed off into the arms of his adoring graduate assistant. Given that assessment, you’d think my ex-husband was the one who mattered to me the least. But life is not that logical. It was, in fact, he who mattered the most. It was the image of his car wrapped around an oak tree a mile from my mother’s house and his subsequent funeral that still persecuted me.

The next hour and forty-five minutes went by slowly. The only action came courtesy of a Spanish-looking man in his sixties. He pretended to be taking pictures of his wife but he’d positioned her so that he could zoom in on the three African girls in the windows around the bend from me.

Taking pictures of the working girls in De Wallen is a no-no. The Turk appeared out of nowhere, barked something at him, ripped the camera from his hands and confiscated its memory card. Then he disappeared. The tourist and his wife looked around for help, but even if they’d found the police, they would have gotten little sympathy from the law on this matter.

At first, the sight of the Turk unsettled me, his earlier promise to be my first customer still fresh in my mind. But then I took comfort in knowing that someone was manning the panic button and that he obviously took his responsibility seriously.

I thought I was going to get to midnight without having to open the door again, but at eleven-thirty my neighborhood began to bustle with drunken activity. A group of six Welshmen on a stag party wanted the prospective groom to enjoy a final fling with the “mullato devil woman.” I guessed the combination of my tan, the dim lighting, and their drunken state had turned me into an exotic creature, and I was quite flattered by the description. They were less flattered when I turned them away on account of my alleged allergy to alcohol. One of them questioned my choice of occupation, but by then the others had spied the African girls around the bend and they continued onward without major incident.

I turned away two more drunken men in their thirties who spoke French, and a polite Japanese salary man in his fifties. None of them gave me any trouble. I had one eye on my watch at 11:55 and butterflies were swirling in my stomach when someone knocked on the door yet again. I stepped closer to the window and glanced to my left.

It was the Turk. He motioned for me to open-up.

I considered ignoring him but I knew that wouldn’t work. He would step in front of my window and demand that I open the door. If he became persistent, he might scare away the mystery lover.

A fist pounded on the door. I heard something that sounded like English but I couldn’t make out the words.

I hit the panic button three times rapidly, took a deep breath, and ran to the door. I whipped it open and stood nose-to-chest with the Turk.

“Where the hell have you been?” I said.

A slight grin crossed his lips. “You’ve been wanting me from the moment you saw me—”

“Not exactly—”

“Relax. The Turk is going to give you satisfaction.”

“I hit the panic button three times. Three times. And where were you?”

He’d started to push past me but my words made him freeze. “Panic button? When?”

“Just now, a minute ago, constantly. What does it matter? Where were you? Is anyone looking out for me? Anyone at all?”

“I have a colleague—”

“Who’s obviously incompetent.”

The Turk blinked twice and looked me over again, this time with concern. “What happened?”