Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

“Good night,” she says to Freddy, who is stretched out on the couch.

“Good night,” says Freddy.

* * *

Martin wakes up with the persistent feeling that he is being watched. He shakes himself fully awake. Through the window shutters the neon signs’ obtrusive pulsating splendour penetrates his hotel room. Martin reaches out and turns on the bedside lamp. The dimmed light reveals the massive figure of Žofré standing dithering by the window.

“Oh, shit!” Martin cries desperately in English, and quickly tries to reach for something to throw at the ghost that was once his brother-in-law. So Hruškovič was right to say he was a charlatan and couldn’t really do exorcisms, he realises in horror and grabs a slipper.

“Stop it, man,“ Žofré says with dignity.

The effect of his measured and somehow alien voice is such that Martin’s hand holding the slipper freezes in mid-throw.

“I was at one point relieved of my mission,” says the ghost, “but now I’ve been allowed to come and warn you for the last time.”

“No need, thanks!” says Martin and his arm drops in resignation. “If you have no more to do on earth, then what are you doing here?”

“The All-Highest is letting me visit you one more time,” says Žofré.

“That’s nice of Him,” says Martin, and takes his watch from the bedside table and looks at it. It’s three in the morning. “So what have you got for me, Žofré?” he asks with an ostentatious show of patience.

“In a moment you’re going to be murdered,” says Žofré.

“Get on with you,“ Martin bursts out laughing, “Who’d want to murder me?“

“The hotelier Rácz,” says the ghost.

“And why?” Martin says sceptically.

“Because you screwed that slut of his,” says Žofré.

“Don’t be insulting, okay?” Martin objects. “How did he find out?”

“She sent him photographs of you both naked…” says Žofré and blushes. “I’ve seen them, too,” he adds pointedly.

“Damn dirty bitch!” Martin swears in English and leaps out of bed.

“She sent him the pictures to hurt him,” says the ghost, “and at the same time to get back at you.”

“At me? For what?” Junec is at a loss. He visualises Silvia, all lust, desire and passion, screaming in ecstasy.

“Because you slept with her, that’s why,” says Žofré. “She hates men and hates you, too. But no more talk, Martin! In a few minutes Rácz’s three killers will come in and throw you out of the window. It’s supposed to look like suicide.”

“How do you know?” Martin refuses to believe it.

“I heard them a while ago in the car when they were driving here. At the moment they’re walking up the stairs. They won’t use the lift, in case the liftboy sees them.”

Martin clutches his head. He is seized by a moderate degree of panic.

“What am I to do?” he asks. “I don’t have a gun, or a knife on me. I can’t fight off three hit men with my bare hands.”

“Not even one,” says Žofré. “You’re crap; they’re professionals.”

Martin makes a dash to the phone, listens for a while, and then slams the receiver down in fury.

“They’ve cut the line,” Žofré explains. “I did say they were professionals. They’ve thought of everything,” he adds, almost in admiration.

“So, what am I to do?” Martin asks in desperation and feverishly starts to get dressed.

“Well, now even old Žofré comes in handy, doesn’t he?“ the ghost laughs maliciously. “You, the pride of the American establishment!“

“What am I to do, Žofré?” Martin repeats the question as he puts a sock on. “This is no time for kidding.”

“What am I to do, Žofré?” Žofré apes Martin’s begging, whining tone. He smiles. “They’ve reached our floor now,“ he reveals with a smile. “Now they’ll take a short rest. You’re the one running out of time, my old pal. I’ve got all the time in the world…”

“Well, Žofré!” Martin insists and, now he has his shoes on, gets up.

“Pick up your chequebook and passport,” Žofré says.

Martin opens the bedside table drawer, takes his chequebook out, then his US passport and a wad of credit cards. His eyes spot a Spanish switchblade he always uses to clean his nails. He puts it in his pocket.

“Open the window,” the ghost orders.

Martin goes up to the window and opens it. Six storeys beneath him the street and pavement glisten in the rain, and in the distance the muddy river glimmers. From the port comes a tugboat horn’s prolonged call.

“Jump!” says Žofré.

Martin steps back from the window and looks at Žofré reproachfully.

“I mean it, jump,” says Žofré. “You won’t get killed, I’ll help you. Seriously. Boy scout’s honour!”

“I don’t trust you, Žofré,” says Martin and once more looks into the abyss. He is trembling with fear.

“Now they’re opening the door to your suite,” says Žofré. “They’ll be here in a few seconds.”

Martin is resigned and puts one leg over the window ledge.

“You’ll fall like swan’s down,” says Žofré. “Trust me. I’ve got everything under control.”

Martin looks down beneath him and his guts convulse with a spasm of unspeakable horror.

“It’s too far, Žofré!” he says desperately, in English.

He hears a noise and jerks round. His gaze falls on the door handle. He can see it moving. But his horror of the abyss and his mistrust of Žofré are too strong. Martin gets off the window ledge and freezes in helpless panic.

The door opens and three dangerous-looking men walk into the bedroom.

”Is that him, chief?” one of them asks excitedly.

“No, it’s his old mum,” the other one counters dryly.

The men hurl themselves at Martin, grab him and without further ado drag him to the window.

“Be careful,” orders the oldest, evidently in charge. “We don’t want to leave any traces.”

Martin fights back desperately, he tries to shout, but one of the hit men gags him. Martin’s eyes desperately search for Žofré. Like a host seeing his guests out, Žofré slowly and with resignation follows the group of men to the window.

Martin frees his mouth and shouts: “Žofré!”

In no time they gag him again.

“It’ll work that way, too,” says Žofré calmly, watching Mozoň opening the other pane of the window, too, and the two underlings throwing Junec into the vertiginous abyss.

“Get away from that window!” Mozoň shouts when he sees Tupý and Šolík watching the American Slovak’s fall.

The secret policemen obey unwillingly, but quickly.

“You pricks!” Mozoň rages. “Somebody might have seen you.”

The secret policemen remove all traces of the struggle and in the middle of a rainy night Martin Junec descends as gently as swan’s down from the sixth floor. Eventually he makes a soft landing on the pavement. Žofré is there by his side.

“Ooff,” says the ghost. “I didn’t know you were that heavy.”

Martin pinches himself on the cheek to wake up from this weird dream, but it doesn’t help.

“I do think I deserve at least a thank you,” Žofré mumbles.

Martin shakes his head incredulously. “Thank you, Žofré,” he says.

“Don’t mention it,” says the ghost. “Let’s say goodbye now, Martin. I’ve finished here. We won’t see each other again. I suppose we will meet some day, but there’s plenty of time for that.”

“Where are you going?” Martin asks.

Žofré laughs and points his finger upwards. “And you?” he asks. “What are you going to do?”

“Well, what else?” says Martin. “I’m going to the police to report an attempted murder. I’ll show Rácz what’s what.”