Balázs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Northern Passage

Next to a huge SUV with its engine idling, a brawny man and a well-dressed, blonde woman are fighting. Although a fur parka covers her shoulders, she is underdressed for the chilly night in her mini skirt and thin stockings. She trembles with cold and pain as the man delivers one slap after the other to her face. She grabs the golden chain hanging from the man’s neck, strong as that of an ox, as if that could prevent her from falling on her knees under the impact of the slaps.

“Smerdyucha suko,” he shouts, “ya komu skazav, viddai meni vsi babky!”

He grabs her hand holding on to his thick chain and twitches her wrist. The woman yells from pain, falls on all fours and tries to crawl away.

A police patrol car drives by them. It slows down for a minute, then accelerates again and drives off. Neither do the passers-by on the sidewalk pay any attention to the scene. A pimp punishing a hooker is not a sight they would prefer over looking at the glittering shop windows.

The man is too preoccupied with beating the woman to pay attention to them. He is about to slap her once more when his hand, ready to deliver another strike, goes down and reaches behind his back. Then he looks at his palm which is bloody all over. His body jerks forward as if he had taken a punch from behind. Then he looks down to his left chest from where the tip of a long, curved blade is protruding.

“Shcho tse bulo?” he whispers before emitting a painful moan as he collapses. A car drives by, honking wildly.

The woman stares at the tiny figure with the hooded coat appearing behind the collapsed pimp.

“Shcho ty zrobyla? Chomu ty obrazyla yoho?”

Nooria steps over the body and cleans off her blade in his jacket. She signals the hooker to get into the SUV.

“Sorry but I don’t speak you language,” she says. “I only know Zona and Stalker. Drive me there.”

“Zona?” asks the hooker in bewilderement. “Ty zdurila?”

“Stalker,” Nooria calmly repeats, “ Zona . Artifacts. Kalashnikov. Shooters.”

The blonde hooker stares at the blade. Then nods.

Twenty minutes later, she stops the car in front of a two-storey house that looks like a nineteenth century building reborn as a neon sign designer’s psychedelic dream. Blue, purple, yellow and red signs are blazing their light all over the façade. An arched electric sign flashes the word SHOOTERS above the entrance where a half-dozen bouncers, all looking like heavy-weight boxers dressed in tailor-made suits, try to keep order among the crowd of mostly young people waiting to be let in. The men are all dressed in their best and handsome but no matter how smart they look, the beauty of their women blows their appearance out of the water. It is as if the most gorgeous women of Ukraine had gathered here, but there’s still enough of them for the bouncers to refuse entry to a few. Those not judged pretty enough to deserve entering the hallowed night club shout abuses at the bouncers but quickly disappear to try their luck elsewhere.

The hooker takes Nooria’s hand and drags her right to the entrance.

“Zakryi svoye brudne lytse,” she whispers and pulls the hood over Nooria’s face.

She exchanges a few agitated sentences with the senior bouncer, who gives them a pass after she skillfully lets a bank note slip into his palm. Apart from Nooria no one else seems to have noticed it.

Once inside, the hooker ignores the wardrobe and the mass waiting for the attendants to take their leather jackets and fur coats. Making her way through the crowd that smells of alcohol, perfume and sweat, she leads Nooria into a hall where those lucky enough to have a place on the dance floor jerk their bodies to a groovy song, all hands in the air. The whole place seems to be drowning in red light and loud music. On the far end of the hall, flanked by an overcrowded bar counter, a staircase leads below. It is guarded by a particularly huge bouncer. The left side of his perfectly tailored black suit is bulging. He might have a pistol or even submachine gun hidden there.

The hooker takes another banknote from her purse but the man is not impressed. Only when she gives him two more banknotes does he step aside, giving the two women a glance of utter disdain.

“Nu ot,” the hooker says, nervously looking around and pointing to the stairs. “Tse Shooters i os’ tam zona, de zabavlyayutsya hloptsi zi zbroyeyu!”

Then she disappears in the crowd.

Slowly making her way down the marble stairs, Nooria looks around in the posh lounge where a dozen bossy-looking men have made themselves comfortable in oriental-fashioned sofas. The beats of the music played above give way to subdued chill-out. The aroma of exquisite cigars lingers in the air, mixing with the fruity flavor of hookah pipes and traces of marijuana. Low, round tables stand an arm’s length from the sofas, loaded with delicious food from all over the world, not lacking plates with small hills of black caviar. The sight and smell makes Nooria’s stomach rumble. It all appears like an oriental fairytale come true, and the veritable harem of gorgeous-looking, young women cuddling in to the patrons or already sitting in their laps is ready to deliver any pleasure that dishes and drinks can’t. Completely lost in this world of sinful glamour, Nooria feels like an ugly grey duckling among a flock of graceful black swans.

From a sofa in a dimly lit corner, a stout man is staring at her with his almond-shaped eyes narrowed under the arched eyebrows. He would be fearsome to look at even without his shaved skull and the long, carefully groomed moustache makes him appear even more like one of Genghis Khan’s fierce raiders. As if picked to match the color of his tie, a blue-eyed brunette is sitting next to him, wearing a black silk dress so short that it could pass as a napkin. She rests one of her improbably long legs in the man’s lap, nonchalantly flashing bare skin on her inner thigh. A brawny, tall Caucasian man, obviously a bodyguard, stands close by and keeps a watchful eye over the lounge.

Out of ideas about what to do, Nooria looks around. Suddenly, she feels a heavy hand on her shoulder.

“Nu, kurvo, shcho tobi potribno?”

Towering over her, the bouncer whom the hooker had bribed a minute ago gives Nooria a very unfriendly look.

“Zona,” she stammers.

The bouncer pulls the hood off her face to check if she is pretty enough to merit entry.

“Bozhe miy—idy het!”

Glass shatters on the floor. One of the glamor girls who had been watching the scene screams at the sight of Nooria’s face, putting her hand to her mouth that was holding a champagne flute until just a second ago.

Cussing under his breath and rudely grabbing Nooria’s arm, the bouncer drags her back to the stairs. She doesn’t try to resist and is about to be kicked out of the lounge when a slow-talking, deep voice comes from behind.

“Hrisho, ne chipai ii, day iy pity!”

The bouncer immediately releases Nooria and steps aside with a respectful bow.

“Divchyno, hodimo zi mnoy!”

It is the bald man’s bodyguard talking. Realizing that she doesn’t understand Ukrainian, he gives Nooria a signal with his index finger to follow.

“Listen up,” he says in slow, heavily accented English. “Sultan wants to see you.”

He walks back to his boss, who is waving a strand of the brunette’s hair from his face to better see Nooria. Nooria keeps standing there, not sure if this place could mean anything better than the SBU she has just escaped from.

Heeding the bodyguard’s call, she follows him to the man called Sultan. He looks her up and down, his face resembling that of a shark that has had enough prey for the day and now gives the helpless little fish before him a jovial smile.