Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

Wanda pulls out a cigarette and lets Urban light it.

“OK, OK,” says Video Urban to calm her down and shoves the lighter back in his pocket. It’s not that late. You can turn a few tricks. He looks round the room. “There are plenty of Krauts here,” he adds.

Wanda lifts her head and from her great height scans the room and the westerners sitting at the bar with their bulging trousers and worldly expressions on their fleshy faces. “Screw them!” she explodes, but immediately becomes despondent. “I really don’t feel like doing anything,” she admits. “I have this strange feeling inside me. Maybe I’m getting my period. That’s when I don’t feel like doing anything. But that won’t interest you.” She drops her head to the glass and her giant mane falls on her face.

“Why do you think it doesn’t interest me?” Urban says, although actually it doesn’t interest him. “So what do you want to do?”

“Just sit here and stare into space,” says the prostitute, throwing her hair back. That delightful gesture makes up Urban’s mind for him. “You know what? Let’s go to my place,” he suggests. “It’s warmer, quieter and nicer there. I’ll put on some music. I’ve got the latest Michael Franks. That’s the sort of music for us. Come on!”

Wanda the Trucker shrugs. She doesn’t seem too interested.

“What’s wrong? We know each other, don’t we?” Urban insists. “You’ve spent lots of time with me, haven’t you?”

Actually, Wanda has never been to Urban’s. They did spend a night together in his car. Urban was an unlicensed taxi driver, he was driving passengers all over the city, and Wanda was depressed, so she went along with him.

“There’s nobody at your place?” asks Wanda the Trucker.

“No,” said Urban. “I live alone.”

“I don’t really feel like going anywhere,” says the prostitute indecisively. “I don’t feel like doing anything.”

“Don’t be silly, come on,” says Urban and pulls her by the hand, almost by force. He pays the bill and gets off the bar stool.

“All right,” Wanda the Trucker agrees, as if to spite him, gets off her stool and lets herself be led towards the cloakroom.

The westerners comment with unhappy mutters on the departure of the best-looking, tallest, and most striking prostitute in the bar.

Outside they’re met by cold, flickering street lamps and a snowstorm that hurls fine crystals into their faces.

“Shall we take a taxi?” asks Wanda.

“I’ve got a car,” says Urban.

“But you’ve been drinking,” Wanda protests.

“Nothing worse can happen to me,” says Urban.

“Right, I feel the same,” the prostitute agrees.

“You’ve got the longest legs I’ve ever seen on a woman,” says Urban, when he has to help Wanda push back the car seat.

“Really?” Wanda is happy.

Video Urban scrapes the snow off the windscreen and they drive off.

When Urban shows Wanda his flat, built on the roof of a pre-war apartment building, the prostitute nods in admiration. “This is something!” she says when she looks at the furnishings.

“I like living somewhere comfortable and pleasant,” says Urban as if apologizing. “After all, I’m a professional. Make yourself comfortable. No need to take your shoes off.”

They don’t end up listening to music after all, not for long, anyway. Wanda spots a huge black television set and video player in the corner of the room. “Let’s watch something,” she asks. Urban puts on music videos. “You have a camera, too, right?” says the prostitute.

“Yes,” Urban replies reluctantly, realizing that Hurensson must have been with Wanda, too, and could have blurted out anything to her.

“How do you know?” he asks.

“Rácz mentioned it,” says Wanda the Trucker. “Have you made any videos?”

“Not yet,” says Urban.

“Then make one of me,” asks Wanda the Trucker.

“Why?” Urban asks.

“Because,” the prostitute shrugs, “I’ve never seen myself on a TV screen.”

Urban sighs, but fetches his camera. He puts in a cassette, a battery and starts to shoot Wanda. The prostitute gets out of the armchair. She slowly takes off her sweater. She sways in rhythm to the music. She unbuttons her blouse, takes it off and drops it onto the floor. She begins to pull down her narrow skirt. Urban circles her with his camera. Wanda kicks off her shoes, then down come the black seamed stockings, suspender belt, bra, and finally her panties.

“Super,” says Urban, but the show’s not over yet. Wanda sits on the couch and spreads her long thighs wide apart. Her fingers part her crotch’s pink butterfly wings. Then she does various things that excite Urban so much that he puts down the camera, takes off his clothes and follows her onto the couch.

“Let’s film ourselves,” suggests Wanda. Urban gets up, his member erect, takes the camera stand out of the cupboard, sets it up, and aims the camera where he expects to copulate with Wanda.

“What’s wrong?” Wanda asks, when she sees Video Urban hesitate for a moment.

“Will you give me a rubber?” Urban asks using his hand to get a full erection. “I don’t have anything here. I live like a monk.”

“Just come as you are, don’t be afraid,” says Wanda. “Punters have to use condoms. You don’t. I want to feel you in me. I want to feel when you come. We could even kiss, if you like.”

“You know how dangerous it is now?” Video Urban asks, as he lowers himself onto her.

“And what isn’t dangerous?” the prostitute says philosophically, as she takes a position in range of the camera. Urban kneels between her spread out knees, embraces her and slowly opens her vulva with his tongue.

An hour later, they drink, smoke, and, amused, watch the recording. Urban slows down the interesting moments with the remote control, which he holds.

“We’re good, aren’t we?” says Wanda. “We could easily make a living with this. But now wipe it, OK?”

“That’d be a pity, wouldn’t it?”

“No,” says Wanda. “Who knows who you might show this video to?”

“I swear I won’t show it to anyone,” says Urban. “I’ll keep it for personal use only.”

“I’ve heard that before,” says Wanda. “What if I marry some rich bloke in the future and you blackmail me?”

“Blackmail you?” Urban ponders. “I’ll sell it to the tabloids. I’ll get more money that way.”

“Please, wipe it, OK?” says the prostitute, as she turns over on her side and falls asleep.

Video Urban is an honourable man, not a crook. He watches the video once more from the beginning and then he erases it, although his heart bleeds as he does so. He sits at the table naked, with a shrivelled, drooping penis. He gets up and makes himself a nightcap. The prostitute, fully contented, breathes out loudly, her hand tucked like a child’s under her head. Urban gets up from the chair and, his drink in his hand, goes over to his desk. He takes out a flyer with the text of an advertisement that he meant to insert ages ago: “VIDEO URBAN IS HERE FOR YOU! I WILL MAKE THE SIGNIFICANT MOMENTS IN YOUR LIFE AND THE HAPPY SMILES OF YOUR CHILDREN LAST FOREVER.” He crumples up the flyer and throws it into the wastebasket. What stupidity! Who cares about their children’s happy smiles! There are so many people in this business and they steal each other’s jobs. No, he won’t make any money this way. He takes the pen and writes on another piece of paper: “VIDEO URBAN WILL CAPTURE AND IMMORTALISE YOUR MOMENTS OF PLEASURE WITH YOUR PARTNER IN YOUR HOME, OR IN THE HOME-LIKE ENVIRONMENT OF THE STUDIO. DISCRETION ASSURED.” He looks at the text for a while and then inserts the word “ABSOLUTE” before “DISCRETION”. Yes, that’s it. The “absolute” inspires confidence. Video Urban is content. He realises that it’s the idea, not the work, that pays. The first comer takes everything.