Issue 21

Ivan Jozić
Translated by Marta Huber

Sometimes I travel alone and that’s all right; tonight, however that’s not the case. Here in the East, the night is born out of the winter’s pupil, the taxi driver’s heart, or something just as cold. The town looks like a shitty outhouse, dirty and frozen. As soon as I get out of the train, I realize there’ll be no love between us. The sky looks like a stone vault and, I may be wrong, but the clouds seem here to stay; there’s no temporary overcast, no sudden rain shower in spring, heat; the city is narrowed with grayness from above, pressed with cement, driven into itself.

I fix my collar and open the map. City center is to the left, down the wide boulevard. The wind is throwing the garbage around. Neon billboards flash through the snowflakes. Free from expectations and draped in rime, I slide to meet the Ukrainian winter.

There’s a hooker standing at one of life’s crossroads. I pick a direction and say, “Hello, how are you.” She says, “A blowjob 500 hryvnia. Fucking 750. No anal. Euro, sure.”

I say, “The Croats used to pay with hryvnia, while your great-grandfathers used kuna, and now it’s the other way around, isn’t that interesting? Economically, we overlap.”

She wants to know if we’re fucking tonight or not. She also wants to know who the hell the Croats are, because, she says, there’s no group discount.

The heroes of the Carpathians, honey, I promise I’ll explain everything later. I ask for her name, faking a deep voice.

“Katja.”

And that’s all she says, she’s playing some fucked-up game, this hooker of mine, bluffing and making me fall for it. I unravel how her name beautifully suits her high heels and how maybe, just maybe, there’s a nice place for us tonight, a nice place for us. Snowflakes cover her feathers, cover her plush.

“You-can-pay-in-euro-al-so,” she says again, a bit louder.

Eliminating the romance, I take out the money for fucking.

This puts a smile on her face.

Now there’s two of us smiling, hard currency brings our nations together.

“Come on, let’s hit the town. I’m taking you to a nice restaurant,” says one of us.

The hooker wraps her hand around mine and shows me the way, one of the possible ways into the night. I go for it. We walk like a couple and I must say: it’s not a grand triumph, but it makes a man happy. With a hooker under my arm, it occurs to me: a journey is either reaching a goal or escaping the origin; encounters are revelations or illusions; solitudes, even embraced, are still uneven.

But let me say this again, I’m walking with a hooker under my arm and it feels good. All around us is the squeaking sound of teeth and boots. Katja is an uglyish woman in her forties. She has bandy legs and she seems to limp. Her ass is a small cauldron, hiding dark secrets. She wears a satin dress with wet feathers on her shoulder; this is the image I remember. On top of it all, she put on something that was once a fur coat. I’m watching her profile, her nose, a slight curve, and I think to myself: how did she break it? in a bar fight? giving blowjobs too eagerly? or I’m simply a chauvinistic pig, and this Madonna next to me fell while running after a child and that’s why she’s limping, with a broken nose, Kiev Madonna, Santa Subita?

There are so many questions and much more, while this hooker and I walk in silence, graciously, steadily, slowly; the grayness disappears and the town opens under our feet, like a gigantic shell, magically gleaming from underneath. Snowflakes are thick, the night begins, can you hear it?

I’m going to break this silence with an explanation, she says; in my past life I went to Mexico. I bought a lottery ticket from a street seller. I believe there’s some luck underneath that foil, and that, eventually, I will grab it. Wind coming from the ocean dries the sweat and we’re left with salt, salt everywhere, on tequila shots, foreheads. And here I am, covered in salt, dry from the wind and salty like a codfish, I see him, by chance, in a crowd, this stranger in Mexico, tall and black. The street smells like ocean. I ask him something like, stranger, what are you doing in Mexico? Stupid questions are like thistle in a sock, but you’ve got nice eyes so I’m going to give you an answer. The waves crash against a huge rock.

I’m looking for a pink moon in this dirty town, he went on, so I asked him what it is, this pink moon, because an answer like that is an invitation for another question, you would’ve asked the same, wouldn’t you? Pink moon is magic on the body, a sort of magic that doesn’t last long, but it follows you forever, and all it takes for it to happen is a nice dinner, nice hooker and this—he pulls a box out of his pocket. A box, a simple black plastic square, he held it at eye level. Women fall for bastards, he says, and if you tell me that’s not the case, I’ll know you’re lying, because money has nothing to do with it, money is filthy, mark my words, honey, women fall for handsome bastards and that’s why my task is usually easy. Your face is like … like a lost little girl’s face. But still, hey, hey, so, listen, this is what I’m going to do: I’ll take a hooker for the night, take her to some nice restaurant (not any restaurant, a nice one) and do my best to make her fall in love with me. Afterwards I’m going to take her to a hotel. I will fuck her under the full moon because there’s no better image than a naked ass under the moonlight, honey, nor a better moment. Fuck gently, to relax her, and then take her from behind. But why the pink moon then, you too would ask, because an answer like that is an invitation for another question, at least for me it was, back there in Mexico, the city covered in salt. Because of this, honey, the stranger replied; he opened a little box, it unfolded so romantically, like the goldsmith’s treasure, and took out a half-moon shaped stamp. He touches the button on top. In a couple of seconds, the stamp gets hot.

A moment before I come, I’ll stamp this on her butt cheeks, yes, a sign of mine, burn her nice flesh, make her remember me, make her remember. She’ll scramble and scream, but I’ll hold her tight, stay inside of her, she is my pink moon. No better way to come. Love hurts, honey, true love always hurts.

Will you be my hooker? he said, as he’d thought of a good idea.

But I won’t pay you, he added.

A couple of hours later he gave me a pat on the back, like I was an old mare, or a friend that went missing in the dark. I stayed, leaning onto a wall, with my legs shaking, ass burning. He stamped the pink moon and left. I scratched the foil from the numbers. The ticket was a loss. I’ll try again. The salt covered the roof lines, Panama hats and palms, covering the filthy town in white.

Will I ever see him again? I didn’t worry about the details. I carried on.

It was a short walk; it’s that kind of a town. We arrive in front of a restaurant, the moon is still new. At one of life’s crossroads Katja says: “I am not that hungry, stranger. But look, there’s a hotel across. How about we get you warmed up?”

“Sure, honey, sure.”

“And we can order room service,” she distributes her wisdom like the snowplow distributes the salt while I take her across the street. We walk toward the light, fireflies light up just for us; the trams are clattering, and the plush, feathers, stockings and I enter the hotel. The receptionist gives us a suspicious look. He’s seen worse, that’s for sure. There’s only one question: how much a stranger is willing to spend for an exotic Ukrainian night.

“A one-bedroom, my friend,” I say.

“I see the two of you,” the receptionist cuts in mathematically. “And for this you’ll pay extra … the cleaning lady will have her hands full after you!”

“We’re all the same,” says Katja from the back. “You just need to take a better look.”

The receptionist doesn’t see the philosophy of the horizon, Katja doesn’t see the philosophy of not making her point, and I don’t see how this could end.

“Hey, but you’ve got it all wrong … the lady won’t stay … for long.”

“This is not one of those hotels, fella. You pay for the night, and the rest is none of my business.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but then I take a look at my battered hooker, shrug my shoulders, and throw the cash on the desk.

“Meh. Whatever.”

“Have a nice time … lovebirds,” he makes fun of us while we stroll down the hall.

We wave at him, the two of us, and the hooker calls the elevator.

I met a blind painter in France. I thought he’s lying about being blind, or being a painter, because something had to be a lie, right, but it wasn’t a lie, he was as blind as a mole yet he painted, and how, that was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, and the scariest thing as well, because, what are the rest of us then, all of us, and what are we doing, with our talents, our lives, and what is he, an angel or one of the devils, is he looking at my soul that way, the same way he’s been looking at canvas with blind eyes. These questions lure an answer, don’t you think?

I bought a lottery ticket on the square where he was painting. It’s a win for sure, lady, says the seller with a moustache. It’s never a win for me. But lady, the seller insists, if you play—then you win. Who doesn’t play, doesn’t win, am I right?

So I played.

That night, in a basement he called his studio, we were lying in bed, he opened a drawer and felt something inside, and it opened so romantically, like the goldsmith’s treasure, and I turned onto my stomach, eventually the ticket has to be a win, and I knew what was coming, I spread my legs, raised my booty and bit the pillow, and the scalded moon was shining in the dark basement, that I didn’t see, but I could imagine it, and the harsh pain, the smell of burnt skin, and his moaning next to my ear, bleating, moaning in the night.

The whole summer we lay in that dirty basement. I had a dream of a crib, in the corner of the room, and a tiny male suit, navy, because I would never bring a little girl to a world like this, no, it had to be a son, a son would take care of himself, and I woke up grabbing the pillow and gasping for air, because the boy wasn’t next to me. No matter how much I played, him I could never win. The painter comforted me with his bumpy hands, saying how, in his village, there was a legend that everything bad happening at night, every nightmare and every evil, disappeared from the mind and you’d never remember it, but the first thing you had to do, the first thing when you opened your eyes, was to look through the window, because everything dissolved under the morning sun. I sat quietly, sobbing. He caressed me. The floors and the old bed squeaked. I never asked the question that was obvious to anyone but him: Where can you find a basement window?

The summer was long and sticky, the basement was humid, and paints were soggy and they, just like the alcohol out of his skin, evaporated, like my body covered in paint. He liked to paint on my body. And it was getting harder and harder for me to move, the layers got thicker and thicker, I felt mummified, lying naked and glued to the floor, while he staggered across the apartment, groped over the floor, smelling the paints, covering it all in alcohol and dark shades …

Before the summer ended, crumpled in the corner of the room was a lottery ticket, the one Moustache Man gave to me. I scratched the foil; loss again. It was time for me to go. Quietly I closed the door, as quietly as possible. Still, he woke up. I was climbing the stairs, toward the light, and he was shouting my name, still drunk. The paint peeled off of my hands while I was opening the door. Outside, the sun was shining mercilessly; I had to cover my eyes for a moment, feeling closer to him than ever. Maybe this is how he paints, maybe it’s the shadows he paints, memory and sound, and if I were blind, as in this moment, I know what I’d paint: a cradle and a tiny navy suit. Will I ever have him in my arms?

I walked on.

The room is pastel, with stainless steel details. It glows in the dark. It looks like a place everyone would approve of, but no one would really like. I sit down at the table. It’s an awkward silence, but still we don’t talk. A radio is playing in the background. Katja opens up the balcony door. Cold wind opens up the curtains, snowflakes paint the darkness. She stays on the balcony for a few moments. In front of her, with the river cutting in between, the blocks of concrete are shining. She covers her shoulders with a fur coat, smoking outside.

Somewhere far away you hear the Japanese economy growing.

I fold my coat on the bed, placing it carefully, as if it might break. I take out the camera and a stand, putting the equipment in the corner of the room. I shut the lights down low, and turn on the one above the bed, pressing the record button on.

“I’ll be there in a minute, darling,” she says, standing with her back turned to me. I’m sitting at the edge of the bed, closely watching her moves. Katja puts out a cigarette on the fence, a spark flicks into the night. She slowly returns back to the room, almost like she’s flying.

“This … was not part of the agreement,” she says, pointing to the camera. It seems recording is not that much of a problem; it’s more likely she’s concerned about her price.

“There are certain webpages. And there are certain people subscribed to those pages. It’s simple. I’m the owner of one. Canadians, Americans … Japanese, oh yes. They pay good money for the content I offer. The catch is in the fact that it’s … that it’s real. No faking. No repetition. Always a different tape. Always a different experience. That’s why I travel alone and it seems to feel good that way.”

The hooker frowns and exhales. “We didn’t agree on that …”

“We’re going to have to improvise … I’ve lost too much time. There’s no love for me in this city. But don’t be afraid. Nothing will happen to you. I’m a professional. Come here, just like that. Stand in the middle of the room. Start undressing … wait, wait for me to turn up the radio. Yes, that’s good. Are you okay with the music? Now take off your clothes. Slowly. Shoes first. ”

I watch her undress, she’s clumsy and awkward, and everything she was wearing is now all over the beige carpet, the feathers flutter.

“Dance.”

“Huh?”

“Dance. Dance to the music.”

Katja starts moving from one leg to another, and the scene becomes surreal. She snaps her fingers, banging her head like an Elvis doll on a windshield. Like a steady babushka or persistent pendulum, the lower part of her body still swings left, right, left, right. It makes me seasick.

“Close your eyes, Katja. The camera isn’t here, I’m not here. Close your eyes.” I move into darkness. Katja closes her eyes. She waits for a song to finish. The radio goes mute for a moment. Katja looks down, waiting for the sound. Her body is tense, shoulders raised, she’s on her toes, and her big toe makes a hole in her stockings. A moment of silence becomes eternity, and then, out of the plastic box, the DJ gives us the best of him. This song, from the very first beat, is the one, complete chanson in this exotic language. Filled with emotion, riddled with deep vocals coming from a singer of whom, even in the darkness of the cheapest hotel, you can say: he’s all about art. This song has to be a Ukrainian evergreen.

Katja opens her mouth following the chansonnier’s voice, and now she’s dancing like she’s all alone. Barefoot, on the tips of her toes, catching the rhythm from the radio. She gets rid of her bra like she’s getting rid of sad thoughts. What does this man sing about? Will the Japanese from the other side of the stream even hear it? And, if they will, what’s the value of this moment of solitude? Katja’s dancing is still bad, but honest. This is what I need, this is what brings money. I unbutton my pants, getting out of the dark.

I sit on the bed, calling her quietly. She’s slowly approaching me, still dancing. I’ve got a hard-on. Katja sets herself against my knees, kneeling and moaning. I have to invest in a better microphone, this is priceless. I feel her hands sliding on my thighs. She unzips my pants (in one move, this is almost mission impossible when sitting, you whore, you wonderful whore, the tape will rock, your teeth are made of gold). I turn my profile so the camera captures the action.

Suddenly, someone knocks on the door.

Katja jumps and runs away, the hallway squeaks under her footsteps.

“Hey … for God’s sake …” I scream after her. And the singer in the dark sobs, used to sorrow and despair.

Katja leans her ear closer to the door, “Whooo is iiit?”

Before I manage to do anything, Katja, naked as she is, opens the door. For a moment or two I lose sight of her. I lean towards the hallway. Silence, slightly fake, like someone from the other side of the door wants nothing to be heard. Katja comes back to the room, wheeling the cart with two silver lids. She looks confused. “This was in the hallway.”

Katja wheels the cart to the middle of our room. Steps back a little. She looks at the cart like she’s seen some out-of-this-world intelligence, crosses her arms and makes an obvious conclusion:

“It’s a riddle.”

I adore riddles. I look closely into the cart: in the middle, right in between the two lids, there’s a bottle of vodka stuck in ice and two champagne glasses.

Written in English, the napkin says:

Happy Malanka! Knock yourselves out, lovebirds

“And there was no one outside?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

We stare at that cart a bit hypnotized, expecting it will talk, wink, or do a trick, when all of a sudden Katja claps her hands, like she just figured out a joke; she opens the mini-bar and grabs a beer. She gets vodka from the cart and pours it.

“Homemade champagne, stranger. Tonight we drink, we celebrate Malanka!”

“Katja, we have to work …”

“One drink, stranger. One drink never killed anyone.”

“Okay. Just one … there’s work to be done, we’re filming …”

It’s impossible to think about money when you have an erection: there’s not enough blood in the body for such contradictory actions—fucking and contemplating profit. It remains a miracle how the latter is inspired by the former, and the former is the purpose of the latter.

Katja shakes the beer, places a cap onto her golden tooth, frowns a bit, and bites it. The cap eases up. There’s beer all over the table, floor, boobs. Katja blows the foam over the vodka glasses. It actually looks like champagne. Remotely, if nothing else.

She hands me the glass.

“Drink, stranger. We celebrate, that’s the order.”

We toast, down our glasses. The table starts to jiggle. We drink and drink, it’s been hours, it could’ve been days, when Katja says:

“We’ve drank it all.”

I shrug my shoulders, like nothing matters anymore, not this, not anything.

I’m on the sofa, Katja is sitting on my lap and runs her fingers through my hair. I look her in the eyes, there’s no reason not to tell her. So I say:

“I’d like to buy a sailing boat. A small one with a cabin for two.”

“A sailing boat?”

“Yes. For two. That’s enough.”

“I’d like to sail the sea.”

“Really?”

“Some warm sea, I’m tired of this fucking ice.”

I’m a disgusting romantic when I’m drunk. I’m aware of it, but I can’t help it. Some guys puke after a bottle of hard liquor. Some guys beat up a friend, and then apologize in the morning. Me, given the right amount of booze, I can easily fall in love with the nearest hooker. Fuck it, that’s the way I am. I’d like to be one of those guys who fight, and then apologize in the morning. My life, at least the next day, would be strikingly easier.

“Heeey … Katja … hey.”

“Yes, handsome?”

“Would you … would you maybe … sail the world … with me?”

I’d shake her sheets like a French maid, in vain and at once. Then I grab her ass and she laughs, throwing her head back and raising her legs up in the air, swinging like a tiny sailor in his cradle, while the sofa squeaks under us, and I moan due to the happiness overload, and Katja, hey, Katja, instead of replying, looks into my eyes, deeply and significantly. It seems I’m going to vomit, but I manage to hold it in, and I look at her, our pupils tremble in the dark.

She gets up, gives me a kiss on the forehead.

“What do we have here?” Katja lifts the silver lid. There’s a lottery ticket under it, on a silver platter. Katja looks at the ticket, and then she looks at me, her eyes narrowed, like she sees me for the first time.

“If you don’t play, you don’t win,” she says, almost mumbling.

She lifts the other lid too. There’s a black box under it.

“Let me guess … this one’s for me,” I say, and I open the box and put the stamp in my pocket, for later. It occurs to me that perhaps there’s something here. I turn off the camera in this northern town. I come out on the balcony, staggering, watching the lights in front of me. Her hands, soft and warm, hug me from behind. I puke over the fence and take a look around me: the town is still generally shitty, gray, and ice-cold, but it doesn’t seem so bad anymore, with the New Year’s fireworks launching and with the river flashing in the colors of the sky. Explosions come one after the other, like my peptic ulcers, and I forget about work, Japanese, Americans, and Canadians. Instead, I whisper in Katja’s ear the differences between a racer and a schooner, and she pulls me back inside, because it’s cold outside, and we’re getting closer to bed, I stagger with my ass naked, and she, obediently, turns on all fours toward the Croatian erection and a brighter future, while in the dark of the room, you’ll barely notice, a new stamp glows.