Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

Four-Eyes is lying motionless on the ground, and a puddle of blood spreads round his head.

They all quieten down; only Four-Eyes’s wife throws herself down on her husband, wailing.

Fraňo Fčilek smiles proudly. He is showing everyone his right fist.

“Did you see that?” he asks. “Every hit’s a knockout!”

They all seem paralysed. Nobody moves.

A police car stops by the curb and two policemen get out. One of them is on his radio, the second approaches the motionless Four-Eyes.

The stokers hurriedly finish their beer, wipe their mouths and go back to work. The poets don’t hang about, either. Their rucksacks are full of aromatic cannabis leaves they use to roll cigarettes and get high; they prefer to clear off. Only the stinking and permanently drunk Majerník has no fear of the police. He is sitting surrounded by his band of savages, soulfully singing a Russian chastushka .

The only witness of Fčilek’s intervention is the bastard boss. There are no other witnesses. Feri Bartaloš was then under the table, gathering his change which he’d dropped. By the time he got up, everything was over. Eržika was looking the other way at the crucial moment. Freddy Piggybank was wiping his eye with his handkerchief; he saw nothing.

An ambulance soon comes. They put Four-Eyes on a stretcher and drive off.

The policemen handcuff Fraňo Fčilek.

“Let’s go,” they tell him.

When the police car takes Fraňo away, the bastard boss looks at Feri and Eržika.

“You still here?” he screams wildly. “I’ll give you twenty seconds! One… two… three…”

Feri Bartaloš and Eržika reluctantly leave. They don’t want to go. They mumble something, but they are too afraid to dig their heels in.

* * *

Freddy Piggybank now sits on the chair in front of the toilets in the Wooden Village and sadly watches his old car park. He collects money, sells pieces of toilet paper and, with a sigh of reluctance. occasionally gets up to unblock a lavatory bowl or overflowing urinal.

When the bastard boss sacked Feri and Eržika, Freddy offered his services. He has to live off something, after all.

After the golden era of the car park and a decent income as Lady’s assistant pimp (the beer drinkers preferred the expression “mack”, which is so obviously a Czech expression that the fastidious author resists using it in this modest piece of writing, however much it may be the work of a pseud and graphomaniac), Freddy is now facing poverty. There’s not a lot of money to be made at the lavatories. Only occasionally can he sell at a modest profit a stolen watch, or a leather jacket brought to him by thieves smarter and less asthmatic than he is.

Freddy is now even stingier than he was at the car park. He won’t lend anyone the price of a beer and denies himself the pleasure, too. He is saving up. His parents keep asking him for money, but he gives them nothing; he has a purpose. To get some peace from them, he lives in his trailer. He bought Majerník and his companions a beer each to help him drag his cosy fibreboard caravan closer to the Wooden Village from what was the car park. This is Freddy’s home now.

The only joy in his wretched life is knowing that soon he’ll have saved enough money for a visit to Silvia’s Perverts’ Club . When Freddy imagines all his desires being fulfilled there, he begins to tremble with impatience.

That is why, when D-day arrives, he can’t wait for the end of his shift. Instead, he closes an hour early, changes in his trailer, perfumes himself and sets off to the Perverts’ Club .

Silvia’s business is located in a villa not far from the main railway station. Its well-lit entrance is marked by a shining neon girl, whip in hand, and a sign: Private Club Justine .

Freddy stops and swallows hard. His excitement is at its height; the veins on his temples are pulsing wildly. He approaches the entrance and hesitates whether to ring the bell or not. He would prefer to run away, but the excitement is stronger. His shaking hand presses the bell a few times.

A spy-hole in the door opens and a man looks out. He carefully inspects Freddy. “Are you a club member?” he asks. “No,” says Freddy, “but I’d like to join.” The man gives him another thorough inspection. Then he unlocks the door and lets him in.

Piggybank stops in the doorway. He just has time to take a look around when the man tells him: “Please follow me,” Piggybank follows him in great excitement. The man knocks at a door and lets Freddy in. It is a tastefully decorated office. At the desk is a neat-looking, made-up black-haired girl who flashes the obligatory smile at him.

“Good evening, sir,” she says. “So you’re interested in our services?”

“Yes,” says Piggybank.

“Please take a seat,” the pretty girl shows him to an armchair in front of the desk. Freddy sits down.

The young lady gets up and her long legs carry her towards Freddy. She hands him a piece of paper. “Here is a form to tell us your preferences,” she says and offers the fat man a pen. “Write down your name, or whatever name you want to be called, and fill in the rest as frankly as you can, so we know what services to offer you. We’re here to help.”

Freddy takes a look at the paper. He doesn’t understand some words. For example: what does the word “preferences” mean? He is supposed to underline which of the following are of interest to him: oral, anal, vaginal, mammal, manual, masoch., pedoph., geronto-, copro-, uro- . Freddy can’t understand, and, just to be sure, he underlines the lot. Then he gives the form he’s filled to the young lady. She runs her eyes over it and looks at Freddy. “But you must have some preferences,” she says, disappointed. “Yes,” says Piggybank. “So what do you prefer?” asks the young lady. Freddy blushes. “Take this,” says the beauty and hands him back the form he has filled. “Write on the back, if you’re too embarrassed to tell me.” Freddy is trembling with excitement and fear. Pen in hand, he hesitates like someone about to leap from a high tower. He finally writes the following:

“I want a woman to tie me up and whip me while I’m completely naked and to scream at me as if I’m being punished.”

The young lady reads Freddy’s request and nods with understanding. “I see,” she says. “Whipping. Should she end by urinating on you, too?” she asks to be sure.

“She doesn’t have to,” says Freddy. He is relaxed now. He makes himself more comfortable in his seat and as far as his fat legs allow him, he crosses them.

“Very well,” says the young lady. “I suggest you move to the lounge and have a drink. It’s all in the price, of course. A member of our staff will be with you shortly.”

Piggybank sits down at the bar in a room which is both bar and reception room. Nobody takes any notice of him; everything is submerged in semi-darkness. Over the bar is a bright monitor on which a huge black man is copulating with two white women. Freddy orders a glass of red wine for courage. The pornographic film excites him.

“Borský?” a deep female voice conditioned by hundreds of strong cigarettes calls behind his back.

Freddy turns round. Borský is the name he put on the form. A woman in a black leather corset, stockings and tall boots is standing behind him. She has something akin to a bathing cap on her head and she wears elbow-length black satin gloves. A thick layer of make-up covers her face. The exaggeratedly painted lips, demonically painted eyebrows and lots of mascara round her eyes give her a cruel and dangerous look.

“Come on, you perverse fat pig!” the woman orders, grabs Freddy, and with surprising strength pulls him off his bar stool.