Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

Rácz fixes his stare at him. Then he moves to Silvia.

“We’ll see each other some other time,” he says, bows to them and leaves in a slow, dignified manner.

Silvia grabs her glass.

“After all, Russian champagne is not so bad,” she says to break the heavy silence and prevent any possible questions about Rácz. “Try it.”

“I’m from here originally, too,” says Martin. “You wouldn’t believe how many bottles of Russian champagne I’ve drunk in this hotel!”

“You used to come here?” says Silvia sceptically: her innate card-index of faces is in furious search mode.

“I used to work here,” says Junec. “As a saxophone player. Down in the Cabaret.”

“Then I would certainly have known you,” says Silvia. “I used to dance here.”

“When?” Martin asks.

“From eighty-seven to ninety,” says Silvia.

Martin laughs.

“I played the Ambassador from seventy-nine till eighty,” he says. “I’ve been in the States fourteen years now.”

“That means…” Silvia says.

“That means we missed each other,” says Martin and raises his glass. “Now’s a good opportunity to synchronize,” he adds.

Silvia pretends she’s missed the clear double entendre. “So you’re a musician?” she asks.

“Oh, no!” Junec laughs. “A former musician. Now I have a factory in the USA. Lamps and light fittings.”

“That must be very exciting!” says Silvia.

“Oh, yeah!” Martin agrees. “A very exciting business!”

They drink the sparkling wine.

“And you know that gentleman?” Martin asks. “That… Rácz?”

“We used to know each other some time ago,” says Silvia and mentally rubs her hands in triumph: the American is jealous. “But it was a long time ago,” she adds. She drinks up her champagne and takes a look at her watch. “Thanks for the invitation,” she says. “I still have a few things to attend to.”

Silvia gets up and Junec gets up, too.

“Nice to have met you, Mr… Mr…” says Silvia, extending her hand.

“Junec,” says the American, holding her slender hand in his. “But call me Martin, please. I’ll call you Silvia.”

Silvia is forced to agree.

“What are you doing tonight?” Junec asks.

“Tonight?” Silvia doesn’t understand, or else pretends not to.

“Maybe we could have dinner tonight,” Martin suggests.

“I’m busy tonight,” Silvia says.

“And tomorrow?” Martin is not easily discouraged.

“Tomorrow…” Silvia reflects. “Good, till tomorrow!” she finally decides.

“What time?”

“I don’t know, around eight,” says Silvia. “That’s the usual time.”

“Good, Silvia,” says Martin. “So at eight, in the restaurant Ambassador, next door. I’ll be expecting you. I’m glad we’ve met.”

“See you later, Martin,” says Silvia, takes her bag and leaves the Ambassador bar.

Martin sits down, pours himself champagne and begins to read the paper. Out of the corner of his eye he notices movement at the next table. He is startled. Žofré and his puffy face are now materialising there.

“I saw and heard everything,” says the ghost. “Don’t think, old boy, that I’m not here when I’m not here. I promised Edna I’d look out for you, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“I don’t want you to look out for me,” Martin Junec is losing his temper, but quickly lowers his voice: the waiter polishing glasses lifts his head in alarm.

“Do you want to know something about that woman?” Žofré asks. “I’m a ghost, I know a lot. I took an interest in her, too, so I spied on her a bit. Do you know what she did, and does now, for a living?”

“Shut up, Žofré,” Martin hisses. “If I want to, I‘ll find out whatever I want. Unlike you, I never had problems communicating with women!”

“I never had any problems with women either,” the fat ghost retorts. Only I was oriented more spiritually, and the women were more carnal.”

“They were carnal?” Martin laughs.

“Yes,” the ghost confirms. “Now, I’m truly happy. I’m remote from all earthly physicality and…”

“Just shut your fucking mouth!” Martin loses self-control and bangs the table. “I’m not such an idiot that I’d believe that bullshit. And I’m not a schoolboy who needs supervising, okay? If I want to fuck that blonde, then I will; if I don’t, then I won’t. But no jealous motherfucker is going to stop me. Get lost!”

“Well, it’s not my business,” Žofré says, and gets up. “I just thought that you might be interested in what this woman’s been through…”

“I’m not planning to marry her,” says Martin, “so I don’t care!”

“When you’re with her, put on two condoms,” Žofré advises him, “so you don’t catch the clap.”

“Get out!” Martin hisses at him and looks around in fear.

Žofré just shrugs with pity, closes his eyes and dissolves in the air.

Junec drinks up his champagne, pays and asks the waiter to call him a taxi.

* * *

Freddy Piggybank quite likes his new job. It’s not hard, he doesn’t have to run around the car park like an idiot, the sun doesn’t burn him and he doesn’t get wet. The way ten-crown bills mount up is very cheering. There are lots of customers. As soon as the price is agreed outside the lavatories, proud Feri Bartaloš nods to Freddy. Freddy gets up, and with a calm wobbling gait, which is intended as proof of Piggybank’s criminal credentials, he heads for the lavatories. With a fleeting nod he greets the customer. “Come with me,” he says through clenched teeth and leads the customer to the hotel yard.

Apart from the steady customers, the beer drinkers who go and relieve themselves with Lady a few times a day, just as they visit the urinal, Feri Bartaloš and Eržika have managed to find a lot of new clients who are seduced by the photographs ripped from Lady’s ID card and driver’s licence. These clients are quite anxious and curious about what is in store and like to pump Freddy, who comes up to each customer, determined to look like a silent, surly, hardened criminal pimp. But the customer has only to ask a few questions and Freddy’s silent mask drops. Piggybank loses his self-control and seconds later regales the customer with everything about his car park, his illness, health problems, and so on.

While the customer is with Lady in the hovel, Freddy sits and waits in the boiler-room. Šípoš and Berki urge him to buy them a bottle of gin just once, but the fat skinflint pretends not to hear. He leafs through an old issue of Playboy which he’s found on the ramshackle table. After a while he puts the magazine down; the women in the pictures have no legs. All the photographs show naked hookers with their legs cut off half way down the thighs. What Piggybank misses is what arouses him most: perfectly shaped knees, calves and slender ankles. A tiny vein zigzagging across a girl’s ankle would excite the fat man more than a look at the artificially blown up tits with aureoles the size of beer mats. That is the result of years spent working in the car park, where he ogled the legs of women walking on the pavement. If there are no torture, whipping or rape scenes in a magazine, Freddy looks for pictures of legs. Playboy is crap: it carries none of this. Instead, it features an idiotic conversation with some stupid writer.

Berki and Šípoš make fun of Piggybank. They speak Romany, giggle, and keep pointing at him. Freddy doesn’t pay much attention to them. If Freddy Piggybank were in power, all the gypsies would end up breaking stones in a quarry. Including these two. Freddy will never forget the hurt the gypsies did him in Rivers of Babylon . They must have been relatives of these two.