Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

“Yes, of course,” said Urban, startled, as he had been imagining miles and miles of barbed wire, cold mornings in a prison yard, and black, dark, gloomy buildings.

The polite one took out a package of Mars cigarettes. “Want one?” He offered them to Video Urban.

“Only then did Urban snap out of his numbed state and reach for a package of Marlboros. “Have one,” he offered.

“With pleasure,” the polite one said happily. He took the Marlboro, let Urban light it and smoked, piously holding the cigarette between thumb and index finger.

“I don’t smoke,” said the angry one when Urban offered him the pack. “So what have you decided?” he yelled at Video Urban.

“Why would I want a receipt?” asked Urban.

“Just what I think,” the polite one chimed in. “You can always make more money, but nobody will give you back your freedom. So, start the car and take us into town.”

Urban started the car and moved off. He looked at a red light on the dashboard. He had meant to fill up.

“Listen, gentlemen,” he turned to the undercover policemen.

“What is it?” the angry one reacted menacingly.

Urban explained the situation briefly. The tank was empty. They were running just on the fumes left in it. They absolutely had to stop at a petrol station if they wanted to get back to town.

“So?” asked the polite one “Let’s stop. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I don’t have any money for petrol,” said Urban.

“Oh, I see,” the polite one smiled. “I understand.” He grabbed the bunch of notes from under his belt, peeled off two hundred crowns and gave them to Urban with a magnanimous gesture. “You’ll have enough left over for a coffee and a shot of liquor. You’re going to need it, right?”

The young men got off at the café they’d mentioned. “Well, good luck,” the polite one said.

“Same to you,” mumbled Urban, and headed for the Hotel Ambassador. He didn’t know whether to be happy or angry. He’d lost almost all his money, but, on the other hand, he was as free as a bird.

* * *

Video Urban never ever wants to do currency changing again. His losses have almost driven him mad. He hasn’t been able to sleep for a couple of nights. He doesn’t even phone that “dry whore” Lenka any more. He can’t get the money out of his mind. But she wouldn’t let him screw her, anyway. Now Urban is quite sure: fast money is no good. It’s better to make money slowly. If he hadn’t been so greedy, he’d have had more by now. Nobody could have robbed him of his profit and his capital. He should’ve gone into business with his camera, as he originally intended. He would pay taxes and have peace of mind. Urban was not meant to be a currency dealer: he’s an artist.

He’s sitting at the Ambassador bar, drinking whisky. He’s not completely broke yet, not at all. But he’s still upset. He shouldn’t have hustled so much. He brought this all on himself because of insatiable greed. From now on, he’ll stop racing like a greyhound after an artificial hare. He had always been lucky, until he started hustling. Yes, Urban will go back to his old nonchalant ways. He won’t be a millionaire this year. So what? What does he actually need to live on, to be happy? Just enough to eat, and not to feel the cold. And a car. It doesn’t have to be a Mercedes or a BMW; no need for those. A nice Škoda Favorit will do. And he’s got one. That’s all you need around here. Why make people envious? What else does he need? Petrol money; he’s used to driving everywhere and has forgotten what the inside of a tram or a trolleybus looks like. He needs money for entertainment. To have fun at a bar, to invite a bird out to dinner, to buy a videocassette, a CD, or a cassette tape to play his favourite music. Basically, he wants a relaxed worry-free life.

He explains all this to Wanda the Trucker who’s sitting next to him at the bar. Wanda agrees. She cheerfully nods her head and smiles with her giant painted mouth. Urban lifts his hand and snaps his finger at the waiter. Soon two glasses of whisky appear. Urban knows that this is a blend of the cheapest Scotch, Grant’s, with local spirits, but pretends not to notice. He pretends that he’s drinking what he ordered. This is a game played by customer and waiter. Most customers don’t know they’re playing it; Urban plays it, because he does not feel like quibbling. His motto is not to spoil somebody’s racket as long as that person does it decently. Everybody has to survive somehow. Video Urban downs the blend and focuses on Wanda’s extra-long indigo-black thighs, showing from the narrowest of miniskirts.

He asks her. “Aren’t you cold?”

“I’ve got a long coat,” replies Wanda the Trucker.

Urban is shivering with cold. “Another one,” he calls to the waiter. “Make it two,” he corrects himself, after exchanging glances with Wanda. He asks her, “Why are you called the Trucker?”

“Because I started with long-distance lorry-drivers at the petrol station,” says Wanda.

“And I thought it was because you’re so tall.” He stirs his coffee and drinks it.

Wanda’s real name isn’t Wanda, but Anča. She was married to a man called Polgár. He used to work in the Water Department. Anča used to bring him lunch and then sat and watched him eat. Polgár would sometimes tie her to the pipes in the basement of the pumping station and took his pleasure that way. She liked it until the day Polgár had to run up to answer a ringing phone and forgot about her. Then the foreman came and found Anča all blue with cold, crucified on the pipes. Polgár ended up in a crew as a waterworks digger on a salary of just one thousand crowns. He started to beat Anča, blaming her for his misfortune. She divorced him, kicked him out of the flat she’d inherited from her father, changed her name to Wanda and began frequenting the petrol station on the main road, screwing lorry drivers. Polgár was later killed when a shaft he was digging caved in. They had no children.

“Why don’t you work as a model?” Urban asks admiringly. “They’re desperate for girls over five foot eight. How tall are you, actually?”

“I’m six foot two,” Wanda the Trucker says proudly and downs her drink.

“You know,” says Urban, “I feel depressed. Nothing is coming right for me. I had a huge stack of money” — he gestures — “that close. Start with a gold mine and end up with a heap of shit. They stole it from me.”

“Who stole it?” asked Wanda the Trucker.

“Oh, forget it!” Urban dismisses it. “Let’s talk about something else. Why don’t you do modelling?”

“You think I’ve got what it takes?” asks Wanda happily.

“Definitely!” Urban decides and orders two more whiskies. “I can still pay for a couple of whiskies. But you’re not drinking,” he says.

“I’m not used to drinking,” says Wanda the Trucker and lifts the glass to her lips.

“What!” Urban says dismissively. “Everybody drinks here. It’s a local tradition.”

“Who took your money?” asks Wanda.

“Forget about it,” says Urban and orders two whiskies. “You don’t drink at all. You should be a model. You’ve got what it takes.”

“I’m pissed off, too,” Wanda the Trucker admits. “Zdravko was supposed to come today. You know, the Viennese doctor. And do you think he came? No, he didn’t!”

Wanda the Trucker drinks up.

“That’s all right,” Urban says. “He’ll come tomorrow.”

“He can fuck himself tomorrow. Fuck him.” Wanda gets upset and bangs the counter with her fist. “I made sure I had nothing doing. He’s a very demanding client. He keeps you busy all day, sometimes two days. There’s dinner, champagne, and then it starts: oral, anal, pissing, from the back, from the front, and again, without stopping. But he doesn’t care about money. I didn’t make any plans, because I was waiting for him. And he was fucking me about. He didn’t come at all.”