Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

Urban can’t believe his ears. He thinks he’s misheard. Freddy Piggybank paying for a round? But the attendant locks up his trailer and makes a beeline for the entrance to the Ambassador’s bar. Urban follows. “I have to get rat-arsed,” says the miser when they sit down at the table. “I’m so pissed off. Know how much money I’ll lose? Business is bad. The Germans come by bus. They do their shopping and go back to Austria by bus.” Buses can’t get into Freddy’s car park. What he earns by changing money is from car drivers. Not a lot. It’s less than he’d get from one bus. But what can he do when the buses can’t park in the lot? The buses come around nine and by that time his lot is full. He can’t afford to block spaces until nine because of the buses. The car drivers would tear him to pieces. People are swine; they don’t understand that you have to make a living. Freddy Piggybank hates them.

Urban agrees. He understands. But he doesn’t think Freddy Piggybank should make a tragedy out of it. He will lose some money, true, but he’ll get a break, too. It’ll soon be Christmas. After the holidays, the car park will reopen and he’ll make up his losses.

Like hell he will! Freddy Piggybank gets livid and downs a shot of gin. He coughs and farts. It’s the sausages and beans. Freddy works and saves. He spends nothing on himself. And what does he get for his effort? A carp sale! A painted floozy from the town council! He’ll never catch up, because nobody will pay for his losses. But don’t let them think that Freddy Piggybank will pay taxes for those two weeks. He doesn’t spend money on himself. He only saves. And now this? To him? Shit!

Urban has his drink and quickly reaches for a coke. He hates the local gin. The attendant ordered it because it was the cheapest drink. Urban suggests that Freddy should look after himself, indulge himself, find a girlfriend, get some decent clothes, eat better. There’s more to life than making money: life’s for living. Women and fun. Why, for example, can’t Freddy Piggybank get a car? He wouldn’t have to fucking walk to work or take a tram.

The attendant downs another gin and orders expensive cigarettes. He bangs capriciously on the table. “The menu! Steak and eggs! One more coke and two more gins! No? All right. Just one gin and one Becherovka liqueur for this gentleman!” Freddy Piggybank doesn’t give a damn today. They’ve destroyed him. Beggared him! What a fucking life! What’s he going to do for the next two weeks? Why doesn’t he have a car? Because he doesn’t have a licence. He couldn’t get one either. Freddy Piggybank hasn’t even done army service. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He’s got an exemption certificate from military service. He’s a head case. Nerves. But not a word to anyone.

Urban sighs. This isn’t fun any more. The fat attendant is pissed. His breath stinks. His eyes shine madly. He attacks his steak wildly. Urban coughs politely. He has to go now. He’s got things to sort out. But Freddy needn’t worry. Urban hopes he has fun, and thanks him for the drinks.

Video Urban goes out into the cold. He grins. The attendant’s complaints have given him an idea. He stands by the entrance and is happy. The idea is simple and ingenious. Starting tomorrow, he’ll put it into action. He’s already done the Christmas decorations; nobody can complain. Every minute a loudly sign-painted mammoth bus stops at the pavement and spews out a new batch of shopping-besotted Austrian tourists. Albanians with professional smiles on their swarthy faces are waiting with fistfuls of banknotes, ready for the onslaught. Urban’s ears are freezing, but he laughs as he anticipates outwitting them all. And the funniest thing is that this magnificent idea was inspired by stupid and stingy Freddy Piggybank.

* * *

The next day Urban gets into his car and drives across the river, deep into the fields, towards the border crossing. He slams the car door shut, feels the weight of his full wallet in the inside pocket of his windcheater and then sits down in the espresso bar, drinking coffee, waiting for the first bus from the Austrian side. Soon the punters arrive. Urban calls the waitress, pays, goes out into the cold and joins the Austrians. Furtively, sotto voce, in a muted monotone, he repeats his pitch. The Austrians smile. They take out their wallets. Urban does the same. Money-changing starts. The buyers are happy. They prefer accepting this well dressed and polite young man’s offer to supporting the economy of a foreign state, an insatiable Moloch that devours without trace money and other valuables. It is a usurious state that takes, at a disgracefully extortionate rate, real money backed by real assets in exchange for worthless socialist pieces of paper. They all crowd around Urban and push their banknotes at him. “ Gut! Gut! ” says Urban politely in primitive German. “I’ve enough for everybody. No worries.”

It’s snowing again. All around the fields shine with whiteness. The sky is grey-black. The road is covered in a murky brown slush. Urban feels the coarse salt corroding his expensive fine leather boots. He goes to the car and puts on a bright baseball hat. When the next bus arrives, he daringly gets into it. He’s welcomed by pleasant warmth and a pleasant aroma of perfume. He says a few words to the driver, who is also the owner of the bus. The latter announces Urban’s offer through the microphone. Urban slowly moves down the aisle and with ill-disguised impatience reaches for the proffered banknotes. These are deutschmarks. It’s a German bus. The Germans are well dressed, their bags smell of leather and they all wear thin-framed glasses. An elderly gentleman is smoking a cigar and offers one to Urban. He politely accepts. He leaves the bus with a wallet filled with western currency and a Havana in his mouth. He feels like having a juice or a coke, but decides not to waste time. He gets in the car and speeds off to the Hotel Ambassador. Water is splashing into wooden vats in the parking lot. Men are setting up wooden booths. Urban parks on the pavement and, taking no notice, puffs on his cigar as he passes through reception.

The stoker is in the living room of his suite and, bored, is watching a video. On the screen a very nice-looking madman has decided to tear a young girl in two by chaining her arms and legs to two lorries. The stoker nods at Urban. Urban obediently sits down. Rácz’s feet are on the coffee table.

“How are you?” Urban asks jovially.

“Rácz is always fine,” is the answer.

“Need any currency?” Urban asks.

“I don’t need anything,” says Rácz. “But if you have any, I’ll take it.” The hero of the video sits down with the madman and spends a long time persuading him there’s no need to rip the girl in two. Rácz takes his eyes off the screen. “What’ve you got?” he asks, pretending to be uninterested.

“All sorts,” says Video Urban. “Schillings and marks.”

“How much do you want for them?” asks the stoker.

“What’ll you pay?” retorts Urban.

“The usual,” says Rácz.

“Look at today’s paper,” Urban argues.

“I never read it,” Rácz states with pride. The blond madman is toying with the accelerator, smiling demonically. The girl tied to the bumper is groaning. “This is a film for Freddy!” Rácz roars with laughter: his eyes are not laughing, but watchful.

“The schilling and deutschmark are both up,” says Urban.

Rácz just waves his wrist, which is adorned with a thick golden bracelet. “Want a drink?”

“Do you have any juice?” asks Urban.

“In the fridge,” says Rácz, pointing.

By the time Urban comes back with a frosty can of pineapple juice, the girl has been torn in half.