Hussy

(My second attempt at a short story) On friendship and loss, told through the eyes of a lonesome drug addled traveller

                                Hussy



 

 

I'm a rotten, dirty w***e. I let men and women of all ages and persuasions have their way with me for hours at a time. And I spend the cash on fancy food, and beer and trinkets and unnecessary gadgets I never use. I'm not a w***e in the traditional sense, what I w***e out for money is not my flesh. I'm a different kind of hussy. I talk to strangers for cash. I talk to strangers who wish to practice English, for cash. The first few times they will ask about my day, and ill ask about their days, sometimes we become friends, most of the time we don't. After a few sessions something interesting usually happens, they start to confide in me. And trust me, for no other reason than that I listen.



 

George, a large man. Large hands, and large feet, and a large shining bald head, with a horseshoe of neatly trimmed snow-white hair around the sides. Over six feet tall, He had a flat face, a large downturned nose, thick steel rimmed glasses, and a slightly protruding jaw. His grey eyes had a quiet sadness about them, eyes that wouldn't openly admit to being sad, it was the way they made you feel when you engaged them; isolated, ostracised . It was as if his eyes alone were burdened by some terrible truth regarding the nature of humanity. George dressed smartly, in trousers and polished shoes and freshly pressed shirts that smelled of floral washing detergent. Sporting a carefully groomed goatee, which he’d stroke, and twist, and lightly pull, in such a way that would give the impression that he was a calm and thoughtful person. Sometimes he’d even wear a hat, and a suite jacket, depending on the weather, which was charming on an old man whose manners were immaculate.

 

We'd meet at a local cafe in the afternoon. He had a staggered, fragmented way of talking, very quietly, philosophically, constantly searching for words to express his ideas about life and death, and happiness and human greed. Sometimes, if unable to find the words in English, he’d explain things in his native tongue, a rhythmic combination of biting syllables that I had no hope of comprehending. George told me he was from Tallinn, In Estonia. I pretended to be impressed, although in reality I'd never heard of Tallinn. The name “Estonia” simply reminded me of one of those troubled eastern European countries, populated by short Working men with weathered skin, missing teeth and hardened stares, the women were voluptuous and short, and hardened by inescapably tough routine. George gave me a different impression, He told me Estonia was next to Scandinavia, that the food was exquisite, and the women, the most beautiful in the world. When George spoke of home, his face would light up with an endearing pride.

 

 

 Malvina Was Russian. Her lips were a permanent shade of dark red. Her hair was a pristine black brown, immaculately groomed and tied back in a bun, like those little ballerina girls .She smoked cigarettes. She always smoked cigarettes, but somehow she managed to smoke them in such a way that the dirty smell of nicotine would never cling to her clothes, nor to her breath. Malvina’s was a strong white face, embellished with the perfect amount of makeup. Her nose was proud, splitting her face in half, very slightly hooked at the end. Large black symmetrical eyes adorned her perpetually stoic face, it would be easy to imagine those eyes possessing a supernatural power, something akin to the curse of medusa. She dressed very smart, and elegant, in suits, and dark dresses and heels, with a myriad of different accessories, watches and necklaces and earrings and rings and bracelets. She wore these with restraint, never tacky. I’m certain Id never seen her in the same outfit more than once. Her scent was always the same, a thick and heavy scent of roses.

 

That god forsaken smell would hang around for hours after she'd left, stinging my eyes and reminding me of an old teacher who'd once struck me on the back of my neck with her walking stick for undermining her in front of the class. Malvina refused to tell me her age, although I guessed she was in her mid forties. Her face was unceasingly expressionless, and I’d swiftly given up on attempting to break her reserve, arriving at the conclusion that it was simply a cultural quirk. Even when deeply moved, or extremely amused, she'd never smile, there was merely a subtle change to the shape of her eyes that most of the time (I was sure) people neglected to notice. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her body, and if she didn’t smell the way she did, I could even go as far as to say she was rather attractive, in a dominating, older woman kind of way.

 

To combat the smell, I would resist breathing through my nose for the duration of our sessions; this would cause my mouth to dry up horribly. Fortunately we'd usually meet at the same bar, and I would combat this thirst with glass after glass of beer. Id end up inebriated, which would cause me to curse, slur my words, fail to control the volume of my speech, and flirt inappropriately with the waitresses. It wasn’t until much later that Id realised that I was inadvertently teaching Malvina the dialect of a drunken English youth.

 

 

I grew up in a small town in England, a town full of grey squirrels. Those mean b******s near enough wiped out our national icon, the red squirrel. They were imported from America in the 19^th century. I talk of squirrels because one of the first concrete memories I formed as a child was finding the half eaten carcass of a red squirrel spread triumphantly across my door step, a bloody testament to the cruelty of beasts, and my lack of control over the things outside of my little warm bedroom. I sat and played with the animal, poking it with a stick, fascinated by the contrasting colours and patterns the blood and innards and fur had made on the cold grey concrete of my doorstep.  I wondered if it was my dog who had killed the squirrel.

 

 

Meeting with George was a pleasure. He was never late; I would find him sitting alone at a table, halfway through a cappuccino deep in thought. His face would light up with expression when I’d arrive, snapping out of his thoughts, Me, all hung over and self-pitying. George was in his seventies, one of the few people I could honestly say I both respected and admired. He told me he was practicing his English skills in order to communicate better with his granddaughter “Maimu” who was seven, and despite her mother’s efforts, wasn’t taking to the Estonian language as much as shed hoped.

 

As a young man in Estonia, George trained as a mechanic, where he worked with his father fixing cars. After a few years his father died of tuberculosis. George taught himself Finnish, and fled across the water, eventually working the bars and clubs of Helsinki. In the early fifties the rock and roll scene exploded, George, captivated by the sound, and the lifestyle, saved up his salary and eventually purchased a bass guitar, practicing scales and exercises incessantly, he soon became known to local musicians around the city, playing in different bands each night, and quitting his job as a bar tender. The heavy use of Alcohol, marijuana, and barbiturates became part of Georges daily routine, he soon developed a dependency, after a near fatal overdose of “Seconal” one of his former bandmates, who had had similar experiences, convinced George to move with him to Copenhagen, to sober up.  

 

After meeting once a week for around seven months, something unusual happened. George was always the first to arrive at the café, no exceptions. This time, I entered, expecting him to be sitting in the usual spot, ordered a large black coffee and took a seat at one of the booths. My coffee was bitter and tepid by the time George slumped down opposite me. His generous manner was replaced by that of a man defeated.

“Sorry I am late friend”

He said, flashing me a smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes. 
 


“Friend, how are you?”


“I'm good, George, how’s the wife treating you?” I said, working on my free biscuit


Long sigh, pause “she is often upset. She has changed, I think something is wrong in her heart”


“What do you mean, has she seen a doctor?”


“No no” he said, shaking his head vigorously,   


“I'm not meaning she has heart problems, is problem with her spirit”


I sip my coffee, its too sweet; I didn’t stir it properly, now the last third of the cup is like syrup.


“Sorry to hear that George” I offer, not really knowing what to say, drinking away the last of my mediocre biscuit, with the last of my mediocre coffee.

George held my gaze 
“I not have word in English, In My country we say, she look at me now with põlgus”


He makes a face that looks something like sadness, and then he studies his mighty palms and sighs. 



                                                              

                           ****

I've taken Ritalin, the medication the government hands out to hyperactive children… The guy said its pretty much like speed…Anything to keep me from my pillow.. Head to pillow, in darkness. That’s when you're truly alone.. left with nothing but your own deflated excuse of a personality.. bombarding you with self-righteousness.. But not this time… I just wanna talk.. I just wanna bite down hard on something with structural integrity, something resilient that wont ask stupid questions or become upset if I push things too far. 



 

Malvina and I are talking about soup. In her outlandishly thick accent she’s explaining how to make borsch, a traditional eastern European soup.  

“four beetroot, noh skeen , kat een kwarrters , van carrot, noh skeen , chopped leettle , van parsneep, noh skeen, leetle  pieces, van leek, vite parrt only, van onyon, kat leetle, leetle lehmon juss, haff spoon allspice, haff spoon ground nootmeg, tree bay leafs, six cups of beef stock, van cup of sau kreem, four table spoon chopped deell. Rye bread, for serving.

I don’t pay any attention to her words, but somehow they sink in. If anyone were to ask me how to make borsch from now until the day I die, I would respond immediately with thorough instruction.

 

 Back in Russia, Malvina was married to an extremely wealthy and powerful businessman. A man with ties to organised crime, a man with houses and villas in exotic countries. After nine years, the marriage collapsed. A suspicious Malvina burst into one of his hotel rooms in Oslo, (while he was supposedly on a business trip) armed with a camera and Makarov pistol. She managed to take over a dozen useable photographs of him in lewd conduct with two Ukrainian prostitutes. Ultimately, she took over half of his assets, auctioned off his houses and cars, fled Russia, and now owns fourteen burlesque houses and cabaret clubs around Europe.  

 

 “IS MAKE FOR VERY NICE MEAL” she shouts,

as if she thinks I'm doubting her expertise. The end of the word “nice” launching an audible drop of spittle which lands on my bottom lip. I head to the bar for my fifth beer of the evening, the petite blonde bartender is polishing a champagne glass, her face is small like a child’s, her eyes enormous, celeste, two dinner plates deciphering a riddle at her feet. She spots me after id been there for 30 seconds “ you alright?” she announces with an upward inflection, “No I am not alright, I'm here for a f*****g beer, and all you can do is pout and ask me stupid whorish questions! “ is what I wanted to say, but in reality I simply point at the tap and smile. She doesn’t return the smile, too often approached by drunken delinquents, she couldn’t identify a genuine human gesture if it fell on top of her, and she were forced to swallow it whole.

 


                       ****

I woke up next to some dustbins in a pool of my own cold blood and vomit, with a head that felt like it'd been emptied, and refilled with damp sawdust. My clothes were a tatty imitation of the ones id put on the previous night. Blood stained and otherwise full of muck. My mouth felt as though I'd been dining on dry sticks and sewerage for the past twenty four hours. My elbows had swollen to double their natural size, the bloody scabs forming an adhesive with what was formerly my only presentable shirt. There was dried blood all over my face, but I couldn't figure out its source. I slowly got to my feet, and took a glorious leak on one of the giant dustbins.

 

Somehow id made it to the city last night. I staggered down Main Street in search of water. In the city, regardless of your condition, you will remain invisible, becoming part of the landscape, somebody else's problem, people are simply too used to wandering maniacs in the gutter, to pay a bloody youth any real attention. The last thing I remember, after waking up by the dustbins, is becoming overwhelmingly dizzy, falling down a flight of concrete stairs, and laying there for what felt like hours.



 

I woke up to a thick smell of roses. And also to the smell of death and hospital grade disinfectant. My head was killing me; the ream of sunlight that came through the blinds was a blazing red-hot sword, forced through both my eyelids. I figured I must be in hospital. Opposite me was an old man, a small sack of bones and hair, his face stuck in an expression of fear and pain, and he was always staring out of the window, like out there provided some kind of cure, some magic elixir that would bestow upon him the new essence of life, a second chance to do it all differently. His face was extremely gaunt, large dark rings circled his eyes, his skin looked damp, and it was a sickly yellow, His hair was long, and stuck out in all directions like a mad scientist. Sometimes he'd cough so menacingly that he'd have to spit whatever creature He'd produced into a metal bucket by the side of his bed. I wondered if there were a collection of demon fetuses festering there in the bucket, waiting for the mucus around them to dry into cocoons, biding their time, building their strength, eating the weakest of their siblings, until they could break free, all wings and teeth and little eyes and fury, to spread out into the night, the dark legacy of a sorry old man.



 

I noticed a yellow envelope on my bedside table, crisp, with that clean smell of new paper, my name was written on the front, and inside I found two small pieces of paper;



 

Dear Ben, you are passed out and looking pretty rough, so I leave note instead, because I not knowing when you will be awake again. I have very s**t news for you Ben, Your friend George is fucked. They say his wife beating him on head with leg of table. He is kicking the bucket. You have been sleeping for long time, maybe a week or more, maybe too days ago George came to see you, the only thing he saying to me was to give you this note, is poem, I think, Malvina. 



 

The second piece of paper was clearly written by George, he wrote with a kind of elegant penmanship that only those over a certain age possess.

 

Who has not suffered from wounds will laugh at scars.


He who cooks the soup must eat it up himself. 


When death comes, the rich man has no money

And the poor man no debt. 


Life has passed,


I think it was a dream, I will wake up again,


And see my dear friends.

 

Author's Note

Is It even passable as a story ? does the lack of dialogue hinder its effectiveness ?

Reviews

[Alli B]

Wow. Just... wow. This is great! Very descriptive, and the characterization on the narrator and his -friends? Clients? Somewhere in between?- is well done and absolutely one of a kind. I feel like I know these characters well, and I'm invested in them. I want to know more about George and Malvina, I want to know what happened with George and his wife, and what goes on in Malvina's burlesque houses. I especially want to know more about the narrator, and how he started doing his service, his backstory, everything down to what led him to taking Ritalin.

This whole story just seems so unique, for lack of a better word. If I was given a dozen excerpts from stories of the same genre, I would be able to pick out which one is yours easily.

The only problem I can see is the grammar. For the most part, it's very good, but there are some spots where you've made some pretty basic mistakes that can take you out of this dark and gritty world you've created. That said, it would be easy enough to fix by simple rereading it, and it doesn't change the fact that this is the best story I've seen in some time.