Twist 4

FOUR Another Friday night, another private student. Michal was a quiet young man of 23. Steve taught him business English. The lesson progressed sluggishly. Steve had obtained an article from the newspaper about corporate abuse in the highest places, and the minimal sentences the abusers and fraudsters are given. This was hardly news these days, but it appeared to come as something of a surprise to his student. “Isn’t it just awful what the really powerful, the unelected chiefs of corporate America can get away with”, Steve said. “Maybe”, Michal said. “You know, it’s a really fucking bullshit thing that you Polacks…....and Czechs for that matter always say “maybe” when you really mean “no”. Why don’t you try expressing a fucking opinion instead of being so totally gutless and infuriating? I’d really like you to tell me why”, Steve thought but didn’t say. After the lesson he asked Steve if he’d used chatrooms. Steve said that he hadn’t. Michal logged on, using the computer that had been sitting idle on his desk throughout the lesson. Steve went up as Snoop__1. Snoop__1 buzzed ^sweetgal. Hi, how’s it goin’ babes? <^sweetgal> pretty good…..babes? What are ya doin’? <^sweetgal> drinking beer….u? not much, can I join ya and drink a beer? <^sweetgal> sure…..where ru? Warsaw….u? <^sweetgal> bytom nice….got any boys with u? <^sweetgal> hehehehehe…..no <^sweetgal> u? boys? no think I like boys? <^sweetgal> no, girls your right  Michael said “You learn fast.” Steve said “Do I?” “I must shut down computer now.” “That’s unfortunate,” said Steve. “What it means, unfortunate?” “It means….a pity. Szkoda.” On his way home, Steve made a detour to a dark, quiet, inexpensive internet café to log on and chat some more. He’d been curious about chatrooms for a while, but until now had had no idea how to use them. He stayed in the same room all night, unaware that he could get into more rooms. He eventually found a Japanese woman who was willing to participate in a moderately erotic conversation. The radio droned in the background. The strains of Ronan Keating’s “Life is a rollercoaster” were etched into his brain from that night, it seemed to be on a loop. In no time at all the proprieter told him it was lock up time. He would not have left otherwise, maybe not ever. It was 11 o’clock at night. He’d been in there for over 3 hours, which seemed like 3 minutes when spent within the walls of a chatroom. He stood up out of his chair, feeling his spinal column crack. The night outside was chilly, windy and rainy. He stepped out from the cafe and embraced the wind, breathing deeply, slightly drained, as if he’d just spent too much time wanking in a sexshop cabin. * One afternoon in a chatroom, opportunity arrived in the form of a Russian girl called Natasha. They got heavy with the dialogue. She praised him, laying out the praise with classic Russian desperation. He called her on the phone later that evening. A few more calls and he learned that she was broke, and desperate, and a perfect victim. She told him all kinds of stories, of how she’d danced in a strip club with her friends. She wanted sex, wasn’t afraid to say so. She wanted to come to Warsaw. He made many promises to her about what would happen if she came. He told her that she could teach English or Russian and he told her about the money she could earn, unheard of money in her language. He could almost hear his own bowels rumble with anticipation as she lapped it up. It didn’t take her long to get to Warsaw. They’d known each other for just a few weeks and she was right there then, after a long ride from Russia, 30 hours on the train. When she landed in his bed he found himself not really needing to show restraint or respect. She was like the porno girls he adored. She was a real model example. Like he wanted, whatever he wanted. They fell asleep after that first night at 3 in the morning or something. He observed her laying next to him as she slept. Just one night and already he was bored with her. She looked slightly ruined already. Later that day he took her to a local restaurant- an Italian place. She didn’t know what to order, told him she’d never eaten such foods in so nice place as this. He ordered for her. The wine came, the food came. She was astonished. Steve spent more money on lunch than she earned in a week. When he left he casually dropped the money on the table and walked, which left Natasha open-mouthed in shock. For the evening entertainment he took her to a strip bar. They enjoyed the show. Natasha suggested that he take a girl while she watched. He tried to fathom her motivation for saying this- thinking of his own fantasies of watching his girlfriend have sex with a hired stud, and decided to go along with it. “You know you could work here, Natasha,” he told her. “You’d make a lot of money,” he said. “How much, do you think?” “At least a thousand dollars a week” he said. “You want to talk to the manager?” They left the spinning disco balls and gaudy, sad stageshow for the claustrophic backroom where the manager did deals. He explained the terms, the pay. He told her she would have to bring her passport, so they could authorise her permission to work. She agreed. Natasha awoke the next day feeling fabulous. She could be free and comfortable here, make great money, no longer have to have sex with her clients to earn enough. She thought that Warsaw was lovely, only a bit strange. It seemed more familiar than Italy, where she’d visited her last internet fuck. She suggested to him that they should find a nice park to walk in and enjoy the beautiful summer day. Steve felt morbid, but did his best to conceal it as they walked through the still heat in the quiet park. They went to a different restaurant this day. Steve wanted her last date with him to be something special, something she’d remember. He took her to a Japanese restaurant. He took her downstairs to a small private room. With the cloth-covered doors shut, sitting on the floor, on the cushions, prints on the walls, mournful Japanese music in the background, Steve observed Natasha’s reaction. She looked like she was in a kind of dream. He noticed that her eyes were moistening. “You OK?” he said. “Yes fine.” It was clear to him that she was lying, but he didn’t feel like mentioning that to her. East Europeans that he knew, most of them, had this funny attitude to luxury, and especially to eating internationally and well. They normally found the idea of going out for Indian, Thai or Spanish to be suspect. It had to be national pride, or poverty, or a combination of both. Steve resented the fact that it was a more or less taboo to say that you liked something other than Polish food here. Food, like language, was one of those cultural divides. They would never understand him and his Australian food multiculturalism, and he would never understand them and their monoculture. He was pleased however, to be doing his little bit to crash through the divide with this simple Russian girl, this poor peasant. The sushi arrived in its correct aesthetic condition. Natasha wanted to ask for a knife and fork. Steve insisted that he show her how to use the sticks. He could see that she had trouble learning, and wasn’t confident and resisted. He continued. “Like this,” he said, showing. “Or you can just eat it with your fingers like so.” The suggestion made her eyes go wide. She continued trying to use the chopsticks. “Sushi is a great aphrodisiac, did you know that?” he said. “Really?” Natasha said. “Of course. I mean, you know what raw fish tastes like, right?” A pause, a reaction, a smile. “I guess you’ve never tried pink sushi have you?” Steve said. “Pink sushi? I never tried any sushi before this.” “Well , the pink sushi is the next course. Let me show you where it is.” * In the evening they returned to the club. Natasha handed over her passport. Steve sat with her for a short while then told her he had to go. He left, stopping in the boss’ office to collect his money. The boss was waiting there, all important in Armani, cash at the ready. He handed Steve the pile. It was a dirty wad of cash, it looked as if it had been around the block a few times. He counted it out slowly, note by note. Once counted he left with his wad and went to the toilet with it, holding it to his nose when he got into the cubicle. Such a smell. Sexy. The sense of electricity died down in his veins a little once he was home and his cash was parked in its place under the bottom drawer of his sideboard. He had discussed future acquisitions for the club- trips to Ukraine he could make where women could easily be lured to Poland and the promise of a better life. * When Natasha finished her routine at 4 o’clock in the morning, she was taken in to the backroom. The boss told her that he had paid $10 000 for her, and she would have to work this debt off. He told her that if she didn’t do as she was told, she’d be turned over to the police who would lock her up and deport her back to Russia for not having any documents. He told her that if this happened she would never be able to travel again. Furthermore, they knew where to find her in her hometown and had contacts there who would remove her from the face of the earth and nobody would actually care or stop them, Russia being Russia. Natasha looked down at the floor. She wasn’t sure if it was still there, if it was going to continue holding her weight. She slowly pushed her chair back, stood up and then fell back to the floor. * Steve cracked the seal on the bottle of Ballantines he’d picked up on the way home. The tremor in his hand began to die down a little after he’d poured a long one down his throat. It was the first job, like the first lesson- nerves. But what did he have to lose? They weren’t going to come after him. They weren’t about to kill the goose for laying their golden eggs. There was no question that could make them a fortune. He could also end up in Hell for this, a thought which he tried to push out of his mind. Steve pondered the earthly possibliities- the worst they could do was to break into his flat and shoot him in the back of the head in his sleep, and he wanted that anyway. * He took his mates out the following weekend to get smashed. Single malt and cigars were consumed in Steve’s little flat. Steve produced cigars for everyone- short fat Honduran robustos for Gustaw, Eddie and James. Only Max held out against the cigars, but indulged in the scotch and wine that were on offer. “What’s the fuckin’ occasion?” James asked. “Just sold a pile of coke.” “Oh.” They roared into the night, once the cigars were smoked and the scotch dispensed. More beer at the bar, much back-slapping and pushing and shouting. He enjoyed his friends, at least as much as he enjoyed his women. His team batted hard, every innings. Steve had an idea in his mind that he’d like to immortalise his crew in a short film or music video, film them striding in slow motion, taking over the night. Steve drank himself to a point beyond caring, beyond fear. He found a coke dealer, and a good-looking prostitute, and floated back to his flat with her. The coke took the harsh edges off his drunkenness. He felt sober and energetic enough to have sex, yet was relieved once the girl was out of his room and he could have some time to think about things. He’d need a lot more money by far. It was going to cost to get out to Ukraine to get more willing victims, more units of flesh. If it was going to happen he needed to act fast, very fast. Next weekend was a deadline. * As the week progressed, work was starting to look like something superfluous. When he thought about the money it made him want to laugh out loud. One job, one delivery and 4000 zl. One whole month of getting out of bed early every morning, running around from lesson to lesson, talking, prompting, cajoling and 4000 zl. He wanted to laugh until his lungs hurt. He arranged his visa and was on a train to Ukraine. He’d been advised where to look, walking into enemy territory. This wasn’t entrapment, or betrayal, it was theft. He didn’t know exactly who he was stealing from, but the smaller they were, the better. The nightlife in Kiev was even darker than any he’d known in Warsaw, but cheaper. He was more afraid of catching something from the mattress on his hotel bed than from the girls. There was the language thing, which was overcome slightly when Steve presented a $100 bill and a train ticket and did some pointing. After many false starts with these Ukrainian girls, he finally netted one, a very young looking woman, probably no more than 20, pretty enough. Steve’s intestines were starting to ache by the time he managed to get through to her. Three nights, half a dozen tricks he’d brought up to his room and finally one who didn’t turn to concrete when he tried to engage in conversation, in any language. This little one he finally bagged managed to communicate to him using her tossed salad of English, and Steve sort of got through to her using his fumbling Polish. She agreed to meet him later that evening in the hotel room. Steve waited for her in his room, pacing. She came at 4 in the morning. He handed her the bottle of scotch he’d slipped into this bag for the occasion. They didn’t even have drinkglasses in this shitty fleatrap. When he’d tried to take a shower the hot water was cold, and brown. This was the nightmare of Eastern Europe that everyone had warned him about. Ukraine was a country that looked as if it had fallen about as far as a country should ever reasonably be expected to fall. He didn’t feel guilty for taking this girl out of here. He was simply afraid. Someone might come after him for this, he knew not whom. If that Russian girl had lived in similar conditions in her own country then maybe, eventually, she’d be better off in the end here if she could get out of servitude and achieve residency somehere other than home. Or at least he could sort of attempt to rationalise it that way. He looked at her as she sat hunched on his bed. “Passport?” he asked. “Da” she said. “Ok” he said. It was a grim, military-loooking document, this Ukrainian passport. A black and white photo from a different timestream displayed the identity of its holder. It was her, he knew, but couldn’t quite make the connection between the black and white person in the picture and the almost-living-colour individual in front of him. This woman existed in the 1990’s and this photo was from a different time- occupied Europe in the 1940’s. “OK” he said. They fell asleep wedged together in the small bed. Steve was surprised by the tenderness of her touch. Perhaps she knew something that he didn’t. What Steve didn’t know that she knew was that he was unlike other men she’d known from the Ukraine- sweet-smelling, polite, properly dressed. That was the reason why she wanted to go with him. Any escape was a good escape. Anywhere but here would be better, thanks all the same. She wanted to wake up alive. They breakfasted at Mcdonald’s, the safe option, and then moved on, bags in hand, to the drab train station. Steve coughed and wheezed from the dust that seemed to permeate this place, eventually settling in to the hard, peeling, vynyl seats for the long trip home. Michaela had been shivering slightly all morning, but that died down once the train started to move away. Steve knew there had to be a better way to arrange things. The smell of sweat was heavy in the carriage. Two large, unshaven local men, dressed in grey denims, grey sweaters and grey-brown boots had joined them, smoking constantly and passing a bottle of cheap vodka from hand to hand. A film of of toxic sweat covered their reddened faces. The train rumbled through the time-frozen Ukrainian countryside. Steve looked out and saw women working in fields holding scythes, cutting hay. He saw old men sittting in railway stations, men who had been part of the station furniture for decades. Other old men cobbled down the roads in their horses and carts. He saw a dead body in a tree, female, young, blood streaming from her arms. Steve tried to excuse himself and went to the toilet. He walked unsteadily down the hall until he reached the toilet cubicle. There he pulled the latch and was jolted across the tiny compartment. He looked to the floor and realised that it would be impossible to kneel down here- too much liquid on the floor, and it didn’t smell so pleasant. He tried to aim his projectile standing up, which was awkward, as it was more difficult to aim into the bowl with the rocking of the train. A little of the puke hit the toilet seat, prompting Steve, with his Western, middle-class sense of shame, to look for some toilet paper with which to clean it up, but of course there was none, and of course no drinkable water with which he could wash his filthy mouth. He wiped his face with his hand, removing the small fragments of vomit and then washed his hands in the fetid water that emerged from the tap. He looked at himself in the mirror. “Oh Christ” he said. * Warsaw station emerged into view a century later. The glare of flourescent lights made him squint as he swayed from the carriage, bearing up awkwardly on each leg- almost slipping from the momentum of his pack. He lead Michaela up the ramp, past the familiar rows of shop-fronts in the arcade. Savage, tender modernity was returning to comfort him, soothing him back to his place in the universe. As he re-entered his flat he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the night-time stillness, the darkness punctured only by a tiny eye of light streaming from the “on” switch of the video and TV. He turned on the light and looked at Michaela, observing the hints of yellow at the edge of her features, the soul-sickness she’d carried with her as baggage. He wanted her to feel stronger here, safer and healthier. The next morning he fed her a healthy beakfast of fruit and yoghurt. Probably more vitamins than she’d had all month. He took her out and bought her a new dress and some appropriate undergarments. Now she was beginning to look like a woman. He gave her a small bottle of perfume. He tried to teach her enough words of English and of Polish that she’d be able to protect herself. They stayed together for three days and nights in his little room, Steve being the teacher every minute that he could be with her. Before he took her to meet the boss he gave her his number, and forced her to memorise it. He told her to call him if there was any trouble. After she’d left the room the boss gave him his money. Steve sighed inwardly as he took it, though not a victory sigh. He felt ashamed that he’d turned this poor bedraggled creature over to a ruthless mafia. Why hadn’t he felt so much sympathy for Natasha? And then there was the money itself- after all the expenses were deducted, only 500zl on the whole damn thing. He could see that if he was going to make any money in this business, it would have to be much cleaner, he would have to start his own going concern in the flesh trade. He also was beginning to realise that if he wanted to feel OK about himself he would have to operated a little differently from the usual mafia bosses. He decided that he wanted the women to work for him, and get treated almost like human beings. However, in order to get the money to establish a business, he knew he had to do things he wouldn’t want to do. He knew that more cross-border transactions would have to be made, for somebody at least. * It was midday between teaching shifts. Another day. Steve made his way up the stairs of a Warsaw agency. He preferred visiting the professional girls in the middle of the day. He wasn’t drunk, he had enough energy to enjoy himself. It was appropriately mundane, as commercial sex always should be if it is to be enjoyed fully. Right time of day to discuss business, and the first item on Steve’s business agenda involved business travel. He hopped from one whorehouse to the next, looking at the girls line up for selection. It was essential to pick one who looked both intelligent and sympathetic. They had to speak English to some extent. He spoke to them a little before making his choice, testing. She was blonde, tall and far too elegant for hooking. They settled into the bedroom, she returning with his change. She told him she’d just finished studying medicine, was looking for a job, hadn’t found the right kind of paycheck. Steve’s guts started to twist with anticipation. “You want to make a lot more money, right?” “Of course.” “You want to do that in Berlin. I have a good connection. Can do the introductions.” “How much money it is?” “Be on 2000 marks a week.” “How it is possible?” “Clients pay 200 for sex, you get half, you see 20 in a week, there’s 2000 marks.” “OK, good.” “Good?” “Good.” He wrote a number on a small card. “Call, OK?” “OK” “Tonight.” “OK.” * When they met at Warsaw Central Station, she was dressed like any young Polish tourist going away to Berlin for a weekend. Short dress, light jacket, elegant pumps. Ridiculously small travel bag. He’d told her not to take too much. It would arouse suspicion. You can buy more clothes after you get paid. They pay you at the end of each night, depending on the number of clients, he’d said. No problem, no problem she’d said. This seemed like a better way to do business. Cleaner by far than going to Ukraine to look for tricks. Less time, less weight on the emotions. The shiny streets of West Berlin came into view after a dreary 9 hour ride. He took her straight to the club, delivered her to her new German boss, took his money, fled to a comfortable room , went out to console himself in a small bar near the Kurfurtsendamn. He ordered three scotches and poured them all into a single glass, then sat on his drink for the next half hour. He enjoyed a good meal in an Indonesian restaurant. Everything was here in Berlin, all the goodies he’d ever wanted. With money it was all possible, you were a somebody, revived, part of the flowing life- stream. He didn’t understand how anybody could be happy without money. 2000 marks sitting there under his belt. Sexy. He spent the night in Berlin and was on the morning train back to Poland. When he returned to Warsaw now from anyplace he felt like he was home, having already been there for two years. He’d found it easier to call this place home than any other anyway, much more than his so-called home town. The following weekend he went to visit Ewa. He took the long slow bumbling bus ride through the little twisted narrow Polish roads that were called “highways”, to the little village in the north-west of Poland where she summered with her parents. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other hasn’t it?” was Ewa’s opening remark. “Yes it has.” Steve said. They looked at each other in silence for a while and then got up to walk down to the lake. They pushed through the long reedy grass and into the little rowboat that her parents kept docked by the communal jetty. They paddled out to the edge of the lake and into a sidestream, digging through the reeds, observing the swans and other birdlife. This was the only place that Steve had seen in Europe where nature still looked natural. There were tiny crayfish darting about in the freshwater stream that they paddled into from the lake. They returned to the country house in the late afternoon, where Ewa’s parents were awaiting them. They served up vast quantities of food- sausage, grilled pork, baked potato and cabbage were heaped on to the plate. Have some more Steve, have some more. He wanted to say no but couldn’t. Refusing food in this country at your girlfriend’s parents’ house was social suicide and he didn’t want that even at this late stage in the game. Bedtime rolled around and they had to sleep in separate beds, not being married and all. This didn’t seem to matter too much to either of them. They carried on through the weekend paddling in the lake, not talking and pretending to be a couple in front of Ewa’s parents. * Returning to Warsaw, he didn’t have to see Ewa any more for another few weeks, or maybe even a month. The following weekend, surprisingly, he found himself in a bar with his mates. Max introduced him to Agata. Agata was young and fit-looking. Attractive, tanned but also looked fairly conservative. Yet she laughed when Jim asked Steve, in Polish, “How have you been fucking lately?” She wasn’t so terribly innocent, Steve wanted to discover. They were standing about in Szpilka, surrounded by so-called beautiful people, actors and models. Later they moved on to a club, whereupon Steve managed to get Agata to succumb to his charms and eventually bundled her into a taxi and back to his place. The next morning Agata told him about her boyfriend, who usually wasn’t around too much because he was too involved in his job. So she was sexually frustrated. She said that he liked sex but her boyfriend didn’t have enough time for her. Steve said that he’d be happy to help out from time to time if she liked. They sat around in Steve’s flat the next day, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee and watching MTV. “It’s nice, your flat,” she said. “Pretty chilled huh?” “Chilled means?” “It means relaxed. Cool.” “Yeah, it’s chilled.” After she had let herself out the door, Steve smoked a cigarette, watched the news headlines then began preparing his business plan- his six- monther. He needed 4000zl to get into a place with two bedrooms, then he needed to employ some girls, print some stationery and pay off people who would need paying off. A gorilla-sized male human would need to be employed for doing odd jobs here and there. He had 3000 zl left over from previous deals, which he’d have to keep completely aside from his regular income and expenditure. 2 or 3 more transfers of bodies across borders was all that was required, and then he was there, ready to become a business manager, a boss for the first time ever. In the afternoon he started ringing out for prostitutes. He saw four in the one evening, at a cost of almost 600zl. With each one he asked the same question- how much do you earn? Would you work for me if I offered you 10% more? He got two yeses. He gave them his mobile phone number and told them to call back in a month. Another internet contact came to him a week later. He was now spending as much time as possible in chatrooms, prowling the territory. So many East European girls looking for opportunity- a rich and handsome man, a way up in the world. He told them what he was doing in Warsaw, the teaching side of it at least, and the money he was making, which looked very very good to people from this part of the world. He promised them that if they came to Warsaw they would be able to make good money. Warsaw is a rich city now, the biggest market of any city in Central or Eastern Europe. They bought it, or enough did. His next internet contact was up within a week, from Latvia. He didn’t bother wining her or dining her, just took her straight to the club and got his money and left. He made two more sales and he made his sales on time- one more girl imported from Russia, another taken from Poland over the border into Germany. A two-bedroom flat in a quiet, central location was rented, his first two girls were employed, protection money paid to one of the largest gangs in the city. At a meeting with his standover man the terms were made clear. 2000zl every month and you can stay in business. The boss was named Jacek. He was an extremely large man, with shaven head and one or two visible tattoos. A gun was sitting on the desk of his office, which caused Steve to fall apart a little inside. However, as the business didn’t involve drugs, the levels of paranoia were not as high as they might have otherwise been. At least it was a legal product, sort of. Steve shook hands with his new superior. At least he had terms and conditions, a even if they weren’t exactly legally binding. He also had the assurance of no police involvement, as the level of understanding between the law and the powerful people on the other side of it was deep. He quit his job definitively at that point, a point he’d been slowly working up to. First he’d given up as director of the little school in Komanow, just taking business and private students in central Warsaw. He was ready to cut free from teaching entirely, now that he was into a proper bread and butter operation. As a pimp, Steve became a bigger punter than ever before- scouring the brothels for business and pleasure. More girls were employed, more money came in, protection went out. Summer was drawing to a close and Ewa was due back in town. Steve didn’t tell her everything, not the whole monstrous truth, but he did tell her that he couldn’t be her boyfriend anymore. He didn’t bother to explain because he didn’t think she’d need any explanations. Any intelligent person would have figured out long ago that it’s over, or that was how it seemed to Steve? Still she sobbed and pleaded why, WHY?! Steve stood there in front of her with a blank look on his face. She collected her things, packed some bags and called a taxi, which was to take her to her uncle’s place. They made arrangements for her to return and collect the remainder of her belongings. He picked up the phone and called Agata. “Saturday night?” “OK,” she said, stressing the K. “Where?” “I don’t know. What you think?” “How about the Italian place on Pulawska at the business centre. You know the one?” “Yeah, I know.” “OK. There. 8 O’clock?” “OK” “And after. H20?” “OK. Yes. There is a party at H20. I’ll bring some of my friends. You know Andrea?” “You told me about her. The sexy one.” “Yeah.” “OK. See ya.” * It was a warmish night when they met, last gasp of Summer. Steve waited about for the two girls in the restaurant, where they drank beer and chatted. They then retired to Steve’s place for vodka and proceeded to leg it to the club- a vast open-air space in the middle of one of the largest parks in the city. Agata had brought some speed with her, which she dispensed to all her friends. There were 6 of them in all. Steve and 5 girls. Steve began to feel attracted to Michaela, a tall willowy brunette. Straight-looking, with a hint of something else underneath. The group began their session by downing a round of tequilas and then took some beers to the dark, hardly-used lounge downstairs. Agata opened the wrap of speed, handing it round to those who wanted to taste it then dropping the remainder in a bottle of Fanta for everybody else to consume. Steve took it both ways- eating it first and then taking a drink of the speed-laced Fanta, while he noticed some of the other girls hesitating. The harsh taste of the speed didn’t bother him in the slightest. He was disappointed that it was such a small wrapper, however. One tiny taste and a few diluted swigs. It appeared to be no more than half a gram that had gone around between all six of them. Not really enough to provide anyone with any kind of hit. They made their way upstairs to the dance floor. The arena was getting crowded. It took a few minutes for the warm glow to start radiating out from the stomach. Steve found himself smiling, a wide grin forced its way across his face, the chemicals rising through his body with unstoppable power. “God this is so great.” He kept saying to whoever would listen. He started to float- up, up to the ceiling, hovering above the dancefloor among the light fixtures. He sighed, and as he did the feeling of exquisite delight poured out with his breath. He became steadily more and more enraptured. The beat pounded on. He was looking at Michaela, watching a silvery halo form around her features. He had fallen in love, and with no hesitation whatsoever, he decided to tell her about it. She smiled, a wide glorious smile. How could anyone be that beautiful? He asked her how could anyone be that beautiful and she smiled again. He proceeded to move over towards Agata, and took her over to the bar. “Agata, I think I’ve fallen in love with your friend Michaela.” “Really? Do you want me to tell her about it?” “It’s alright. I’ve already told her.” “Have you? My God.” “I’m really fucked-up from this speed.” “Well, it’s over for us if you go to her.” “Yes, I guess it is. But I’m really glad that we were together. I hope that we can still be friends.” “I hope it too.” “God I can’t tell you how I feel now it is so great I just can’t stand it. I feel like I’m going ot explode it’s just so ooh I tell ya I wish Andy would come and I’d give him some speed too you know and then I’d chew his fuckin’ ear right off oh fuck I’m bouncing off the ceiling here and floating around with the lights. It’s so great. It is just so fucking great.” They went back to the dancefloor. Steve approached Michaela and tried to embrace her. She pushed him back. “You are much too fast.” “Really? Why you want to go slow, huh?” “Probably because I didn’t have what you had.” “No, you didn’t. Why’s that?” “I don’t do drugs. I prefer to be healthy.” “Me too, normally. But God I tell you this stuff is just so great. Just so great. I feel absolutely fantastic. I can’t tell you.” A few hours later it started wearing off. Agata noticed his deflated condition and told him that he looked like he needed some more, so he accepted her offer to get some more for him. He grabbed the wrap a few minutes later and took himself down to the toilet to eat it up. Upon returning, he didn’t have any more big rushes of pleasure, but as time passed he did start to feel steadily more brutalised, but he wanted to stay in this place. Agata left at 4:30 but Steve didn’t go with her. He couldn’t leave, the beat and the lights wouldn’t let him. By 6 am he was shuffling from point to point on the dancefloor, becoming increasingly paranoid, and every 5 minutes or so he could see his friend Andy in the shadows. He would move towards him and then he’d be gone. He knew how obvious he was, this zombie trying to look human. In spite of that sickening feeling, he could not leave. Finally they turned the music off and he no longer was bound to the floor. It was 8 O’clock in the morning and getting hot. A sheet of toxic sweat covered his face- alcohol, nicotine and amphetamine pouring from his system. The sun beat down upon him painfully as he traipsed across the park lawns and along the footpaths back to his tiny flat. As he made his way up the stairs, terror gripped him, lest he might have to look at one of his neighbours.He kept his eyes down on the floor, just in case one of them came out.He fell upon the bed, clutching the pillow for security. He was afraid of turning on the television, fearing that he would be so horrified by what he might see that he would go insane. When he thought about pornography he wanted to throw up. All sexual urge had disappeared. His penis looked like a little raisin, all shrivelled up and dry. The awareness of guilt was surging through his body physically. The walls were starting to crackle. The sun swung across the sky outside, taking its time. Inside, Steve stayed face down in the bed, gripping the blanket, a million conversations with God and his fellow man running through his head. He looked at his hands, opened them up in front of his face, slapped himself across the cheek. He was certain that he was falling into the abyss. Towards the end of the day, he got up and went for a walk outside, which seemed like a bold and perhaps foolhardy thing to do. It surprised him that things still looked the same as they had before, but they did. The following day, semi-human, he went out in the morning to the supermarket. The walls and corridors seeped with threat, even more than usual. He looked up at the huge high ceilings, with their rows and rows of flourescent lamps and it hurt him. He imagined how this place would hold up after a nuclear attack. There’d probably still be the smoking shell and the charred remains of all the goods and very little of the shoppers to speak of. He thought it would make an interesting picture and wondered why thoughts of utter devastation always occurred to him while he wandered around the palaces of consumer culture. * “I’ve fucked it with Agata.” “That’s too bad huh? She was a nice little unit.” “Yeah, but not much for conversation. She was just good for a shag.” “That’s how it is with some, huh?” “Yup.” Steve ordered beer. Jim ordered beer. The beers arrived and the two clinked glasses and wished each other good health. They stayed on at the bar for two rounds and then made their way to Andy’s, standing around chatting while Andycooked up a tasty mess of Thai style noodles. Steve started to talk. This fuckin’ speed in this country is just outrageous man I tell ya right over the top like nothing else in the old days I’d eat half a gram and it never blew my head off like this shit they’re dishing out here must be cut with e and triple refined or something man I tell ya if you’d been there mate I was looking all over for you by Christ you’d have got a major fuckin’ earful I’d have chewed your ear clean off you should have been there buster we’d have had such a laugh there was more going around if you’d wanted some you’d have been floating up around the ceiling with me the both of us would have been going on and on why the heck did you have to stay in that dullsvill Morgan’s bloody Irish pub. We could’ve been rocking our arses off at H20 like nobody’s business til 8 in the fucking morning who ever heard of such a thing here in Warsaw it was like Ibiza had moved north for a night I tell you it was really something else. They emerged into the afternoon light an hour or two later, made their way to a bar and had a couple more rounds. * The weekends came and went, he picked up more girls on the internet and got them to come and worked for him. When it happened it was a night like any other. He was at home watching TV. He lit up one cigarette followed by another and another and another, flipped the channel and continued to watch until he fell asleep in front of the box, waking at 4 in the morning to turn it off. He then crawled back to bed again and slept until 10ish. He was eventually awoken rudely by the sound of the ringing doorbell. He opened the doorbell without looking in the keyhole, rubbing sleep from his eyes and forgetting to be suspicious of someone who had made it through the layers of security unannounced. A large man entered, explaining in Polish that he’d been crossed. Or rather that his crew had been crossed. No operations were set up in this town without his crew’s approval. Got that? That crew you work for, we’re bringing them down, so don’t even think they’ll last. He produced a gun to explain his point. Ok, ok, Steve said. How much you want? 2000 now and 2000 every month. Steve handed over the required wad. Later that day, Steve boarded a bus to Frankfurt. From there he booked the cheapest, earliest flight he could to Bangkok. He was happy to be on the plane, happy to be heading for a change of scenery and climate. He liked to be in space in that private cocoon, watching the world unfold before him. He looked out the window as the lights of the city receded before him. He awoke as they were flying over India, or at least that’s what the flightpath indicator was lazily saying. Long flights comforted him immensely. There was no turbulence to disturb the travellers on their inexorable path. He peeked out the window, lifting up the cover to let in the penetrating sunlight. Below were arid-looking plains and the souls of a billion desperate people. Steve couldn’t see any of them from up there in the padded, winged cigar-tube. Breakfast, juice and coffee came around. He savoured his meal. He got up to go to the bathroom, washed his face, applied a little spray of scent. He looked in the mirror, smiled at the welldressed person looking back at him, the survivor, the manipulator, the fucker, the smalltime crook. He pulled back the toilet latch with a satisfying click. Returned to his seat, to another drink. Now they were coming to the Indo-Chinese peninsular. He couldn’t take his eyes off the flight-path indicator. A slight tingle ran along his arms to his fingertips. The plane made its slow descent into Bangkok Airport. Alighting, he was surprised to see that it looked much the same as any European Airport- all shiny and kitted and fitted with every opportunity to spend money. His muscles began to relax in the heat, the smile- inducing tropical smell, that lazy torpor. Customs took no more or less time than in other airports in Europe. He was thrilled to get through it and disappear into the roar of the tropical metropolis. He immediately pulled down a taxi and ordered him to take him downtown, find him a nice hotel, three or four stars. “I find you very nice hotel.” “I don’t doubt it.” “Why you smiling so much boss?” “It’s great here” he said. The driver smiled. He dropped Steve off in central Bangkok. Steve checked into a $40 a night room. Comfortable, with firm beds and functioning airconditioning. His accumulated wealth- 4000 dollars in US currency, was packed under his belt. He looked out over the city from his window 25 floors up, looked out to the teeming metropolis below, jetlagged and full of nerves and ready for copious drink and pussy. He showered, changed into fresh clothes, sprayed on some Rochas eau de toilette. He slipped out discreetly through the lobby, into the Bangkok night. On the streets, whores hurled themselves at him left and right. He walked past one block which was simply too much, even for Steve. It seemed like an inferno in there, the kind of thing that Hironymous Bosch might have imagined. A coliseum-like structure with a gap for customers and whores to duck in and out of, layer on layer of girly bars and live sex shows. He walked on, hoping to find something more restrained and polite. He eventually found his way into a darkened sidestreet that was filled with poolbars. In each and every bar, gaggles of women called to him, begging him to come join them. He finally sat down in a bar that was occupied by a pair of overweight Europeans. Or Americans or Australians. He did his studious best to ignore them. A young Thai woman came to sit with him. He felt calm, relaxed. These women were friendly and had an innocence about them that European hookers didn’t have. The women here took all the hard work out of whorechasing. “Hi where you from?” she said. “Australia” “Australia man sexy man.” “Thanks.” “You buy me beer?” “OK” They sat at the bar together, he sipping his beer, she grabbing at his crutch between sips. “That’s my dick,” he said. “Is big.” “Big and bad.” “We play billiard.” “Sure.” Once drunk enough, he escorted her to his room. He swayed, she clip-clopped along the street. Such feminine girls in their bright little skirts, their clinking high heels. Fucking her in this heat, he felt some strange elemental force reverberating through his body and soul. It was a connection- with the forces of life and death, which appeared to be more pronounced in this tropical languor. It amazed him that she stayed in his room for 2, 3, 4 hours. Time somehow didn’t seem to matter to her. Steve was confused, fearful. What is she going to ask for, and what kind of weight does she have behind her to help her to ask for it? A sudden departure, she just got up and left the room, leaving her bags on the floor. A heavyweight, no doubt, would return alongside her to help her clear the joint of everything. She had to come back for her stuff, and maybe for his bags as well. He opened the door slowly. It was only her, with a small bag of fruit which she then shared with him. Steve felt confused about this, shocked really that a hooker could linger so long and even offer something more than sex. Finally, after eating and a few more attempts at conversation, she got up to leave. Steve gave her a tip and saw her out the door and onto the street, kissing her goodbye as she stepped into a taxi. Returning to his room, he collapsed exhausted, not waking until 11 o’clock in the morning. The next day he took up the hotel’s “very good” offer to have a tourist guide show him around the city, one on one. They assured him that the guide was a “lady guide”. Their insistence on that point intrigued him. She was young, attractive, conservative, like an oldfashioned school teacher with her glasses and a below the knee skirt. She asked him how long he’d been in Bangkok. “Just a night.” She smiled most knowingly. Even the conservative ones knew what went on here in Sin City, and the smile was cheeky, approving of the naughtiness that was part and parcel of tourism here. Tolerant people, these Thais. Out through the heaving traffic in their little taxi, it took them over an hour to reach their destination, the temple complex that formed the heart of old Bangkok. The city appeared not to have any kind of mass transit system- just a web of taxis and tuk-tuks that catered to all. It was a long slow ride to make the 3 mile trip from the hotel to the temples. Worth all the effort, Steve thought on arrival, drinking in all that gold in all that heat, glimmering like the promise of a thousand and one Arabian nights. Tourists swarmed about everywhere, snapping, snapping. The tour guide asked him why he was smiling. “Just because”, Steve said. The reason was the combination of tropical heat and the intense beauty of this place. It was hard for him to imagine being happier. The weather and the pungent Asian smells made him feel like a different person. A happier, more connected person. They moved on from the grounds into the largest of the temples. A suspended Buddha towered above them, hovering like an angel. Steve wasn’t sure if he’d seen anything more beautiful in all his life, but he suspected that he hadn’t. Back outside, they looked at people sticking tiny leaves of gold onto Buddha statues as a form of offering. The statues were thickly plastered with offered gold, and their features had become difficult to discern as a result. This ritual appeared to have great significance to the Thai people. Steve wasn’t sure if he could properly understand it, but it didn’t really matter. They returned to the noise and traffic of Bangkok eventually. Back in the heaving centre of town- fat, middle-aged European tourists were busy picking up teenaged Thai girls. Steve wondered what he should do in this town, if he should get a job or run more scams or what. He had an idea to bring Thai girls to Poland and set them up in a different city, anywhere but Warsaw, where he could lie low and collect the money. A few tricks later, a bit of shuffling through embassies and passport offices, a couple of transactions of payment. He was on another plane to Warsaw with three Thai girls in tow. Back in Warsaw, in October, in a little hotel room, the quiet outside was deafening. The next day he whisked them on to a train headed south to Krakow. He rented the girls out to a local club, paid his dues, got paid in turn. Set up a little flat in Krakow with room enough for him and the three Thai girls. Another temporary scheme, a fast money-maker. The girls were happy with the money they were getting- a total fortune in comparison to what they’d have been earning in Thailand. They were happy enough to take turns sleeping in Steve’s bed. He felt bloated, over-indulged by the attention he was getting from them. It was as if he’d dragged back a little piece of Thai indulgence and languor to the frozen wastes of a Polish winter. The sensual pleasures were quite enough to satisfy one, but there was that pressing urge to acquire money, more money. Another excursion to Berlin perhaps. The whores here were cheap and plentiful- driven on by Krakow’s burgeoning tourist industry. They’d be more than willing to make the trek west. He took one Polish whore out to Germany then another, he spent his days and nights in Krakow prowling the old medieval streets, combing through the brothels and the internet for more flesh, flesh for cash, cash for flesh, great big driver of modern economic progress. He spent the whole winter like this, stocking his supplies against the cold, running tricks out to Berlin every other weekend. The money got stashed under a plank under the bed. By the time spring came there was a pile of 30 000 Deutch marks. He wanted to invest the money somewhere. There was no future, he could see, in running whores like this. Too many toes got trodden on, too many enemies got made. Time perhaps to get to Prague and look at offering to invest some cash in something different. An extension of the industry and one more solidly profitable, with the promise of royalties for some time to come. In Prague, after dozens of phone calls and failed attempts to break through to someone somewhere, he met Jiri. In Jiri, he recognised the kind of person that would be easy to do business with. He was calm, precise. He knew what he was talking about when he talked about the industry. An industry awash in crap. An industry that the Czechs couldn’t possibly hope to get a handle on without the aid of established players. They had the raw resources, in the form of very attractive and willing young girls, but they did not have the resources or the knowhow to make the kind of top-drawer, slick stuff that really earned the cash. He then showed Steve a list of his productions to date. He explained that their earlier projects had been low-key, low budget works- strictly local casts and crews. From there they had started to pull in some of the big names from Western Europe. Italian and French directors, and Italian and French studs, and beautiful Czech girls. It was a combination that had seen their empire begin to expand, with a couple of titles that had done well in Western Europe and the US. The key, he said, was output and freshness. Porn has a way of going old very fast. Consumers constantly demanded new faces and ever more outrageously explicit sex acts. Yeah, yeah I know all that stuff, Steve told him. Jiri asked him if he had any experience. “In porn? No. I’ve been running a business, transporting girls from Poland to Berlin to feed the clubs there. I know my way around the clubs and brothels of Warsaw, Krakow and Berlin, and I’ve found loads of girls on the internet too. I can act as a talent scout. I’ve got some ideas for scripts, scenarios, things of that nature. I’m sure I could negotiate some deals.” “Good enough.” “So, look. I can start with an investment of a hundred thousand crowns. If I see some return on that, more money will be forthcoming and of course I can start to re-invest. And I can bring you the talent, but I have to get my cut.” “What kind of cut?” “Ten percent of whatever they get.” “They get $400 per day of shooting.” “$40 per day, per girl, that’ll stack up just fine.” “Ok. What else is there?” “We just need to prepare a contract before I put any money down. I want my lawyer to be here before that happens. I mean to act as a witness.” “Lawyers?” “I only need one.” “I’ll think about it.” “You want the money? The chicks? I require a yes.” “Yes?” “Yes.” “Ok, yes.” The psychological profile of a porno-girl was a subject that Steve had started to ponder seriously. They had to be either very simple or very damaged, or a combination of both, although just one or the other was usually most attractive. You could be smart and fucked-up or stupid and reasonably intact, but to be both was a little too dire to contemplate. They had to have a weak, easily-coerced type of character. It certainly didn’t hurt if they were in desperate need of money. Steve had taken out a six-month contract on a flat in Zizkov, a formerly working-class neighbourhood of Prague which abutted the eternally genteel district of Vinohrady and so had moved steadily up in the world as a result. This place had sure seen some changes over the years, baby. Steve remembered at the age of 23, coming here and finding black buildings and bleak interiors. The soot had beeen steadily washed away and replaced with coats and coats of brightly coloured paint. Reassuringly, the smell remained, that calming mustiness. The ads in the sex classifieds sure were interesting these days. He’d picked up a copy of Annonce, the local sales rag, which included everything from used TVs to tenth hand females. The females had expanded on the list of services they offered. As well as the usual tradicni (traditional), analni (anal), oralni (oral), they also offered to tocit video (make a video). How convenient was this city? Steve called a few, only to discover that not all of them were interested in having their video released commerically. But it only took a few calls to get a yes. Her name was Karla, and she was blonde, quite tall, with big natural tits. She had a perfectly innocent young Czech girl face. He took her to the office where business was very promptly discussed. Money, HIV tests. Oral, anal, cumshots, number of guys in a scene. Those were the items on the agenda. And then there were the male talents. She was shown some pictures of some men and the equipment they offered. She picked two men, agreed to do anal and double penetration as this would increase her daily fee by a hundred dollars. Shooting was to start tomorrow. She read her contract carefully, which stipulated that she would get paid on the day, at the end of the day’s shooting. Likewise it was understood that Steve would get his cut at the end of the day’s shooting. Steve waited in the shadows outside the studio as the long day’s shoot drew to a close. Jiri came out and placed 3000 Czech crowns in his hand. Three crisp fresh notes, 1000 apiece. A whole week’s wages for many people here, equal to a hundred dollars US. A bit of extra drinking money for Steve. Steve began to see a return on his investment. He got a part-time job at a language school as a way of meeting people and seeming legitimate. It amazed him that, once he’d manouvered himself into position he didn’t really have to do anything, he could just watch his money grow and grow and grow. His fortunes were now linked to those of a growing business, an unstoppable juggernaut whose centre of gravity had moved east. Prague and Warsaw- two different cities with two very different histories. Different histories and they were very different from each other today. In Warsaw, sex was always available, every which way. Here in Prague, land of a squillion tourists, it was just the commercial variety that was available to the average international punter. The locals had grown disillusioned with the foreigners and their sleaze. He adopted a routine- get up in the morning at 8 and have breakfast at Barock on Pariska, where all the swish Euro-trash would hang out. There he would sip his cappuccino, read the Herald Tribune, observe people and ponder his good fortune. From there he would make his way to an internet café and start combing. He often wondered how all this had come into existence. This is a computer terminal. Inside are more sophisticated systems than were used to send astronauts to space. Outside was a country emerging from decades of failed utopianism. The cars, the technology, the neon of Prague. Mcdonald’s restaurants, they had all appeared like magic, or like the inevitable spread of a virus. And what had he done to create any of this? What had anybody done really? Was anybody really in control? Everybody an alien on this planet, or so it seemed. The systems, virtual reality. Just how real is virtual reality? It was just as real as any dream, and equally frightening. Cigarette after cigarette behind the computer terminal until the early afternoon and then a meeting with the bossman. It was 11 in the morning. Steve went into his email inbox. He found four new messages. There was one from an unknown sender but that happened often enough. He opened it up to read: You motherfucker shit. You stolen 10 of our best girls. We find you, you give us $20 000 or if there no money, we kill you. You hear me, fucking shit. WE KILL YOU. And we know you are in Prague. We find you in Prague and we kill you. And we know that you was in Thailand. You don’t hide from us. We find you. You give us money. Or we kill you. He felt his ribcage, checking to see if it was still there. He was sure that his ribs had all just been crushed. He tried to stand up but found that he had to sit down again. He’d been tipped off by, by whom? No doubt the club owners in Berlin were in cahoots with the Polish mob and were trying to recoup their losses in a different way. Having a bet both ways- squeezing money out of the girls and having a crack at getting a cut out of whatever the Polish mob might try to squeeze Steve for. Why had they waited until now? Why didn’t they try to act on him while he was still in Poland? Maybe because he was threatening to move out of their orbit and make large fortunes beyond anything they may hope to achieve. They wanted to pull Steve back into line, not let him get too big for his boots. He thought about his options. Western Europe, in its vastness and anonymity, could offer a refuge. And it was border-free. He wasn’t spooked that they knew he’d been in Thailand. Living in Krakow with 3 Thai girls, it might appear that he’d procured them from abroad. Word had a way of getting around in a little town like Krakow. But his adventures in vice were finished for the time being. If he wanted to keep living, he would have to lie low for a time. How could he do that? Would life be worth living without all that easy money that he kept enjoying, throwing away on booze and more women and restaurant dinners and flights and clothes and weekend getaways and his mobile phone and the cinema and pornography and books and things? Should he just wait and let them shoot him dead in his sleep, firing two bullets into the back of his head as he had so often dreamed they would?

Twist 3

THREE Saturday night rolled around. The phone had started ringing in the afternoon- male friends asking him to come out boozing in the usual haunts, a female Platonic friend called to ask him to come out boozing in the Irish pub and Justyna, whom he saw as potential, called. He decided, against his usual inclinations, to go with Justyna. He was loyal to his mates on Saturday evenings, usually. He saw no reason not to be. Most of the females who would have liked him to come out on Saturday were either not interesting to him or not interested in sleeping with him. Justyna was something else. She was interesting, and quite possibly interested in coming to bed. He met her outside a club. She looked modelesque in her leather jacket, her sparkling moist make-up, her black pumps and her six feet of stature. She was smiling broadly when she met Steve. He took her in his arms and planted a kiss upon her cheek. This made him feel better inside, like he’d achieved a small victory. The club was small and packed with 20 year old women who were with men that were twice their age or more. Steve knew that he couldn’t compete with these men, the majority of whom were anglophone, on wealth and status, but he might have an edge on looks and style. He danced with Justyna to a few of the boppy numbers, then took her outside into the warm night and next door to a more cosy place for a quiet drink and conversation. He sipped his whisky and sucked back at his cigarillo, taking long glances at his companion, and shorter glimpses of the street outside. The streets were wet, the way he liked to see big-city streets. Big cities, he thought, seemed to be at their most beautiful when soaked in rain at night. At this moment the city seemed to shimmer with erotic charge. He reached across the table, placing his hand in hers. “Do you want to go back down to that club?” “Hmmm.” “Let’s get in a taxi. I’ve got a really nice bottle of Australian wine back at my place.” “Well…” “______” “OK.” They stepped out onto the wet pavement. Taxis were waiting outside, sharks cruising through the night. Steve climbed into the back seat with Justyna and gave the orders. Back at Steve’s place the wine was opened and poured. “Good?” “Nice. I never had Australian wine before.” “It’s rare here, and it costs, I don’t know why.” “It is far to Australia.” “Not far to London- and Aussie wines are a lot cheaper there than here.” “Are they?” “Oh yeah. Popular too. Everyone’s drinking Australians there. The French have been pushed right off the shelf. They say the French wine industry is in crisis because of it. Can’t export anything anymore. New world wines are taking over. Serves the arrogant French right for lording it over us for so long.” “Lording it over us?” Being so arrogant.” Yes, they are arrogant. I know the French.” “Justyna the supermodel. Queen of the Paris catwalks.” “Ha ha ha. I’m 23. I’m like Grandma with those girls in Paris.” “But you’ve walked down the catwalks in Paris.” “It was completely crazy. I thought I will go mad.” “I think that every day about myself.” “But you never had to walk down a catwalk in Paris.” “Lucky me. But you didn’t have to do it either. Nobody had a gun to your head.” “Money is like a gun.” “Money is a gun.” “So you see I had to.” “Yeah yeah.” “Fuck Paris. Here’s to Australia and its fine fine wines.” “Cheers.” “Bottoms up.” He kissed her and walked her to the bed. They fell down and tore at each other’s clothes. In the morning he looked at her as she slept. She had that look- harsh. Her face was taught and gaunt now the make-up was stripped back. She’d spent too much time tanning herself. Tanned to the point of frying. What were they thinking? He crawled out of bed and had a shower. By the time he was out of the shower she was up. He made her some breakfast and coffee. She was talkative- chatty chat chat. Steve was despondent. If she had any sense of his growing unease she didn’t show it to him. She kept smiling and chatting, eating and drinking. He flipped on the TV to MTV to distract himself from her, to give them both something other than each other to focus on. About an hour later she left, much to Steve’s relief. As soon as she was out the door he got on the phone. “Jim. Steve.” “Steve. How are ya?” “Have a guess who I fucked last night?” “Ahhm, you girlfriend Ewa maybe. That’d be a change wouldn’t it?” “You think yer so funny, ha ha. Now take another guess, buttwipe.” “Maybe….that fat ugly British teacher you been hanging around with too much lately. “Nup. Not seeing her so much now.” “Some Polish slut that you met in a club?” “Nope.” “Who then?” “Let’s meet for coffee and talk it over.” “Sure bub.” Coffee later that day was at San Marzano, a British-based, Italian- style chain restaurant that had opened up at the end of the street on Pulawska. Steve arrived early although he knew that Jim would be late. This never deterred him from turning up early. Being early all the time was just another of Steve’s bad habits. He was onto his second coffee when Jim arrived. Jim was an exceptionally loud-mouthed American, who had no qualms when it came to talking about pussy in public. This sometimes made Steve wince, if he thought there was English-speaking company nearby. At other times it just brought out the animal in Steve, for whatever Steve said, Jim was sure to say something even more outrageous. Jim swaggered in, a few minutes late as usual. This never really bothered Steve too much, although he usually detested lateness, he had come to expect it in Jim. “So, who the fuck was she, man?” Jim said as he sat down at the table. “You remember Justyna?” Said Steve. “Yeah sure.” “Well, that’s who, baby.” “Hmm, she was alright wasn’t she?” “Yeah. Very alright.” “Cool. You going to see her again?” “Don’t know if I really want to.” “Yeah? How does that work?” “She’s got a few issues. She looks worn out and dried out at the age of 24. It isn’t nice, you know? “I see. But she’s nice in bed isn’t she?” “Yeah she’s real nice. But I’d prefer a relationship. I mean, someone I can actually live with.” “Ain’t you already got one of those?” “I live with her, that doesn’t mean I can live with her. I gotta find something, someone different.” “Good luck man” “I can’t believe you’re still avoiding it like the plague. What are you waiting for?” “Nothing but the best.” “Like that’ll get you anywhere. Perfect don’t exist. Specially not in females.” “Why settle for crap?” “If you’re too fussy you’ll never get a fuck is my philosophy.” “Anyway, how’s the wife?” “Still up the country.” “Will you go see her?” “Yeah, maybe next weekend. Don’t know really. I’m not in a big hurry you know?” “Not when you’re up to your balls in poontang here, I’d say?” “Would ya? Thanks mate.” Steve lit up a cigarette and blew out three perfectly formed smoke rings. Looking at Jim with all his stinking bravado, he was glad not to be like him. A lot of people didn’t like Jim. They said he was a crass, brash, ignorant Yank, and Steve tended to agree with them. Steve liked him anyway, although he usually didn’t go around advertising the fact. They moved out of San Marzano to Szpilka, a fashionable bar in the centre of Warsaw. There they met Marek, who was in some ways even more objectionable than Jim. Marek claimed to have travelled to all sorts of places, to have been a smuggler of gold from Singapore to India. He said he’d been with whores in Bombay. The stories somehow had a ring of truth to them, as he wasn’t one of those people who said he’d been everywhere, just a few specific locations. He behaved like an accomplished hustler in some ways, though he was just a little too obvious. He had a falsetto way of imitating American brashness that certain East Europeans had. When they did this they tended to go completely over the top. The Poles were usually a quite reserved race of people, but for some, a little dose of America or Americans was all that was needed to send them over the edge. Steve parted from the bar several hours later in a state of heavy intoxication. He staggered back home and opened the fridge, thinking to soak up the alcohol with food, juice and water. He collapsed on the bed after that and lit a cigarette and flipped his way through the TV channels.

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.

Twist 1

ONE Steve Houghton, 30, experienced, well-travelled, still good-looking and tidily-dressed, stepped lightly into the Marriott Hotel in Warsaw. He stepped out of the cold and into the warmth. He stepped out of the grey dirty dreariness of a downtown Warsaw street in January and into the sepia toned cleanliness and warmth of the Marriott. He failed to recognise that the Marriott was almost as impoverished as the street outside. For him it represented a tiny piece of Western riches. English newspapers, Cuban cigars, white niggers giving shoeshines, a Versace boutique, “American” steakhouse, expensive coffee house (such a privilege to pay Paris prices here in Warsaw for a hot cuppa), perfumery, jeweller’s. All there in the shopping arcade attached. He’d come in to buy a newspaper. A privilege too to pay more than double the British price for a British newspaper. He read the Guardian. Or more to the point, he was a Guardian reader. Or more to the point he had become a Guardian reader since settling in in Europe, learning a few ropes, finding his own culture. His own ideas about culture. His own cultural reference points. He was a man of culture this Steve. That was what he liked to think. He thought that often. He never told anyone about it, at least not directly. He picked up a copy of the Guardian, glanced at the headlines to see if there was anything worth reading in more depth. He only bought a paper if he found at least 2 or 3 articles that held his attention for a while and were too long to be comfortably read standing. This time there were enough to justify the purchase, the expenditure of 7 zlotys, followed by the expenditure of another 7 and a ½ zlotys on a correctly brewed cappuccino (they didn’t do flat whites, they never did in Warsaw). He sat down and deliberately opened his newspaper. He put the newspaper down and he reached into his pocket for a packet of cigarillos. It was a great privilege to pay 12 zlotys a pack for these small symbols that nobody else smoked. Nobody except Gustaw, but he was special. The coffee arrived just in time. A few seconds after he had lit his cigarillo. He sipped his coffee, puffed his cigarillo, looked around to see if anyone was watching. He went back to his newspaper. He went to the counter to pay. He preferred to leave the money on the table, but they didn't do that here. He went back outside into chilly corridors, walked half-looking past dreary shops and smoky bars. He bought his train ticket and waited in the cold for 15 minutes. He didn’t read his paper at the train station. He didn’t open it up while sitting at the platform. He preferred to look at the big billboards, the grey sky, the pigeons gathering. He boarded, sat down in the interior cold, watched his breath form in front of his face. For 45 minutes he looked out the window at the snow, observed the increasing depth the further you moved from the city. He then departed and started walking to the office, crunching through the snow that was starting to ice up underfoot. All was quiet out here, even quieter than Warsaw in the snow which also seemed fairly placid under a snowy blanket. A few birds were sitting in tree branches, conserving their energy. He trundled up to the office and let himself in, as one of the privileges of his job was a key to the office door. He stamped his feet on the doormat, instinctively felt his face which had turned icy. Out of the cold and back into the warmth. It was a fairly rudimentary office, this- a computer with no internet connection and one long table which served as a desk for teachers to prepare their lessons. The secretary was in the office, and no other teachers. He was beatifically glad of this and deeply hoped that this situation would last for at least an hour, or maybe the rest of the afternoon. He started talking to her about the Polish language, and about the difficulties he faced in trying to learn it, and about how he needed somebody to help him with translations. He said he had a Polish magazine and could she explain what some things meant. She agreed. He pulled the magazine out of his bag. It contained a series of semi-nude pictures of a well-known fashion model. She giggled just a little when she saw it, then got to work on translating. It didn’t matter what the words meant, he just needed to see her reaction to the pictures. He pulled out another magazine. This contained pictures of men and women having sex. The focus was very sharp on genitalia penetrating genitalia. She giggled a little more, and again set to work in earnest explaining the meanings of the words. This pleased him hugely. He very much enjoyed watching a woman watching the women in the pictures as they got done double and triple and guzzled and slurped. Unfortunately, one of the teachers arrived 15 minutes after they started looking at the magazines together. Steve quickly tidied away the magazine. Mirella less quickly and little red-faced went to the door to let James in. Steve wondered if he would do this again with Mirella, but suspected that he would not. With slightly reddened face and shaking hand Steve greeted James. James gave no indication that he was suspicious of anything. Mirella returned to the staff room, gave a secret smile to Steve. Steve had to work now. He had to help James, who was older, and new to teaching, and difficult to help. He had to help James prepare his lessons. James was a junior teacher, Steve was the senior teacher, and thus had a responsibility to help the other teachers, all of whom were very junior. Steve was a good teacher, or so he’d been told. Steve was good-looking, or so he’d been told. Maybe these two things went together, he hadn’t yet been told. James wasn’t as good-looking as Steve, or so Francis had been told. Yes there had to be a connection somewhere. James wasn’t as well-dressed as the other teachers. Nobody had been told. It was something they knew without needing to be told. Another possible connection. Steve helped James prepare his lessons, or tried to, then he prepared his own lessons, then he crunched through the snow for the ten minute walk to the school, which was a state school, Polish, in this town of Komonow they found themselves in, about 25 kilometres from Warsaw and is sometimes called “the Beverley Hills of Poland” because well known Polish actors tended to live there. Someone said that perhaps this was a reflection of Poland rather than Beverley Hills. Perhaps the schools in Beverley Hills were a little more well-appointed than the school (not schools, there was only one) in Komanow. Nobody could be sure, except for Michael, because he was the only 1 of the 4 teachers at their school who had actually been to Beverley Hills. And he probably hadn’t been into any of the schools because he’d lived in a different Los Angeles neighbourhood. Steve set his books on his desk. He had 4 lessons to teach. The first lesson was English, the second lesson was English, the third lesson was English and the fourth lesson was English. The children came into the class. They were 12 or 13 years old. Their English was near non-existent. Many of them seemed to have learning disorders, or maybe that was 12 and 13 year olds. Steve had problems controlling their behaviour. Just 12 and 13 year olds. The next group came in, an hour later. These were 5 and 6 year olds. Steve had had problems controlling this group- even more than with the 12-13 year olds, but not any more. Mirella, the secretary, came in to ensure that the behaviour problems would cease, and they did cease, so Mirella kept coming back to make sure they didn’t return to blight the atmosphere of the lesson, and indeed this strategy worked as the children were afraid of Mirella, even though she was only 19 and pretty and more innocent-looking than the porno girls. They feared Mirella because she spoke Polish, and she had a direct line to their parents and she let them know all about it, and she hissed at them if they started stirring too much or speaking to each other too much in Polish. Steve liked to call this game good cop/bad cop. Mirella was the bad cop. This made the other teachers laugh. They said they could not imagine Mirella being anybody’s bad cop. But they weren’t 5 years old and Mirella wasn’t anybody’s bad cop, but she was their bad cop. The next class came in, 50 minutes later. Just a short lesson for the brief attention span of the 5 and 6 year olds. Steve thought that perhaps their attention span didn’t reach as far as 45 minutes. You could never be completely sure in this game, this crazy caper. They were older, this next class- teenagers and a very attractive 20 year old, Iza, who was easily as pretty as any of the porno girls, and neither more nor less innocent-looking. No doubt she’d been pumped a few times, she looked as if she’d been broken in and Steve hoped that she would want more, but never admitted it, at least not to her. He just sat back and looked at her pretty face and imagined what he’d like to do to it. He imagined the cream dripping off her face, like in the videos and magazines. Iza smiled that pretty, knowing smile of hers. She’d once said something male-unfriendly, which had upset poor Steve, but she’d been egged on by Kasia, who was a rabid feminist. At least that was how Steve liked to think of her- she was a rabid feminist in Steve’s knowledgeable opinion, his man of the world, well-travelled and somewhat up himself opinion. The last class was uninspiring. No cuties here, no honies, no hot babes, no fuckable young cunts. Just a bunch of middle aged housewives and one young boy of 18. After work a taxi was waiting for them outside the building which whisked them back to Warsaw. Steve stared out the window as the trees and billboards whizzed by. He liked to see the billboards, in their ever-increasing numbers as the taxi approached Warsaw. He particularly liked to see billboards with English slogans printed on them. It made him feel that he was doing his job properly. Steve’s girlfriend Ewa was waiting for him when he arrived. She hadn’t cooked anything but she’d ordered pizza. They sat and munched pizza in front of the TV in near silence, flipping channels occasionally. They climbed into bed soon after, falling asleep without having sex. Sex was just for the weekends nowadays, sometimes not even that. He awoke the next morning some time after Ewa had left. He wearily picked himself up and took himself to the shower, then put on some scent and some clothes, flipped on the TV, put the kettle on and started cooking some bacon and eggs. He sat and drank coffee and munched on his fryup while absorbing the day's headlines on BBC World. After he'd finished eating, it took him a while to tear himself away from the television. It was grey outside. The thought of going out there, in the cold grey humidity, the low air pressure, didn't inspire him to leave his comfort zone in front of the television. But eventually some primal force, some urge to keep moving and wandering, dragged him up and out the door. It was cold outside. The snow, which lay six inches deep, had started to thaw today. Little avalanches came down from rooftops. This made him happy. He watched the icicles melting and dripping and crashing down to earth. That made him happy. He wondered how many people got killed every year by falling icicles. The right trajectory and height and weight, to the back of the neck and it would be over in seconds. He kept clear of the rooftops and ledges. He walked down Niepodleglosci looking into the occasional shop window. Perfume shops made him happy. He liked to note the names of the different fragrances, the labels, the marks of status. So many names now, so much information. Sex shops made him happy. They seemed to him a mark of liberty, a symbol of Eastern Europe’s hard-won new freedom. When he travelled to a new city in Eastern Europe he always made a point of investigating the sex shops. It didn’t matter that the selection was poor and the atmosphere grimy. The important thing was that they existed, that they were free to exist. It had always seemed to him that if you wanted porn, it was always available somewhere, even in the dark, repressive days of Queensland in the 1980’s. South Africa lite. He'd read that somewhere as a descriptor of Queensland in the 70's and 80's. The awareness of commercially available, illicit sex went right back to his childhood. This awareness, it made him feel as if he had grown up in a culture that was corrupt to its core. As he walked, thoughts of the present kept coming to mind. He very much liked to focus on his present existence. This made him happier than any other happiness he could think of. He would note the smells of each season, and the different types of happiness each would bring. The happiness brought by grey-black skies, drizzle, snow and blasts of northern wind was quantitatively different from the happiness of clearing skies and suddenly rising temperatures in spring. But always there was that same underlying happiness which came about because of that particular smell: the East European city smell- a dusty mustiness. It was the smell of old Europe which had completely vanished further west. The enduring mustiness was the core note in the particular perfume of the East European city, and laid over it were the shifting scents of each season. Winter was the most subtle, and as far as Steve could tell, reflected most deeply the soul, the atmosphere of Eastern Europe. He knew that he really wanted to become East European, or at least he did in the present moments that he was there. Each present moment brought another happiness, another reminder that he wanted to root himself to this time, this place. If winter was the archetypal season across Eastern Europe, then it most certainly brought with it the archetypal happiness. The happiness that comes from being free to be as sad as you like, of not having to put on airs or professional smiles, of being nice to people when you felt like being nice, and rude when you felt like being rude. He often preferred it when shopkeepers and other professional smilers behaved in a rude or surly or unprofessional way. It reminded him that he was somewhere different. He avoided thinking about the past, or rather, spent so much time concentrating on the present moment that the past was completely displaced. He could never go back to the past, to Brisbane, that town of learned smiles and pseudo happiness. That town where he’d been so unhappy they’d had to lock him away and feed him with different pills the names of which he couldn’t remember because he was too busy concentrating on his current happiness. A town of almost continuous summer and short, psychotic winter. Why did he always get sick in winter there? Could it have been the harsh light, the menacing dry winds or some other thing. Maybe it was the sadness that came from knowing that the winter season was the only time of real beauty or promise, and it would end very very soon. In his last six years in Brisbane Steve had been sent to the hospital three times. Six years in Eastern Europe , no hospitalisations so far, and no chance of any in Winter especially. The deep cold and the wet greyness were calming, rather than winter Brisbane’s sharp, disturbing brightness which kept one awake at night, listening to the crackle of electricity in the air. * Weekends found him in the Drink Bar on Wspolna. It was a tiny place, this Drink Bar- a small hole in the wall lit by candles and draped with oriental fabrics. He would meet Gustaw there, and Max and Edmond and Jim. Gustaw and Max were Polish, Edmond English and Jim was Canadian. But this was unimportant really. Steve didn’t think of them as being from any particular place. They were here, now, and that was the important thing and they were citizens of this planet like him and they had no permanent ties to any particular place like him. One thing that was important was that Edmond didn’t like to be called Edmond, or rather nobody ever called him Edmond. Just Eddie, or Ed, or a combination of the two. Gustaw lit a cigarillo, sipped his whisky on ice and observed the babes. Eddie, or Ed, smoked a cigarette, sipped from his pint glass and observed the babes. Jim laughed raucously, took another swig of beer and observed the babes. Max came back from the bar with another beer, slapped Jim on the shoulder and observed the babes. Steve pulled out another cigarillo, drank the froth off the top of his beer and observed the babes. Someone said “There are some nice looking babes here tonight.” Someone raised their glass, clinked with the others and said “Here’s to live sex on stage.” He didn’t say that because of any live sex that was on any stages. There was no live sex and no stage in the Drink Bar. He said it because someone else, who wasn’t in the bar at that moment, had started saying it as a toast and everyone else followed suit. Or at least everyone who knew anyone who had been connected closely with Jason had followed suit. Jason’s closest friends and regular drinking partners followed suit and then the closest friends of Jason’s closest friends had followed suit. There were quite a few suits being followed around town, oft used phrases which had been introduced to the city by a single English speaker and had spread, like a virus, around the city. For example Steve’s oft-quoted “Yeah right”, which was always said in a particularly dismissive, sarcastic drawl to indicate disbelief or disgust, which Max had then grabbed tightly hold of and promulgated to all of his many “friends”. How successful he’d been in introducing this phrase into the lexicon of Polsko-Angielski was perhaps debatable, at least it hadn’t come back to Steve yet from the mouths of any Polacks, but there was no denying the valiance and sincerity of Max’s attempt to infect people with that particular bit of Australian. The reference to live sex on stage was no doubt in part an allusion to the fact that there indeed some pretty nice looking babes in this joint tonight. No shortage of hot young tots tonight Steve thought. Unfortunately he always had a problem in Warsaw picking up girls in bars. They dressed sexy, these girls. They looked a little submissive, these Polish girls that panted and purred and teased and tantalized with their make-up, their short skirts and pumps and heavy perfume. And yet, and yet, their defences went right up when you approached them in a bar. Where did all that distrust come from? 40 years of communism? Maybe it was something even deeper than that. Something profoundly lodged in the paranoid Polish mindset, land of occupation and partition and deportation and of Auschwitz-Birkenau. When Steve met girls to fuck he met them at work. They were his students (most commonly) and his fellow teachers (more infrequently). Just how many had he had while he was on one-week conferences, or when Ewa was away at her parents’ on weekends or holidays. Hmmm, maybe 5 or 10 or possibly more over the last year or two. He wondered if there was anything exceptional in that. Most of the Polish males he met were aged 25-40, married and alleged they were always faithful to their wives. He wondered just how much they were lying and how many. He couldn’t say for sure. He did suspect that a good number of the women he slept with were lying to him about being faithful most of the time. They claimed they were usually virtuous and good, but he couldn't really buy it, otherwise why would any of them bother with him? They pressed on with their beers, their cigarettes and whiskies and cigarillos. As the pace of babes entering the drink bar began to decelerate and the pace of those exiting began to accelerate, they came to a democratic decision to move on to another place. A place with more babes than the Drink Bar. A place with more light than the Drink Bar. A place with more space than the Drink Bar. A place with more noise than the Drink Bar. They left the bar and staggered out into the snow, wandering a few hundred metres down the road to Ground Zero, so named because it had once been a nuclear bunker. It seemed appropriately desperate and sleazy for the time of evening and state of inebriation. They made their way down into the bowels of the club, in the underground bunker, ordered some more beers and observed the babes. Steve left the bar at 4 in the morning. He walked home, approximately 2 kilometres, through wet, dark streets. This made him happy. It relaxed him to take long walks in Warsaw and found that it cleared his head. His head needed clearing this night. As he started walking his mind was filled with thoughts of rage, which may have been the result of an excess of drink. He walked past darkened shops, blackened buildings and flickering neon. He returned to an empty flat. The TV went on, a cassette went into the VCR. His wallet was opened, a small calling card that had been retrieved from under the wiper of a car was extracted. A phone number was called. Steve waited. He’d been told he would have to wait 20 minutes. 20 minutes became 45 minutes. The doorbell rang. A large man appeared in his doorway, blocking out the light from the hall. He took Steve’s money. A small girl appeared from the shadows. She entered the room as the man withdrew. “How old are you” was always the first question. She said she was 23. He’d been promised 20, but decided not to say so. She removed her clothes expertly and lay down on the bed. Steve told her what to do. She did it. He watched. Then he told her what he wanted to do to her next. She let him do it. Then he told her something else. She didn’t let him do that, so he didn’t do it. She was small but she was strong, he could tell by the way she had flicked his hand from her head. He showed respect. He was finished after 20 minutes. He’d paid for an hour, so they lay on the bed, and smoked and talked for 40 minutes, until the doorbell rang again. She told him about her child, a boy, who was six years old and lived in Czestochowa with his grandparents. He told her about travel and places he’d been, and about his friends. He told her about one friend of his who took pictures. He showed her the pictures, which were taken in India. They showed street people, people in Calcutta streets. They were portraits, close-ups of the face. She said they were “super”. She hadn’t said that about the video he’d been watching when she came in. She had told him to turn it off. He’d respected that. When she left, she asked if she could keep one of the pictures. He let her. She asked for his name and an address for correspondence. He gave her his email address. She didn’t understand that. First he said “email” then he said “internet”, remembering the billboards that had that word on them. “Ah, internet”, she said, but he knew that she wouldn’t be sending him too many emails. They both had all their clothes on when they said goodbye. He started to cry then. “I’ve got a lot of problems”, he said. “What problems”, she said. He didn’t say. She hugged him a little, then left. He went to bed and fell asleep, feeling relaxed after having released several different types of bodily fluid. Sometimes he didn’t fall asleep very quickly. It was at those times that he wished that someone would enter his room with a gun, and put 2 holes in the back of his head. He lay face down, imagining the pleasant release that the shots would bring, but it never came. Steve was not usually a morbid person, except at those moments when he was waiting in vain for sudden death, or when he had a large hangover to take care of. Sunday’s hangover was a big one, the result of 5 pints of beer consumed at the Drink Bar and three more at the disco bar. The forces of gravity always seemed far heavier at such moments. He found it difficult to move around. His step lost its lightness. For some reason he felt older. He often locked himself in his room on Sundays. He always felt even more depressed if Sunday was an inviting, clear, warm day. He would stay in his room, in the darkness, with his television, his books, his fridge full of food. * Ewa returned at six o’clock on Sunday evening. He’d done his best to make himself presentable to her. Had showered, napped, removed the smell of beer and perfume and pussy from his body and breath. He always imagined her embracing him, stepping back, taking a haughty sniff in the air and announcing “you smell of bitch” every time he was guilty of something. But she never did, even when he really reeked. No sex this weekend. That would be Ewa’s solution for any problems she might now have. It always seemed to be that her usual solution to any type of stress was to withdraw from sexual contact. He could feel that this was going to happen tonight. “How were your parents”. He said, not being able to think of anything better to say. “Not bad. OK.” She said, also quite lost for words. It was not a topic they enjoyed talking about. Steve had a problem with them. He thought that his main problem with them was that they existed. He’d told Ewa that once, at which point she’d started to cry. At that particular moment he didn’t mind. He felt that she could do whatever she wanted but decided not to tell her so, instead opting to put his arm around her and say “sorry” He had prepared a hot meal for them both. That was his usual weekend consolation to her, his way of making up for the late nights, the unwashed dishes, the absence of any housework throughout the week. She didn’t thank him for this. Giving thanks was not one of her stronger points. He remembered how, two years earlier when they’d started going out together, he had taken her to expensive restaurants, and paid, and not received a word in thanks. He couldn’t expect it now. They ate in silence. Food seemed a good buffer, a way of ensuring that no unpleasantness in the form of conversation may take place. It was a way of protecting them against each other. The television was the other buffer against communication. Steve made a point of leaving it on any time he was in the room. They had cable. 60 channels, here in the east they’d learned to become competitive. Watching the BBC world service, or CNN or MTV here in Warsaw made him feel that he was connected to something much bigger than himself. He flipped the buttons on the remote, trying to find a pleasant tune or an interesting news headline. If there was nothing else worth watching he tended to gravitate towards BBC. This represented culture to him. It represented a balanced world view, being savvy and up to date and politically correct. He could watch it for hours, letting the torrents of information wash over him. Later they lay down in the bed, she with his back turned to him. He embraced her from behind, tried to convince her to turn in his direction. “Come here”, he said “I am here,” she said. He tried a few more times then gave up. He grabbed his cock, tugging with his back turned to her, operating quietly in the hope that she would not notice. He knew she wouldn’t mind too much even if she knew what he was doing, but he didn’t want to cause her even the slightest bit more alarm or distress. She didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t do anything to indicate she’d noticed. Most of the time it seemed to him that she preferred to remain indifferent, oblivious to what was going on around her. "Niewiem," was a word she often used. In Polish it meant "I don't know." However, he detected a subtext which read "I don't want to know." Underneath that he could make out another subtext which said "Fuck off."

Step 2

High school began and the hormones really started to kick in. The girls' legs in their shortish high school skirts were instantly arousing. There were some girls in my class I just never tired of perving at or fantasizing over. I hadn't quite discovered masturbation yet but it wasn't far off. I was always dreaming of what a sexual conquistador I would be when I grew up. I liked to indulge in some fairly outrageous sexual fantasies, though at other times my yearnings were soft and romantic. I couldn't really wait to become sexually active.

Step 1

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