He explains all this to Wanda the Trucker who’s sitting next to him at the bar. Wanda agrees. She cheerfully nods her head and smiles with her giant painted mouth. Urban lifts his hand and snaps his finger at the waiter. Soon two glasses of whisky appear. Urban knows that this is a blend of the cheapest Scotch, Grant’s, with local spirits, but pretends not to notice. He pretends that he’s drinking what he ordered. This is a game played by customer and waiter. Most customers don’t know they’re playing it; Urban plays it, because he does not feel like quibbling. His motto is not to spoil somebody’s racket as long as that person does it decently. Everybody has to survive somehow. Video Urban downs the blend and focuses on Wanda’s extra-long indigo-black thighs, showing from the narrowest of miniskirts.
He asks her. “Aren’t you cold?”
“I’ve got a long coat,” replies Wanda the Trucker.
Urban is shivering with cold. “Another one,” he calls to the waiter. “Make it two,” he corrects himself, after exchanging glances with Wanda. He asks her, “Why are you called the Trucker?”
“Because I started with long-distance lorry-drivers at the petrol station,” says Wanda.
“And I thought it was because you’re so tall.” He stirs his coffee and drinks it.
Wanda’s real name isn’t Wanda, but Anča. She was married to a man called Polgár. He used to work in the Water Department. Anča used to bring him lunch and then sat and watched him eat. Polgár would sometimes tie her to the pipes in the basement of the pumping station and took his pleasure that way. She liked it until the day Polgár had to run up to answer a ringing phone and forgot about her. Then the foreman came and found Anča all blue with cold, crucified on the pipes. Polgár ended up in a crew as a waterworks digger on a salary of just one thousand crowns. He started to beat Anča, blaming her for his misfortune. She divorced him, kicked him out of the flat she’d inherited from her father, changed her name to Wanda and began frequenting the petrol station on the main road, screwing lorry drivers. Polgár was later killed when a shaft he was digging caved in. They had no children.
“Why don’t you work as a model?” Urban asks admiringly. “They’re desperate for girls over five foot eight. How tall are you, actually?”
“I’m six foot two,” Wanda the Trucker says proudly and downs her drink.
“You know,” says Urban, “I feel depressed. Nothing is coming right for me. I had a huge stack of money” — he gestures — “that close. Start with a gold mine and end up with a heap of shit. They stole it from me.”
“Who stole it?” asked Wanda the Trucker.
“Oh, forget it!” Urban dismisses it. “Let’s talk about something else. Why don’t you do modelling?”
“You think I’ve got what it takes?” asks Wanda happily.
“Definitely!” Urban decides and orders two more whiskies. “I can still pay for a couple of whiskies. But you’re not drinking,” he says.
“I’m not used to drinking,” says Wanda the Trucker and lifts the glass to her lips.
“What!” Urban says dismissively. “Everybody drinks here. It’s a local tradition.”
“Who took your money?” asks Wanda.
“Forget about it,” says Urban and orders two whiskies. “You don’t drink at all. You should be a model. You’ve got what it takes.”
“I’m pissed off, too,” Wanda the Trucker admits. “Zdravko was supposed to come today. You know, the Viennese doctor. And do you think he came? No, he didn’t!”
Wanda the Trucker drinks up.
“That’s all right,” Urban says. “He’ll come tomorrow.”
“He can fuck himself tomorrow. Fuck him.” Wanda gets upset and bangs the counter with her fist. “I made sure I had nothing doing. He’s a very demanding client. He keeps you busy all day, sometimes two days. There’s dinner, champagne, and then it starts: oral, anal, pissing, from the back, from the front, and again, without stopping. But he doesn’t care about money. I didn’t make any plans, because I was waiting for him. And he was fucking me about. He didn’t come at all.”
Wanda pulls out a cigarette and lets Urban light it.
“OK, OK,” says Video Urban to calm her down and shoves the lighter back in his pocket. It’s not that late. You can turn a few tricks. He looks round the room. “There are plenty of Krauts here,” he adds.
Wanda lifts her head and from her great height scans the room and the westerners sitting at the bar with their bulging trousers and worldly expressions on their fleshy faces. “Screw them!” she explodes, but immediately becomes despondent. “I really don’t feel like doing anything,” she admits. “I have this strange feeling inside me. Maybe I’m getting my period. That’s when I don’t feel like doing anything. But that won’t interest you.” She drops her head to the glass and her giant mane falls on her face.
“Why do you think it doesn’t interest me?” Urban says, although actually it doesn’t interest him. “So what do you want to do?”
“Just sit here and stare into space,” says the prostitute, throwing her hair back. That delightful gesture makes up Urban’s mind for him. “You know what? Let’s go to my place,” he suggests. “It’s warmer, quieter and nicer there. I’ll put on some music. I’ve got the latest Michael Franks. That’s the sort of music for us. Come on!”
Wanda the Trucker shrugs. She doesn’t seem too interested.
“What’s wrong? We know each other, don’t we?” Urban insists. “You’ve spent lots of time with me, haven’t you?”
Actually, Wanda has never been to Urban’s. They did spend a night together in his car. Urban was an unlicensed taxi driver, he was driving passengers all over the city, and Wanda was depressed, so she went along with him.
“There’s nobody at your place?” asks Wanda the Trucker.
“No,” said Urban. “I live alone.”
“I don’t really feel like going anywhere,” says the prostitute indecisively. “I don’t feel like doing anything.”
“Don’t be silly, come on,” says Urban and pulls her by the hand, almost by force. He pays the bill and gets off the bar stool.
“All right,” Wanda the Trucker agrees, as if to spite him, gets off her stool and lets herself be led towards the cloakroom.
The westerners comment with unhappy mutters on the departure of the best-looking, tallest, and most striking prostitute in the bar.
Outside they’re met by cold, flickering street lamps and a snowstorm that hurls fine crystals into their faces.
“Shall we take a taxi?” asks Wanda.
“I’ve got a car,” says Urban.
“But you’ve been drinking,” Wanda protests.
“Nothing worse can happen to me,” says Urban.
“Right, I feel the same,” the prostitute agrees.
“You’ve got the longest legs I’ve ever seen on a woman,” says Urban, when he has to help Wanda push back the car seat.
“Really?” Wanda is happy.
Video Urban scrapes the snow off the windscreen and they drive off.
When Urban shows Wanda his flat, built on the roof of a pre-war apartment building, the prostitute nods in admiration. “This is something!” she says when she looks at the furnishings.
“I like living somewhere comfortable and pleasant,” says Urban as if apologizing. “After all, I’m a professional. Make yourself comfortable. No need to take your shoes off.”
They don’t end up listening to music after all, not for long, anyway. Wanda spots a huge black television set and video player in the corner of the room. “Let’s watch something,” she asks. Urban puts on music videos. “You have a camera, too, right?” says the prostitute.