Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

“ Was ist das? ” Wanda’s punter asks in alarm.

“ Nix, gor nix. Ein Trotl. It’s nothing; he’s an idiot,” she assures him.

The punter laughs knowingly. “ Ja, ich verstehe schon ,” he says in heavy Austrian dialect, “A madman, yes?”

They both get to the car and leave, spraying the immobilised hermit from head to toe in dirty salty slush. The hermit retreats into himself. He closes his eyes and feels the water running down the snowflakes on his moustache and beard. Yes, he deserved that! Even a man of God must suffer and expiate his sins. Yes, suffering is sweet! In his imagination he sees Wanda the Trucker’s long white body writhing in the fire. “As she gave herself to her lovers, so she shall give herself to burning torment,” says Freddy. He represses the shiver of joy that this thought gives him. The prostitute must suffer to pay for her moral laxity. Freddy focuses his wide-open, bloodshot eyes on the wooden stalls that have sprouted on what was his car parking. A few freezing, but obstinate customers gather at a counter, sipping mulled wine. The hermit stares at them impatiently with bloodshot eyes. He comes to a decision: they, too, will get their deserts. He hurries to the stand.

“How are you doing, Freddy?” the bartender addresses him. “Sleep well? They took the car park off him, and he lost his marbles,” he whispers to the fellows at the counter.

The hermit approaches. “Throw away your money,” he yells with pathos, lifting his arms over his head. “Throw those dirty little bits of paper away, for the end is near! Yes, I say unto you, the waters of Babylon have swollen greatly and they smell of sin! God will come to punish Sodom.”

The customers listen and wink at each other in amusement. “And now, Freddy,” the bartender suggests, “tell us something about the whores.” He winks conspiratorially at the others, as if to say, “Just wait; you’ll see something now!”

Freddy Piggybank warms up. He is a holy man and has been called to warn them all. “As for women who sell their bodies, there is no salvation for them.” The man of God knows exactly what torments await them for selling their bodies. “They will be impaled on poles, quartered, gutted alive, boiled, and fried. Nothing will help them, even if they become models of piety. They deserve it!” Freddy was out of breath, and paused.

“And what about you?” one of the drunks asked. “Are you a Jehovah’s Witness, or a Franciscan?” He asked just to show his friends that he knew all about the subject.

“I am from God,” Freddy interrupts him. “The Lord appeared unto me and commanded me to tell everyone that the end is here.”

“Take this,” the bartender tells him, winking at the others, “have a drink! It’s good, with cinnamon and cloves. Won’t you?”

“There’s no helping you either!” the hermit shouts. “You will end in torment in the fiery furnace!” He waves his arm wildly and knocks the glasses of mulled wine into the snow.

The men are enraged. “Not that,” a drunk in dungarees and quilted jacket yells. He grabs the hermit by the beard and throws him into the snowdrift.

Freddy digs himself out of the dirty snow. He gets up and lifts his arms above his head in fury. A man of God had come to warn them. But he who will not be warned can’t be helped. The holy man is leaving now. He has to proclaim the news of the approaching end! The hermit leaves with dignity, stomping his burlap shoes in the snow.

“And we get this all the time,” the bartender sighs and takes a sip of mulled wine. “Sometimes it’s funny, sometimes it’s not.”

* * *

Absolute discretion is not just a matter of refraining from stupid questions. It also means behaving always and under any circumstances as if nothing was happening, as if everything was quite normal and natural. Video Urban decided to mortify his natural human instincts. After all, it was a matter of money; you mustn’t ogle, show surprise or disgust. In his advertisement Urban guaranteed absolute discretion: he has to offer it.

They call him out sometimes, but luckily not too often. Who would want to bother to piss about and go to some suburb like Petrzalka with a video-camera and all the equipment? Most clients can be persuaded on the phone to come to him, to Video Urban. It is not only more convenient for Urban, but also improves the quality of the shoot. Urban has given up his bedroom and turned it into a film studio. In the middle of the room is a big double bed. The camera is on a stand; there are studio lamps and umbrella-shaped light diffusers. Just like Hollywood.

People are not alike and they have different quirks. More often than not, Video Urban’s clients are married couples or lovers who want to be immortalised having sex. Sometimes it doesn’t work, when one of the partners, usually the woman, changes her mind in front of the camera. Sometimes the very opposite happens; the presence of a strange man turns many women into excited and voluptuous beasts and, compared to them, their partners seem like shrivelled horse droppings. Urban has seen some extraordinary things.

Sometimes queers show up, too. Urban thinks of Hurensson. It makes him sick, but he doesn’t let on. After all, he is a pro and the clients pay well. Some of them take no notice of him; he is just as inanimate to them as the camera stand, or the painting over the bed.

It is not rare for him to be visited by women who ask him to film them masturbating. They often bring their own sex aids. One of them confessed that her husband had gone to build roads in Libya and asked her to send him a videocassette. This way she could hope that he wouldn’t run after whores over there, the young woman says as she gets dressed, pays, and puts the thirty-minute cassette in her bag.

Then there was the time when a female customer, an ethereal being, showed up at the appointed time with an Irish setter on a leash. Urban did not raise an eyebrow when he heard her request. At least it’s not boring, he thought. People differ, and so do their interests.

It’s cold. The sky is overcast and it will soon snow. Urban looks through his window. Four floors down, on the pavement, people walk stiff with cold, sloshing through the snow. Urban represses a desire to spit on their heads, moves inside to the warmth, and closes the window. For some time now he has been feeling disgusted by his own flat. It is as if each customer leaves a drop of dirt inside. It means nothing to him that they pay him royally. It means nothing to him that everything that he eats and drinks, everything that he buys for his own enjoyment, or burns in the cylinders of his car, is paid for by them. Disgust is disgust. Urban would feel better if he’d chosen silly weddings, stupid anniversary celebrations and children’s idiotic smiles. Or maybe he should have got a taxi licence. Even money-changing did not leave him feeling so disgusted. What was missing in his life? He had made all the money he could, and if he didn’t feel like going on, he always had two thousand crowns a month from the department store, where he was among people who liked him. The people who’ve been coming to his place since he started his video business make him uncomfortable. They always seem to be perverts, male or females or some other kind of weirdos. Urban has even started dreaming about them. The good thing at least is that they’re anonymous, quiet, and keep their distance; they don’t try to involve Urban in their lives. When he films them, Urban feels like a doctor. He doesn’t get excited.

Ever since his ad has appeared regularly in the free-ads weekly, he has to stay in, by the phone. The answering machine is no good; appointments with anonymous customers have to be booked personally. Sometimes he is the victim of a prank: an appointment is booked and nobody shows up. Sometimes he’s abused on the phone. Urban realises that this is all part of the business. Nevertheless, it doesn’t make him feel good. At least he has money, but there were times when he was making more. The advantage is that now no policeman can take his money away. He pays his taxes, so what can they do?