Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

“You won’t be able to run away,” objects Bartaloš and prods the folds of fat on Freddy’s belly. “You’re too fat for a thief.”

“I’ll lose weight,” says Freddy with determination, and this thought, added to his suffering, gives him the idea that he should get something to eat. The grilled chickens in the snack bar window immodestly display their juicy roasted thighs, the giant bread rolls, wrapped in grey paper, sprinkled with shiny crystals of salt smell of the bakery and the giant bursting hot peppers, sweetly pickled in jars, call to him: “Buy us, Freddy!”

Freddy Piggybank, his mouth full of saliva, joins the queue. His new outlaw’s career has inspired him.

When Freddy buys his meal, he takes it to the table and eats greedily. By the lavatories Feri and Eržika are debating something in hushed voices. Finally, Bartaloš approaches Freddy.

“May I?” he asks and sits down with two glasses of beer in his hand. He moves one over to the fat attendant. “I might have something for you,” he says discreetly. “It’s a sort of job, you could say.”

“What sort of job?” Freddy asks.

“You know,” Feri says. Feri and Eržika have this Lady. They take care of her. At the moment they keep her in the boiler room of the hotel Ambassador. It’s better over there than here, in the lavatory. The bastard boss can’t see. But somebody has to take customers there. When Feri and Eržika are off duty, it’s OK. But when they’re on duty here, in the Wooden Village, it’s not. Feri has to be at the snack bar and Eržika is in charge of the lavatories. They could use someone who’d help them; he would be an usher. Not much, just take the customer and lead him across the hotel yard to the boiler room to see Lady. Feri thought that maybe Freddy might like to do it…

Freddy thinks it over. “And how much will you pay?” he asks.

“You’ll get ten crowns per customer,” says proud Feri. “It’s not a lot, but it’s not so little either, considering that you only have to walk a few yards.” What’s more, Freddy can reckon on between thirty and fifty customers per day. That brings in a decent amount. And for no effort. “So, how about it?”

Freddy is quiet; he mulls it over. He quite likes the idea. No effort, no work, and decent money. Besides, the work seems criminal enough for him. As he sinks to the bottom of society he couldn’t wish for a better job.

“Fine,” he tells Feri. “I’ll try it.”

* * *

Silvia enters the day-bar of the Ambassador and sits down in the compartment that is practically reserved for her. Ever since she got back, she has always sat there. The waiters are new, and don’t know that this compartment was always her favourite place when, before her departure for Austria, she made her money here in the Ambassador cabaret as a dancer and occasional whore.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the waiter bows. “The usual?”

“Good afternoon,” Silvia replies and flirtatiously flashes her eyes at the waiter. Flirtatiously, but not too flirtatiously; he is only a waiter, after all. Silvia keeps tight control over everything.

Soon the waiter returns and on his tray sits a big tumbler of juice with pleasantly tinkling ice cubes.

“Thank you,” says Silvia and takes a drink.

For a while she sits there, looking out of the big window. Soon, a young woman enters the room. Her expensive, but quite tasteless dress, her gait and painted face clearly mark her profession. She looks round the bar and, when she spots Silvia, she smiles and approaches.

The two friends greet each other cordially, despite the inequality.

Zuza sits down. She lights a cigarette and nods at the waiter. The waiter needs no prompting to mix and serve her Fernet and tonic, what they call a Bavarian.

“You look good, you old bag,” Zuza praises Silvia’s outfit and feels the high-quality fabric of her mini suit.

“Thanks,” says Silvia.

“And how’s Edita doing?” Zuza asks. “Did she stay in Austria?”

“Edita’s dead,” says Silvia. “Let’s change the subject. What’s new here?”

Zuza takes a sip of her Bavarian and starts to tell her: “Basically, nothing’s changed here. Anča-Jožo finally saved up enough money and went to Italy to have her operation. The operation was a success, they say, and a few months ago she sent a postcard. Wanda and Eva live with Video Urban. He’s made quite a career, he’s a top politician.”

“Who, Video Urban?” Silvia can’t take it in. “You mean that long-haired faggot, Rácz’s sidekick?”

Zuza nods: “He’s on the news on TV all the time. He’s had his hair cut. Wanda sometimes stops here when she’s out shopping. They’re doing fabulously; she is all aglow with happiness. Video Urban is in business; they have tons of money. Imagine, those two bitches are in love with him. Eva is expecting now, so they’re buying a layette. Same as those… Morons… in America…”

“And what about Rácz?”

“Well, Rácz,” Zuza shrugs her shoulders. “Rácz has bought about twenty restaurants and boutiques in the centre and cruises around in his new Mercedes. He’s happily married and has a little boy.”

“And what about Zdravko G.?” Silvia asks.

“He used to drive here in a white Porsche,” says Zuza, “and take girls to Austria. Then he lost his marbles and went home to fight in a war. We haven’t seen him since.”

“I hope they shoot him in his stinking Albanian balls,” Silvia gets it off her chest.

Silvia knows all about what her old friend is telling her. She asks all the whores from the Ambassador, when she interviews them, about all that. She herself doesn’t know why she lets them tell her the same things over and over again. Maybe she wants to create an atmosphere of trust, full of nostalgia and common memories. She nods, occasionally reacts by expressing wonderment, pretending to be interested in what she hears. However, she soon gets down to the matter in hand.

“I’m going to open a new house,” she says. “A Perverts’ Centre , if you know what I mean. Well, not completely, or I’d have the cops on my back. For the time being, no animals and no children, of course. But otherwise, I want it to be something special. It’s not going to be a massage parlour where they do a hand job for a hundred crowns. There will be normal women, and transvestites, transsexuals, a sadomasochist parlour, a sauna, a group sex room, a surgical room, enemas, spy holes, the works. Maybe, in future we can have little girls, but first I have to find out what can be done and what can’t. Downstairs will be a bar and a small stage. Cabaret. Live show every night. We’ll cater to all tastes.”

“A house like that must cost a fortune,” remarks Zuza.

“I’ve bought it already,” Silvia says, and her voice is not without pride. “It’s a pretty big villa. I’ve got builders working there now. We’re opening in a month or so.”

“And why are you telling me all this?” Zuza is curious.

“Don’t tell me the girls haven’t told you yet,” says Silvia.

“Well, they did say that you were looking for staff,” Zuza admitted.

“Right,” Silvia nods. “I’ve got a job for you. I’m offering good work conditions, pay per client, insurance, and regular medical check-ups. My firm will be for well-heeled customers, you see. For people with high IQs: Austrians, Germans, and Americans. Everyone will use condoms.”

“I see,” Zuza says, “but you mentioned a Perverts’ Centre . Where is the perversion? You mean golden shower? Anal?”

“What’s so perverse about anal sex?” Silvia smirks contemptuously. “Nowadays in the West that’s the only way people fuck, I reckon. What I had in mind was that we’d create a special atmosphere, you know. For example, you’d let yourself be tied up, and…”