Twist 2

TWO Monday morning he taught a business class, his only one all week. This class was located in a large office complex near the end of his street, on Pulawska. Business English was the big growth area in the TEFL industry, or so it was said. Steve was a past master at teaching business English according to popular belief and rumour. Before his current incarnation as Senior Teacher in Komanow, business English had been his staple, running from job to job from one end of town to another, from one company to the next to deliver his lessons to secretaries and middle managers, dispensing holy water to the faithful. He’d been chosen for this particular group because they were “sensitive”. In other words they were newly signed up and they were choosey. In other words the boss was a cranky old cow who tended always to get her own way and had complained, at the drop of a hat because the other teacher didn’t quite measure up. He breezed past the front reception, smiled and waved at the receptionist, jumped into the shiny new glass-skinned elevator of this shiny happy new glass-skinned building and was catapulted to the sixth floor. He liked the openness of these new buildings and the way the sun came through all the walls. The lesson took place in the lounge, which was part bar, part meeting place and part art gallery. The artworks displayed were original, derivative. Steve didn’t like any of them apart from one, which featured a tanned, voluptuous woman with her back towards the viewer. Beautiful rump. Hmmm. It’s how I would paint Beata’s rump if I were a painter, he said to himself. She was so well-tanned and voluptuous, one of the most beautiful women he’d ever dragged into his bed. In fact he hadn’t dragged her. She’d come of her own free will. She’d dragged him into her, wanting more and more even when he was completely exhausted. She’d been 35 at the time. Older women, they could never get enough. Or so it had been said. The cranky old bosswoman started telling him how money could solve all your problems. This was one of those arguments which aroused the fighting instinct in Steve. He’d heard it often from students in Prague and Warsaw. He hit back, saying that all the rich people he’d ever met had lots of problems. “Yes but”, she said. “Yes but what?” he said. “Yes but rich people don’t have to work,” she said. “All the rich people I know are workaholics. That’s how they got to be rich,” he said. “Yes but they don’t have to work,” she said. “Yes but they do”, he said. “That’s what I said, they are workaholic. Workaholic means addicted to work. That means that work for them is a habit they can’t break, even if they wanted to.” he said. “I think that rich people really don’t have to work. I really don’t understand what you are talking about.” "Ok let's have a look at the textbook," Steve said. The lesson was over an hour later. The big glass elevator sucked him back to the ground floor. Coffee, cigarette, a cold, crisp, sunny morning. An agreeable, tingling sensation spread through his body from his brain to his fingertips. * Every Friday afternoon there was a staff meeting. Steve avoided these whenever possible, but in his recently-acquired position of responsibility he was obliged to be present. He sat dutifully through the hints to new teachers about living in Warsaw, teaching tenses and vocabulary and business language, the seminars and role-plays. He arrived at this meeting late. Tim was giving a seminar on teaching children. He was explaining how, as opposed to adult learners, kids needed maximum input from the teacher. In an adult lesson, teacher talking time should be no more than 20% of the lesson, ideally 10-15%. In a class with small children, the opposite was true. Steve was teaching the littlest of the little ones and could see the sense in this. Tim sat a group of teachers down and got them to pretend to be kids. He repeated some words in Polish, doing facial gestures to match. “Sczeszliwy”, he said, smiling exaggeratedly. After he’d said it a few times everyone repeated. “Smutny”, he then said, frowning deeply and pretending to sob. Again he got everyone to repeat. He emphasised the necessity of facial expressions and hand gestures. Steve tried to absorb all of this. He made a point of not taking notes. What he remembered he would use, what he couldn’t remember probably wasn’t that useful anyway. The big event of the day was not the meeting, however, but the pay that was delivered after the meeting. They always made everyone wait an irritatingly long time. Steve could never really understand why they did this but there had to be a reason. There was usually a reason for everything. Despite the apparent meagreness of his paypack, paydays were always treat days. He would treat himself to something- a bottle of scent, a decent meal, a session with a prostitute perhaps. Anything to make him feel better, to bring relief, to remind him that there was something to life other than struggle and drear. Andy was waiting for him when he collected, hiding just around the corner in the corridor, having already picked up his dues. Words didn’t need to be exchanged- a little body language sufficed until they found their way out of the grounds of the school building, onto the street and into a taxi which took them down town to the main street, Jerozalimskie, Jerusalem street, home of the city's finest and best value pleasure houses. “Man, you sure get some pleasure out of leisure”, Andy said to Steve, as he explained that he needed to stop off along the way to get a porno magazine, which he would then view along with the whore and ask what she liked to do and which pictures turned her on. “Yahhhh”, Steve said. They rolled out of the taxi once it had pulled up onto the curb at Jerozalimskie. Steve and Andy wandered into the maze of shops below street level, emerging opposite the train station, in front of the Marriot. From there it was a short walk to their favourite bordello. They climbed the creaky wooden staircase (why were the best whorehouses always located in the crappiest buildings?) and rang the buzzer. A rather attractive blonde answered the door. “Dzien dobry” they said in unison, Steve and the door attendant. The two males were ushered in, shown to a room and sat down to await the procession of available flesh. They came out in a clump, as they usually did, which made both Steve and Andy feel sorry for them. When you chose one you upset the others, and you were under pressure to make a choice and see the reaction of the rejects. Steve and Andy waited two minutes before the women emerged sadly, in the usual dismal procession. One looked a little more cheerful, just a tiny little bit more lively, than the others so Steve chose her. “Any problem with that, Andy?” “None whatsoever, dude.” he said. Andy chose a tall, dark girl. Greek, maybe Turkish by the looks of her. What the hell was she doing in this city? Steve’s girl returned to the room a few minutes later to find him on the bed, erection in hand, awaiting her. She moved shyly across the room and into the adjoining bathroom to shower. When she again emerged from the shower Steve was still waiting, still fondling his erection. She wasn’t really all that pretty, but she somehow had a spark in her eyes that the other girls didn’t have. Like she actually did want to have some fun. She then told him, in Polish, that this was her first day on the job and that she was a little nervous. “Ohhh,” Steve said. A little rush of excitement spread up through his body as she hastily lifted her little skirt and pulled down her g-string. He grabbed her from behind and rubbed her body, letting his hands wander over her stomach and then moving up to her breasts, flicking the nipples playfully with his fingers. He then guided her to the bed and lay her down. He opened her legs and had a look inside, playing with the walls of her vagina. He looked deep into the little pink opening, perhaps hoping to get lost in there. He tried to go down on her but she didn’t want him to lick her so instead he put on a condom and climbed on top of her. He wanted to find out more about her, so, as he started to fuck her, he asked her how many clients she’d had on this her first day. She told him that he was the first. Steve smiled to himself. He then switched to rear entry, pounding her without restraint, slapping her buttocks, sweat dripping from his forehead onto her back, as he whispered to her “Dobra? Dobra?” “Tak,” she said. The time seemed to be over very quickly, for someone was knocking on the door before he had released. “Moment”, Steve called out to the knocker. Steve whispered to her, “Dobra, tak……..mala dzivka,” driving harder and harder until he had let it all go. He started to laugh as he fell forward onto the bed. “Oooh, that was good,” he said to her. And then “How do you like the new job?” She slapped him on the buttocks. They both laughed some more. He knew that he had to see her again sometime later, after she’d got a bit more experience. Find out how, or if, she coped with this. They put their clothes on and left the room. Steve knocked on the door of Andy’s room. Andy was in there with his girl still, smoking a cigarette with his shirt still off. Cool. The girl was smiling and they all had a bit of a giggle. Steve liked the looks of her, and let Andy know about that, so they talked about meeting for a team session with all three of them sometime later. Maybe in the brothel, maybe at a hotel. It was going to cost double anyway, so it would be a bit of an extravagance, but worth it no doubt. When Steve hit the streets again, he felt lighter than he had upon entering the building. The fresh breeze blew in their faces, winter needles and pins. 5pm and it was already dark. They didn’t really have time to get a beer, or have a chat. There were things to do. Shopping, dinner. They arranged to meet later in the evening at an Irish pub, one of Andy’s regular haunts but not so popular with Steve and the other people in his crew. Never mind, he wanted to defer to Andy this evening because was a cool guy and had some cool friends and he’d had the bonding experience of the whorehouse this day and wanted to extend it. * A slow, soulful rhythm poured out of the speakers as Steve entered the darkened, wood-panelled space of this, the one and only Irish pub in Warsaw. Andy was in the middle of a group of people, smiling and chugging back on beer. “Hey nigger,” he called out. Steve smiled and waved, even though he wasn’t a nigger. It was just Andy’s way of talking, and something to do with Steve’s sometime obsession with gangsta rap. “Let me get beer.” “Yeah, cool.” Andy said. Andy’s girlfriend, Sonja, had her arm around him and was smiling extravagantly. So weird, that guy’s nerve. Once they had gone out together and had a hooker, then immediately afterwards, they had hooked up with Sonja. Steve was astonished. I mean, how could you? Like, don’t you? Isn’t that? You know? Steve knew however, that he could learn useful things from people like Andy, such as the art of survival in a psychotic world. There was a covers band on tonight as was the usual set up in this joint. The start of their play represented a shift in the level of noise and in the atmosphere of the room. No longer quiet enough for conversation. People got up to dance instead. Steve was irritated by this. Pubs were for a quiet drink and an intimate chat. They were not for dancing and for being exposed to music that was so loud as to disturb the nerves and create distance between people. Clubs did that job. More people jumped onto the dancefloor, singing along. Steve sat and watched. Steve eventually staggered home on foot. Again drunk, again melancholy, again thinking about killing somebody: either himself or another. Why did thoughts of torture and murder always come when deeply inebriated, as well as thoughts of suicide? He couldn’t really figure that one. It always seemed to be when he was walking home too. Usually a walk cleared the head, but tonight the head became steadily more and more crowded with each step. He arrived home to find the flat empty. Ewa was away again this weekend. Had taken off before Steve even returned home from work earlier, but at least had had the courtesy to leave a note explaining that she wanted to get away before it got too late, as the folks would want an early night, it being winter and all. * Time passed. Steve taught his lessons, fought insomnia for weeks at a time. Persevered. Managed not to kill himself, not that anyone really gave a shit, but Steve himself kind of half-cared. Summer came. Ewa left for the countryside for the whole of July and August. Just a day she was gone and Steve was feeling lighter already. He lay on his fold-out staring at the ceiling, smoking a cigarette and dreaming about the time he planned to have this summer. He picked up the phone and made a call to one of his female friends, one of his future fucking friends. Or that was what he planned. A few days later they met. It was a dog day, the air filled with the dry chemical swelter that invades metropolitan cities in the heat of summer. Steve, out of character, was delayed, although the source of the delay had nothing to do with him and seemed a privilege to witness. The taxis were lined up bumper to bumper as he made his way into the city, blocking access to everybody. Steve was sitting in a bus, about a kilometre from the city centre. He noticed that the bus was not moving an inch. It took him a few minutes to pull his head out of his book and look out to see that there were taxis as far as the eye could see. More minutes passed. Still no movement. Word went around that a taxi driver had apparently been murdered, and all the Warsaw drivers had taken the time off work to show solidarity and attend his funeral. Steve asked the bus driver to let him out so he could walk. The driver obliged and Steve began to meander down the road with the sun on his back, penetrating his skin. He walked all the way in to the city and all the way the cabs were backed up. He stood on a street corner at the centre of town to witness the tail of this procession, and the last of them let off their horns in a display of mateship that Australia, with its so-called culture of mateship, couldn’t rival, as far as Steve could recall. When he arrived, 10 minutes late, he apologised and explained. “It’s ok,” Justyna said. “I saw it too.” “Never see anything like that at home.” “But this is Poland. We have Solidarity.” “I can see that.” “What do you have in Australia.” “Mostly lies and cover-up.” “Really? I don’t believe you. Australia’s a good country isn’t it?” “Nobody believes me when I say stuff about home. But somehow I have this little feeling that I know that I know better than they do.” “But it’s hard for us to believe some things. Everything should be good in the West.” “And that’s what everyone here seems to think. And that just means that we’ve done a great PR job. You know what PR means don’t you?” “Yeah, I guess you’re right. It wasn’t all great in Paris either.” The sun shone down around them as they sat outside, cooled by the shade of the table umbrella. Steve liked to have a viewing platform when he ate and this seemed about as good as any. He liked to observe city life swarming around him as he consumed his food and drink. He glanced back at her. He was happy to be here at least for this moment, with a halfway decent café lunch and an ex-catwalk model. “You know I got engaged last year.” Steve didn’t know, as he hadn’t been in touch with her since the same time the previous year. “No I didn’t know that.” He said. “Yeah, but it ended already.” “I’m sorry. How?” “My boyfriend, he was just as bad as my parents. Always going on and on about things I don’t want to hear. I never want to hear the word ‘anorexia’ again.” “Ok. Anyway, how is the job at the EU commission treating you.” “It’s ok.” “Sometimes I think that the EU is a bit of a totalitarian organisation. It’s not there to make people freer. It’s just going to divide Europe again between the haves and have-nots. You know what I mean?” “Yes, I do.” “I feel sorry for the people who have to be here, who have no choice. I mean I’m here because I want to be here, you understand?” “I understand. You mean the Ukrainians and the Vietnamese and the people who can’t go home?” “Yeah, those people. They’re here because they have to be here. The EU isn’t going to make it any easier for them to stay here. I mean for some of them it will be a good thing, if they are properly established here and can stay on with Polish residency. I think quite a lot of people will get squeezed out and a lot of people are going to be prevented from coming here at all. Europe is tough.” “It is, but at least you can go anywhere you like, because you’ve got something that people need. You’re lucky.” “Yeah, I’m a lucky fuck. Do you think you’ll stay with the EU much longer?” “I don’t know, I hope not too long. I only get paid 1000 zl a month. That’s why I’m living with my parents again. Doesn’t pay like modeling did.” "I bet." Steve looked at his watch. Almost time to go. Lunch dates with good-looking women had that way of disappearing before they’d hardly started. The waiter came around. They asked for the bill and then they got up to leave. Steve kissed Justyna on the cheek as she departed. He returned home and placed a freshly purchased novel upon the shelf. He looked at his book collection admiringly. The pornography collection was stored in a cupboard upon which he’d placed postcards of Polish religious icons and treasures. This was not intended as superstition or sacrilege. He just liked to remind himself of the schism in his personality, the split between the spiritual longing for beautiful things and secular cravings to immerse himself in filth and infamy. After looking through these objects he flicked on the TV. He lay fixated and immobile in front of the box, one cigarette followed by another. Headline followed headline, ad followed ad in a perennial stream, a steady comforting blur. He let it wash over him, unwilling to do anything else. After some three hours he decided he’d had enough of the BBC. He lit another cigarette and flipped the channel.