Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

Freddy shakes his head. On the one hand, he’s happy that things have gone so smoothly at home; on the other hand, when he thinks of Sida his heart aches.

His father goes downstairs to the living room. Freddy is lying in bed, imagining what it would be like if he died. He would lie in an open coffin. They’d all cry over him. First of all his grieving parents and then… and then who? Freddy has no friends who’d come to the funeral. Maybe, the neighbours would come and people his parents know. And then there would be a rustle: Sida would appear, all in black: black dress, black kid gloves, black stockings, and black veil. She’d have a bouquet in her hand. She’d throw it into his grave, onto his coffin, and cry. She’d be crying disconsolately, but it would be too late. All she could do for Freddy by that time would be to kiss his arse.

Freddy ponders the right way to commit suicide. Should he hang himself? No, he’d suffer for too long. Cut his veins? Freddy gets shivers from the unpleasant thought. Shivers run down his spine when he imagines the cold razor-blade silently, but all the more treacherously slashing his wrist. Anyway, he might damage his tendons and end up a cripple for life. Sleeping pills? He doesn’t have any. Gas? Gas stinks. And his parents never leave the house.

Freddy jumps out of his bed, opens the wardrobe and takes out a plastic bag. He climbs back into his bed, puts the bag over his head and ties it round his neck. Now he is breathing in his own microclimate, his own atmosphere. Death by suffocation might not be so hard. Maybe he’ll fall asleep without even knowing.

Freddy’s heart beat speeds up. The oxygen level in the small volume of the plastic bag has fallen drastically. Freddy is getting a bit hot. He starts to weep for his cruel fate; tears flow down his fat cheeks. He fights back his survival instinct and the urge to rip the bag off his head and, wheezing, humbly inhales almost pure carbon dioxide and nitrogen. Black circles form in front of his eyes; interestingly, Freddy can see them clearly even against the absolutely black background of his little room. The plastic bag inflates and deflates to the rhythm of his breathing.

Suddenly Freddy becomes terribly disgusted with himself; he has no will power. In one brusque movement, he rips the bag off and hungrily inhales the cooling fresh air.

* * *

Sida ties the hands of the first customer of the day to a cross laid over two wooden trestles and cracks her whip a few times over him.

“Forgive me, countess!” a customer shouts. “Forgive me! I didn’t mean to offend you!”

“I never pardon anyone!” Sida shouts at the customer. “Especially when they offend me!”

Sida begins to whip the customer’s chest and thighs, but more symbolically than in earnest. The customer, prone on the rough wood, writhes, and his fingers are bent like talons. The condom placed on his erect member soon begins to fill with liquid. “Ah! Ah!” cries the customer. “Ah! Ah!”

Sida puts down the whip and unties the customer’s hands and legs. The customer gets up and goes to the bathroom. He comes back soon and gets dressed.

“I won’t be able to come next week,” he says, putting in his cufflinks. “I have to attend trade negotiations in Japan with the minister. Can I bring you anything from there, Miss Sida?”

“Why should you bring me anything?” Sida smiles modestly, sipping from her beer can.

“I’d really like to bring you something,” says the customer, unrolls his collar and puts a knotted tie over his head. “I really would,” he adds.

“Then choose something from their sex shops,” Sida concedes. “Anything to make you happy, too.”

“I’ll find something,” says the customer. “And where is Mr Freddy?” he asks.

“Freddy’s on leave,” Sida lies.

“That’s a pity,” says the customer. “When he tied me up, I couldn’t even move. No hard feelings, Miss Sida, but you don’t have the strength in your hands.”

“Are you saying that you weren’t satisfied?” asks Sida.

“Oh I was,” the customer tries to mollify her. “Of course, I was. But I was even more satisfied before. It was as if you were a bit distracted, or something… Your thoughts were somewhere far away. Customers notice that sort of thing, don’t delude yourself.”

“I’m very sorry,” says Sida.

“Maybe you’ve got something on your mind,” says the customer. “Could I be of any help, Miss Sida?”

“No thanks,” says Tešadíková. “Everything’s fine. I have a slight headache, that’s all…”

When the customer leaves, Sida opens another beer and lights up a Marlboro. She scratches her thigh through a hole in her net stocking. She sits on the rack and smokes. She doesn’t feel like doing anything. Her gaze falls on Freddy’s mask hanging on a rack.

The internal phone rings. Sida answers it.

“There are two more customers waiting for you in the bar,” the bar girl informs her. “Come and get them.”

“Get Dagmar to take them,” says Sida. “I’m done today.”

“And what do I tell the boss if she asks?” the bar girl enquires.

“Tell her I’m ill and I’ve gone home.”

“Fine,” the bar girl agrees and puts down the phone.

Sida puts her cigarette in the ashtray and starts taking off her make-up.

* * *

Freddy lies on the bed of his bachelor room and browses through a new issue of Latex Persuasion that he’s borrowed from the Perverts’ Centre .

“ALFRED!” his Mother shouts from the living room downstairs. “YOU HAVE A VISITOR!”

Freddy tucks the magazine under his pillow and sits down on the bed. He waits a few seconds for his erection to disappear under his track-suit bottoms, then gets up and opens the door to his little room.

Up the stairs walks Sida Tešadíková.

“Sida!” Freddy shouts in surprise.

Sida also looks at Freddy in surprise; during his involuntary leave, Piggybank has been depressed and off his food. The result is that he has lost over thirty pounds and his formless figure has taken on a more masculine and human shape.

Freddy invites Sida into his little room. Sida walks to the window and looks at the pond in the twilight and at the flaming pink sky. This kind of sunset can only be seen in Nová Ves. “Nice view,” says Sida. “Can I smoke here?”

“Of course,” says Freddy and searches for an ashtray.

Sida wearily sits down in the armchair and taps her cigarette ash onto Freddy’s much-loved date palm.

Freddy sits down on the couch opposite her.

“Look, Freddy,” Sida begins. “I think I went a bit too far last time. I know, you may feel offended, but I think you should stop sulking and come back to Justine .”

“Do you?” Freddy Piggybank shows interest.

“I’ve had a word with the owner,” says Sida. “She doesn’t object to your becoming a permanent employee of the Perverts’ Centre .”

Freddy nods.

Sida can’t take her eyes off him. Freddy’s somewhat emaciated face, dark, sunken eyes marked by suffering and the four-day stubble give his face a completely new expression.

“I know that you miss the work,” says Sida. “And if you want me to apologize to you, then here goes: forgive me.”

Freddy smiles. He gets up and strokes her soft, short hair.

“I had an inkling you’d come,” he says.

He opens a drawer and takes out a longish object wrapped in silk paper.

“It’s for you,” he says and hands it to her.

Sida tears off the paper and takes out a beautiful, hand-decorated leather whip. She weighs it in her hand and cracks it a few times. Its sound is full and heavy.

“Is it really mine?” asks Sida in disbelief, her eyes wide open.