Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

“He doesn’t like jazz,” says Urban.

“I don’t like jazz neither,” agrees Dripsy Eva.

“I don’t like jazz, either,” Urban irritably corrects her.

“What about jazz?” Hurensson enquires. “They do not like jazz, too,” says Urban in his English. “And so do I. You know, man, I mean the word ‘jazz’ in phonetical form. Like ‘dzez’, as is usual in our language, dig it?”

Hurensson reflects. “So you don’t like your language?”

“Oh, God, no!” Urban shakes his head. “I only do not like the way they write the word ‘jazz’ Something like ‘d-zhass’.”

“But I don’t like the jazz itself,” says Hurensson. “And I don’t give a fuck on the way other people call it.”

“What’s he saying?” asks Wanda.

“He says he doesn’t like jazz,” says Urban.

“That’s what he said before,” Wanda objects.

“Now he’s said it again,” Urban shrugs.

“Didn’t he say anything about us?” asks Eva.

“No, he didn’t.” Urban shakes his head.

“What they speak about?” asks Hurensson.

“They think you are speaking about them,” says Urban. “Will you have some wine?” he asks the prostitutes, reverting to Slovak. They both nod. Urban gets up and brings another bottle. He uncorks it and fills their glasses. “Gunnar?” he asks.

“Thanks,” says Hurensson. “I’d rather stay by my whisky.” He drinks and pours himself some more. “But the girls are really very fine,” he remarks. “Very pretty, both. Especially that tall one. Somehow unusual. Almost exotic. Really fine. And both have great drive.”

Urban smiles. “In our country people call it ‘turbo’,” he says “Do you understand? Turbo fucking.”

The Swede bursts out laughing. “Yes, yes, turbo fucking. I like it! The girls are both ‘turbo’,” he adds gallantly.

“What’s he saying?” asks Wanda, scratching between her legs with her long lacquered fingernails.

“He says you’re both ‘turbo’,” Urban translates.

“Generally, I like your hookers,” says Hurensson. “But they all make one great mistake. They are not professional enough, you know? They all just want to marry someone from Western countries. We call them ‘Russian brides’, you know? Who is such a fool to marry a prostitute from East?” Hurensson smiles. Yes, Slovak girls are very pretty. Hurensson likes coming here: this is his third time. He likes to have sex with Slovak hookers. Hurensson admits there are not many places where you can find so many beautiful women as here. The Slovaks are aware of it and so they’re proud of it. Hurensson listens to the radio. He knows that there are various songs promoting Slovak girls. He can’t understand the words, but he can imagine what the songs are about. He’s learned a few Slovak words: dievcha, soulozh, kurva, platit, nemame, zatvorene, buzerant (a girl, sex, whore, to pay, we haven’t got any, we’re closed, a queer). Now a new word: turbo. Turbo kurva . (A turbo whore.) Pretty girls, that’s one of the few things the Slovaks can be proud of. Although, on the other hand, Hurensson doesn’t really get it: why be proud? It’s something that Slovaks can’t influence or prevent. If someone marries a pretty girl, then fine! Everybody will envy the man and imagine how good it would be to have sex with his wife. In reality, only her husband can. Hurensson believes that Slovaks’ general pride in the beauty of their women has no basis. It’s as if Arabs were proud of having the most sand in the world. Finns have more lakes than anyone, but Hurensson has yet to meet a Finn whose self-esteem is raised by this fact. Wouldn’t it be ridiculous?

Urban does not know what to say. He is quiet. The hookers have discovered the video, turned it on, put in a cassette and are watching a Disney cartoon. They laugh and slap their thighs. Their breasts wobble.

Hurensson takes a sip of whisky. He likes sleeping with Slovak girls. But that’s it. He would not want any of them as a wife. Does Urban want to know why? To marry her means to give her his name and make her the mother of his offspring. One organism couples with another and genes are replicated. But the women here, not just in Slovakia, but everywhere — in East Germany, Hungary, Poland, Russia (Hurensson has been to all these places and had sex with prostitutes) — have bodies polluted with all the junk the communists stuffed into them over the years. The stuff they gave them to eat, drink, and breathe. All that got into their skin when they washed or went for a walk. If Hurensson married one of these pretty local women, he would risk the lives of his offspring from deformed genes. And even if no deformed genes appear, how does he know that in a few years his pretty Slovak wife won’t get sick? The effects of living in that environment will show up and he’ll be left paying the cancer specialists. No thanks, says Hurensson. He’ll gladly come and have sex with Slovak hookers, because they are firstly, exceptionally beautiful and secondly, ridiculously cheap. But marry a Slovak girl? Hurensson would rather marry an ugly Swedish woman with a healthy heart, no lead in her bones, no aluminium in her brain, no mercury in her intestines.

Urban says nothing. He’s never looked at it this way. He ought to feel offended, but he doesn’t. Everything passes him by. Urban is alone. He has no sense of ‘us’ with anyone. He may have lead in his bones and aluminium in his brain, too, but the Swede’s theory strikes him as stupid. You only have to look at Urban or the two beautiful scrubbers and compare them to Hurensson’s sickly physiognomy. One glance will tell you who is the more degenerate.

He tries to change the topic, but Wanda asks, “What is he blethering about?”

Urban waves his hand. “He’s explaining why he doesn’t want to marry either of you,” he tells Wanda.

The prostitutes bursts out laughing. “What the fuck’s wrong with him?” asks Dripsy Eva.

“What they say?” Hurensson would like to know.

“They say, that’s very funny party,” says Video Urban.

“It’s just going to be a one!” says Hurensson, who puts aside his glass, gets up and picks up his jacket. He takes a foil sachet from the inside pocket. He unwraps it to reveal white powder. There’s just a thimbleful.

“What is it?” asks Wanda.

“That’s coke,” says Hurensson, who’s understood the question.

“What did he say?” the prostitute asks Urban.

“It’s cocaine,” says Urban.

“Cocaine?” asks Eva.

Hurensson pours a pinch of white powder onto the lacquered surface of the round table, takes a silver tube like a cigarette holder, sticks it in his nostril and puts a finger over the other nostril. He bends low over the table and breathes in the line of powder. His giant balls and his long, shrivelled penis swing comically as he sniffs the coke. He passes the silver tube to Dripsy Eva and prepares a line for her. The prostitute sniffs the drug, tears well up in her eyes, and she sneezes. Next is Wanda the Trucker, and finally, out of curiosity, Video Urban. They sit for a while quietly. Hurensson looks as if he is silently praying. The others watch him. They’re afraid of breaking the silence that has suddenly fallen here.

Urban waits for any changes caused by the drug. He focuses, but nothing extraordinary is happening. Except that his penis is becoming tumescent. After a while it gets so hard that it is on the verge of painfulness. Urban gets a tremendous lust for Dripsy Eva. He pulls her by the hand. The hooker gets up, pulls away her suspender belt and her black-patterned stockings and, giving herself a helping hand, she mounts Urban’s member. With her eyes closed she slowly begins to rock. Her face is ablaze. Wanda tries to revive Hurensson’s manhood: after lengthy manipulation she succeeds. They hold hands and walk to the bed. Hurensson lies down and Wanda sits on him. They start to jerk wildly. Sweat appears on their faces.