‘Jul!’
She was losing it. And just like today, I decided not to make any further comments, to get her to leave faster.
‘Very often, Jul, the amounts of alcohol you will have to consume are crazy. And you don’t want to get sick on the client or pass out when you could make more money. Listen to me. You must try to drink as little as possible.’
I’d nodded, hoping that she was finally done with her useful tips and tricks. But she’d just carried on.
‘Besides using the stick, you could also pour the swill onto the carpet, couch or curtains. On anything that can absorb liquid. Although,’ she smiled, ‘the client could easily detect this fraud. So the best way is to pour it right into the ice bucket when he leaves to use the bathroom …’
Natalia drags me back from my memories, handing me a glass of water and two aspirins.
‘My point is that if you continue drinking like that, Jul, in a few months all the money you’ve earned will have to be spent on gastroenterologists.’
Arghh … where do you even get these words from??? Why can’t you just shut up and leave me alone?
‘You think that drunkenness helps you to be relaxed, funny and confident, but in fact it just makes you lose control. How can you not understand that?’
I wrinkle my nose, trying to keep my head still – the pain of every movement tortures me. But, again, Natalia chooses not to notice my hangover suffering, and continues, ‘You were just lucky last night. Those guys would have spent all of that money anyway, even if you were a monkey. But if it had come to a situation where you had to manipulate or influence them to make them pay, you wouldn’t have been aware of it. You are always wasted, Jul.’
I am watching two tablets dissolve. I can’t believe that she is actually saying all this instead of just being happy for my success last night!
‘You’re just jealous, Nata, aren’t you?’ I wheeze.
‘Oh, please, Julia. Jealous of what? You literally killing yourself? How long will you be able to carry on like this?’
‘Well, you don’t really expect me to do this job forever, right?’ The bubbles of the fizzing aspirin are tickling my nose while I down it in one gulp. ‘And what do you mean by losing control? Control over being fucked in front of other people, Miss I-do-everythingthe-right-way? Guess what, Natalia – not everybody is perfect like you. Just deal with it! Jesus, my head is really going to explode now … Can’t we leave this preaching for some other time? I am in pain and I need to start getting ready for work.’
‘Whatever, Jul … I was just trying to be helpful’, says Natalia, heading towards the door. Just before she leaves the room, she turns to me and adds, with a sarcastic smile, ‘By the way, congratulations. You did extremely well last night.’
13
My loving sister Natalia induces the boss to change my shift to the daytime for the next month. She wants to save me from drugs and separate me from Masha.
Isn’t it charmingly naïve?
The day run finishes at 10 p.m. As soon as it’s over, I go to the nightclubs with different clients, who are more than happy to supply me with a hit in the hopes of free intercourse after the party.
Nice try, Nata. But I’ll find a way if I want to ...
Unfortunately, working in the day also means working with the freakiest freaks in Luxembourg. In this particular club, what also helps to bring these pathetic bastards in is a big screen that runs non-stop hardcore porn without sound.
It is the end of my first week on the day shift, which hasn’t gone too well for me business-wise. I wasn’t quick enough (the other girls were really good at roller skating), or the clients simply didn’t want me. Yesterday, already, I could see the manager giving me sidelong glances, so I am really under pressure to make it work today. While I am busy thinking about my difficulties, the door slowly opens and the first customer walks in.
He is a pale, tall fatso in his late 80s – yes, still a frequent visitor to such places, and yes, who still regularly goes upstairs for nookie! Okay, maybe the word ‘goes’ is too strong; he battles to move, with the help of his walking stick or sometimes even a barman. Among the girls, his nickname is Death.
When he shuffles in and heads to the bar, all the girls sigh together with dislike and turn away from him. Despite the tough competition, not one of them tries to get to Death first. To me, the dodderer looks like a harmless dude. My first guess why the girls have given him such a discouraging name is that he looks like he is going to die very, very soon. Nice try, but far from the real reason …
Apparently, he always likes to try the new girls, so it is my turn to get to know him better.
The barman, Franc, is chatting to Death. He waves to me, and without extra words, directs us to the stairs. When we finally reach the next floor, grandpa and I make ourselves comfortable on the two-seater couch in a small, square room with a coffee table, dustbin and miniature hand-wash basin hanging on the wall, which is papered with dull flowers. Franc opens and pours the champagne, using the best manners and etiquette, while engaging in a little talk with my playmate, politely pretending that he is interested in a conversation. At the same time, I am trying to calm myself with the idea that if Death can hardly move his limbs (you should see him climbing up the stairs, with barmen behind him as a backup in case he collapses), any further activity should not go beyond an innocent chat or, at most, some modest cuddling.
As soon as the door closes behind the barman, Death starts peeling his clothes off. I freeze in stupor.
The words ‘Take off your dress’ bring me back to my disturbing reality. With credulous optimism, I down a glass of champagne and obey.
What follows is worse than a nightmare …
For the whole hour that we spend together, he deep-kisses me on my mouth, forcing his sour, mucus-covered tongue down my throat and sadistically biting my lips. I cannot even describe the smell that his whole body emits, but I finally figure why the girls gave him his nickname. He stinks, as if he is already dead and rotting from the inside. All I can think about is how to suppress the urge to vomit.
He likes it harsh – asks me to squeeze his nipples hard and pinches mine exhaustively too. A stifled ‘ouch’ uncontrollably slips out while my face distorts from the pain. The son of a bitch sulkily pushes me away and wheezes with irritation: ‘Don’t you like it?’ Clearly, to earn the bottle, I don’t only have to participate in this aversion – the pretense that I’m having the best time of my life is also required. I force a smile and assure him that I am certainly turned on, but it is just a little bit too intense for me. He ‘hmmms’ and goes back to his sadistic manipulations.
He keeps pressing my face into his full, hanging breasts, forcing me to bite and suck his nipples, while poking his crooked fingers into my dry pussy, scratching it with his nails. I try to keep my eyes closed: his pale and wizened skin is covered with blue knots of varicose veins, which doesn’t make it any easier for me to fight the reflex to puke.
This revolting scene ends up with me on my knees, sucking the disgustingly soft, eighty-year-old cock, until Death finally comes in my mouth. I wash down the thick and smelly fluid with another glass of champagne and genuinely smile. Incredible … I feel happy.
The torture is over, but not my amazement. The dodderer is so tired after the session that I actually have to dress him. Think of a hundred kilograms of calf’s-foot jelly that has to be pushed into a human’s clothes. It takes me some time. After I’ve worked up a good sweat, the barman helps Death to get down the stairs. And he leaves the club alive. Again.
I go to the toilet and wash my hands and face. I rinse my mouth and chew bubblegum, but cannot get rid of the rotten smell and taste in my mouth.
I cannot stop thinking about why I didn’t simply tell Death to fuck off. It’s not as if I have five little kids waiting for me at home and no money to buy them food. What can I say? I guess it’s life … You never know what a lack of money, poor social security, alluring TV shows with their fab
ulous people and luxury things, a desperate desire to have a decent life, and young age can do to you.
Still deep in thought, I go down to the bar and ask for a shot of tequila. Even though we are not allowed to drink any alcoholic beverages except champagne with the clients, Franc nods and pours me a double.
14
It is the third month of our trip. Lena calls me to meet for coffee.
This month she had to move to another club. Our boss wanted to hire a few new girls, and Lena simply wasn’t his favourite. Her new club, ‘Angels’ House’, is somewhere in the suburbs, close to the German border, about 30 minutes away by bus.
The place is dodgy and we mock it by calling it ‘House of Slumbers’.
It is a small, country-style bar with a female owner. To save money, she is the barman as well as the only waitress, which makes the place a total fuck-up considering that she’s a ‘striking’ boozer too. Usually she doesn’t hire more than five or six girls. Four of them work constantly, and also drink like fish; the remaining one or two are new girls every month, like Lena, to refresh the trashiness.
What tops off the place is the shiny lever on the bar. Girls are allowed to enjoy (or, rather, abuse) the limitless beer on tap. Obviously, the alky-owner looks better from an outsider’s point of view when everyone around her is drunk too. By the time the first clients start entering the club, the bar looks like the Land of Nod.
This is the first time I am going to see Lena in three weeks. Besides the fact that lately I spend all my spare time on catching some Z’s after my nightly festivities, Lena seldom has a chance to get to town.
The snag is the club owner. She lives in one of the rooms on the second floor of ‘Angels’ House’, together with the working girls. The wooden floor in the hallway is old and creaky. So, while she sleeps to recover from her crapulence, the crazy woman doesn’t allow her employees to come out of their rooms until noon.
The public buses only pass by every hour. The first bus after noon comes at 1 p.m. Lena’s shift starts at 5 p.m. The four hours of available time is too little to go to town, considering that one of them is wasted in transit. The girls also have to get ready for their shift, but there is only one shower for all six of them, making it impossible to keep their preparation time short.
Imprisonment in their rooms applies not only to the girls’ going out of the building; while the boss is sleeping, they can’t even use the bathroom or the kitchen. The latter is in a very small room without a fridge, a table, or even a sink. Girls have to wash the dishes in the bathtub. The only equipment that makes the room look like a kitchen is an old electric kettle and oven, which hardly heats up. The rest of the space is stuffed with old, dirty tableware and food products that are stored everywhere: a few overloaded shelves and even the floors.
Lena is very lonely there, which is why she called me and kept insisting on a reunion, saying that she misses me a lot and has something to tell me. I couldn’t say no. She sounded almost desperate on the phone.
When I get to the place, our fave café on the Place de Paris, Lena is already waiting for me. She rises from the cane-chair, hugs and kisses me. On my how-are-you-sis she tiredly sighs, ‘Don’t even ask …’ then drops back onto her chair and sighs again.
‘I haven’t slept all night. We had a situation …’ She pauses to role her eyes.
I wave to the waiter to bring me the same, while pointing at Lena’s already cold cappuccino and keeping an oh-my-god-whathappened expression on my face.
Turns out that her roommate Sasha was having some kind of a heart attack last night, and when one of the girls tried to call an ambulance, their alky-boss prohibited her because ‘it would cost too much’.
Really, what a bitch!
‘She scared me so much, but luckily it didn’t end badly, I managed to find corvalol drops in one of the girls’ medical aid kits, and after some time Sasha’s chest pain calmed down and she fell asleep.’
‘Thank God she is fine.’ I fake my concern, thinking of my bed and how nice it would be to jump back in it for a few more hours.
‘Yes! She was fine,’ Lena continues with more indignation, ‘but not me! You know, seeing a fainting person is enough to make me faint myself …’
Oh yes, I do know …
It is not news that Lena is very wary and panicky. On top of that, sometimes she has cases of fainting for real. She would wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, feeling nauseous. She would get out of bed to go to the bathroom, and on the way there, she would zonk out and fall onto the floor. A few times, she smashed her face badly. That’s why she had to learn to control herself and not to jump out of bed whenever she woke up feeling groggy. Instead, she would just slide off the bed and crawl into the bathroom, so that if she did faint, she would already be near the floor, avoiding a dangerous fall.
There is no particular reason for these incidents; at least the doctors couldn’t find one. But most of the time it happens when she drinks or eats to excess – even just a little, which most of us would still consider to be moderation.
‘I couldn’t make myself sleep at all last night …’ her voice right now is full of so much irritating drama that I want to just flick her forehead.
‘But don’t worry, Jul. It’s all okay now.’
‘Good, Len. I am glad you both are well now …’
I was not worried at all, although I felt sorry for Lena. Of the three of us, the drinking-a-lot situation was the most difficult for her. But I know she was somehow managing, keeping her ‘moderation’ in the safe levels. After a few incidents in Luxembourg, during her first contract already, Lena also learnt how to drink without drinking. Every time she had more than two glasses of champagne, she’d go to the toilet, carefully put two fingers down her throat and eject the contents of her stomach. The only things she had to remember were to keep it quiet, not to forget the make-up bag to touch up after the procedure, and, of course, a mint or chewing gum.
Phew … yuck!
This may seem like a good solution for our problem of having to drink a lot every day, but only at first glance. Believe me: imagine forcing yourself to throw up several times a night, which wouldn’t be a big deal if you were bulimic and vomiting food, but I am talking about puking pure acid out of your stomach, mixed with sour champagne. Aside from the cocktail being extremely nasty, it also burns your throat and gullet.
The girls like me, who can tolerate big amounts of alcohol and other stuff, try never to use this option.
As I try hard not to fall asleep sitting right there in the café, I notice that my sister is, regardless her weariness, unusually twitchy, and that her eyes sparkle oddly.
Something is going on with her … and I don’t like it …
After the waiter brings us another two cappuccinos, this time decaf, Lena cradles her cup with both hands and smiles at me.
‘Jul, there is something else I wanted to talk to you about.’
No fucking way you are pregnant again! I think, but say only, ‘What is it?’
‘There is this customer I met a few weeks ago,’ Lena goes on. ‘Michel. He is from Paris, handsome, fit, 43 years old and not married.’ She pauses, looks inside her cup and adds, ‘At least, that is what he told me. But I believe him, Jul. Why would he lie?’
He would lie for the same reason as all your previous boyfriends did. Because this is what you want to hear, my hopelessly child-like sister.
‘On the first night,’ she continues, ‘he bought six bottles of Dom Perignon and didn’t even touch me. We spent all night talking about love and life. He kept looking into my eyes, saying that I was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.’
‘Wow! Six bottles?’ I whisper, counting in my head how much my sister made that night.
‘You would not believe it, but a week later Michel came back! He asked if I would like to join him for dinner. Of course I said yes. He paid the club the fine for my absence, and took me to a fine restaurant. Then he suggested that we go t
o his suite in the five star hotel, to continue the night ...’ She looks down and bites her lip. ‘You know, strawberries and champagne in a beautiful hotel room with a gorgeous view and a handsome man who adores you … it was an amazing night … like a dream, Jul. A fairy tale!’
I sigh with admiration. ‘You are definitely one lucky bitch, Len!’
She sighs too. ‘But there is something else …’ Her voice drops and she falls silent in hesitation. I can see she is struggling to find the courage to say what she wants to say.
Oh no! You are definitely knocked up! goes through my head and I lean over the table and ask, trying to hide the irritation, ‘What, Len?’
‘The only little thing –’ she stops and looks down again ‘– is … hmmm … he wore red fishnet stockings under his €3,000 suit; he didn’t take them off until we’d finished making love.’
‘No way! Len, are you serious?’ I start laughing and my sister goes as red as the bright cashmere sweater she is wearing.
‘Stop laughing!’ she exclaims. ‘I think I love him.’ When I notice the tears in her eyes I cover my face with my hands and try to cease my laughter. I know what ‘I love him’ means in Lena’s interpretation – ‘I am ready to marry him and have kids …’ And that if she is not knocked up yet, she is going to be soon.
‘Come on Len, what do you want me to say? He is a perfect customer! I know you’ve already dreamt about you two getting married, but don’t freak out straight away. Sometimes absolutely abnormal things can, with time, become surprisingly normal. So what? Stockings? He seems like a nice guy to me anyway. What you should do is wear stockings yourself next time too.’ And we burst into laughter, together this time.
I walk her to the bus station and we talk more about her new admirer. Then Lena suddenly shoots, ‘Natalia told me you were fighting a lot lately.’
‘Never mind,’ I brush her off. ‘You know Natalia.’