Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

“Oh no, no bondage!” Zuza backs away. “I once had a punter when I worked in the Zochová chalet and he kept nagging me to let him tie me to the bed. He screwed me, took off my crocodile skin shoes that cost me seven thousand, and ran away. Don’t even ask me how long I was stuck there, tied up like a cunt! And he had plenty of IQ, too.”

“Well, that won’t happen in my place,” Silvia assures her.

“And what about money?” Zuza asks.

“It will be decent,” promises Silvia. “Depending how many clients you have a day, what services you give them, and so on. Nobody will screw you; everything goes through the computer. If you work hard, you could make as much as fifty thousand a month.”

“That’s what I make now,” Zuza says.

“Yes, but with me, you’ll make it risk-free, safely, in a nice setting and with good fellow-workers,” counters Silvia. “And the clients won’t be riff-raff; the house will be only for clients who want the best. Albanians and gypsies will be barred.” Zuza has Silvia’s word on that point.

Martin Junec, dressed in an elegant suit, enters the day bar. He sits down near the wall and orders an alcohol-free Miller beer.

“Sorry, we only have Klausthaler,” waiter says.

“Yeah, let’s try that,” nods Martin who feels full of positive energy after a good lunch. “Bring me a Klausthaler, then.”

Martin looks round the room and right away spots the attractive young woman he’s seen here several times before. Again, she’s with a woman whom Martin rightly identifies as a hooker. Much water has passed under the bridge since Martin Junec played saxophone in a bar band in this hotel, but the Bratislava whores haven’t changed. They are just as pretty and just as tastelessly dressed. But the other one…

Silvia feels the stranger’s gaze on her legs and turns round.

Martin smiles at her and give her a hint of a bow. He moves his lips silently: a symbolic greeting between people who are strangers, but whose paths have crossed so often that they are no longer total strangers.

Silvia smiles in response and moves her head even more subtly. Then she continues her discussion with Zuza.

“Who’s that punter over there, near the entrance?” she asks quietly. “Don’t spin round like a windmill, you goose!”

“The one over there?” asks Zuza and points at Junec who, in the meantime, has started perusing some American financial paper. “He’s a millionaire from America. I mean it. He owns a factory, or something. He emigrated from here. He lives in the top storey, in a suite, but no luck. Several of us have tried, but he’s not interested.”

“What’s he doing here?” asks Silvia.

“He’s trying to do business here,” says Zuza. “They say he wants to open a branch.”

“What kind of a branch?” Silvia asks. “A branch of what?”

“I don’t know,” Zuza says defensively. “I only know what the receptionist told me.”

“Okay, okay…” Silvia says and turns her gaze away from Junec. “Where were we?” she asks absent-mindedly.

“You were saying that you wouldn’t let Albanians and gypsies in,” says Zuza.

“Right.” Silvia finds her train of thought. “Just don’t spend too long thinking about it, or you’ll end up street-walking. And that doesn’t pay now.”

Silvia gives Zuza her hand to show her that the interview is over.

Martin’s peripheral vision notes movement at the unknown pretty woman’s table, and he takes his eyes off the paper. The young woman is alone at her table. Martin feels that this is his moment. He puts the paper down, gets up, adjusts his tie and, newspaper in hand, approaches Silvia. She raises her eyes to him in surprise, half-genuine, half-feigned.

“I’m sorry,” Junec says with a smile. “Almost every day we meet here and we’ve even begun to say hello, but nobody’s introduced us yet. So let me do that myself. I’m Martin. Martin Junec. Atlanta, Georgia.”

Martin makes a half-bow.

Silvia quite likes this way of doing things. She appreciates Martin’s not pissing about, but coming straight to the point.

“I’m Silvia,” she says. “Silvia Hronská. Delighted.”

Silvia extends her hand and Martin gallantly lifts it to his lips.

“I’ve made a bet with myself,” Martin says, “that you’re not from here. Am I a winner, or a loser?”

“You won,” says Silvia. “Originally, I am from here, but I’ve come from Austria.”

“I like winning,” says Martin. “I hate losing. May I join you?”

“Please do,” says Silvia, but takes care not to sound too eager.

Martin joins her.

“And what have you won?” asks Silvia.

“A bottle of champagne,” says Martin. “And since you helped me win, I’ll share my winnings with you.”

Martin nods to the waiter.

“Isn’t it too early for champagne?” Silvia hesitates.

“It’s never too early for a glass of good champagne,” says Martin.

The waiter runs in.

“What kind of dry champagne do you have?” Martin asks.

“We have Slovak Hubert and Soviet champagne,” says the waiter.

“I didn’t ask you about sparkling wine,” Martin smiles. “I asked about champagne.”

“But it is champagne…” the waiter defends himself.

“I’m asking about French champagne, young man,” Martin says.

“We don’t have French, but we do have Soviet…”

“All right, bring me the Soviet,” Martin sighs, “And bring two glasses. And bring your boss, too.”

The waiter bows and leaves.

Silvia has to laugh to herself at his male conceit. First he’s put down the waiter and now he’s waiting to give it to the manager with that typical American big-mouth arrogance, just to show off in front of her.

Soon the waiter comes back with a tray. He uncorks the Soviet sparkling wine and pours it into the glasses. Behind him appears a dark, stocky man dressed in an incredibly expensive silk jacket, with a hand-painted tie round his neck. In an impatient, imperious gesture, he shoos the waiter away and makes a half-bow to Junec. His dark steely blue eyes fix themselves on Silvia.

“Hello, Silvia,” he says. His sharp facial features, clearly unused to smiling, are forcibly redeployed in a smile. “Long time no see,” he adds.

His eyes run over Junec. For a fraction of a second he assesses him coldly, like a snake.

“I’m Rácz,” he says, “and I own this hotel. I happened to be in the manager’s office when I overheard you saying that you wanted to see him. Is there a problem? Can I solve it?”

Rácz eyes Silvia. The bitch looks good, he thinks. Maybe he shouldn’t have kicked her out in Rivers of Babylon . Lenka looks very good, too, but after she had the child, she put on a bit of weight. And this one is still as slim as a tapeworm.

“No problem,” says Martin. “Everything’s fine. I was just wondering why you don’t stock real champagne. It seems odd to me, in an establishment like yours.”

Silvia could see Rácz’s swarthy face turning first dark and then pale again. His eyes narrowed and took on a yellowish tinge.

“That’s our sommelier’s job,” says Rácz. “I’m very sorry, indeed. The man is as good as fired.”

“There’s no need for that,” Martin defends the absent sommelier, and Silvia can’t help backing him up with a few negative gestures and interjections.

She and Rácz again exchange glances.

You look good, you tart, the hotelier thinks.

You’ve become as fat as a bull, Silvia feels.

“Rácz doesn’t go back on his word!” says the hotelier. “Today I’ll make the new sommelier order French champagne. The best, of course!”

“Thank you,” says Martin, not knowing what else to say.