The Hungarian Widower
Preamble.
Whether Putin ordered the use of nerve agent in Salisbury or not is debatable. But the presence of a large number of seriously rich Russians in the United Kingdom is a fact. What percentage among these nouveau-émigrés have earned their fortune by honest means, is again a matter for conjecture. But few will deny that they spend a lot of money partying and having fun, gambling, drinking and, let us say frankly, whoring.
Now, I am a modest scribbler, but when I gave a course on creative writing, one of my more interesting students was a sauna bird, as she calls herself. Her real name is not Jodie. I was stunned by the drama and the comedy in her stories, although her style and technique needed much improvement. However, to my surprise she said that she had no interest in what she called erotica or porn. She saw herself as the next Barbara Cartland, the Queen of Romantic Fiction. But all those stories you’ve written, they are going to waste, I said. Well, you use them as you think fit. I am using her voice.
There were four or five of us sitting in the lounge which was also the reception, and we heard him ask Magda who was at the desk if he could see a masseuse. Magda smiled, and with a flourish pointed at us, sitting there in our flimsies, trying to look like Delilah. He paid his fee and turned round and walked towards us. It was quite disconcerting how he stopped near the first girl, bent forward in order to have a good look, shook his head and repeated this with the second girl. When it was my turn, he beamed and nodded.
‘I vant you,’ he said. I guessed from his accent that he was mittel European. He refused a (soft) drink when I offered him one. I gave him a towel and directed him to the shower. He came back panting, the effort to wash himself having exhausted him, and I asked him to follow me downstairs.
‘My name is Ferenc,’ he said, ‘but call me Frank.’ Although he spoke good English, he had a thick accent.I tried to make him at ease, as he seemed quite tense. He told me that he had arrived in this country some fifty years ago, after the Hungarian uprising. He had made a lot of money, first working as a plumber, and then creating his own company. He had made a fantastic amount of money, and had been the happiest of men, married to the most wonderful woman on earth, until she died last year. He had tears in his eyes as he told me all this. Suddenly he opened his bag and handed me a small wad of twenties. I stared at it, not daring take it, but he smiled and said, two hundred, all for you. I am going to like this job, I was saying to myself. I took it and put it in my handbag. I thought I was going to give him the best fuck in his life after this, and started peeling off. He demurred, shook his head violently, and opening his bag with trembling fingers, he handed over to me a cotton nightie with small embroidered blue flowers asking me to put it on. When I was stripping, he never once looked in my direction. That surprised me but I thought what the hell and did as the man wished. Next, to my amazement, the punter took his own clothes off and put on a pair of pyjamas. There was more surprise to come. He now takes a comb from his breast pocket, and signals to me that he wanted to comb my hair.
I am not particularly queasy, but when it comes to combs and toothbrushes … well. I demur and produce my own comb, and Ferenc takes it, asks me to sit down, and lovingly combs my hair backwards, in a fifties style which does not really become me, but again I am thinking, what the hell, he is paying. Then he takes my hand and leads me to the bed. I am feeling very uneasy now, but remember the two hundred quid, and lie down. The Hungarian smiles and settles himself beside me. Can I put my arm around you, he asks. This is a fucking whorehouse, I am thinking and I am being paid big bucks to service you. I nod and he puts his arm round my waist and gently draws me towards him. I press myself against his limp cock, and he intimates that he does not want that yet and pulls away. Funny guy, we’re not gonna get anywhere fast, I am thinking. I am surprised to see tears in his eyes. Suddenly he starts speaking Hungarian. I can hardly pick a single word, but two words get repeated so often that they catch my attention, “had viga, had viga.” I haven’t the faintest idea what he is saying and what he wants, and decide to make a grab for his dick, but he reacts rather violently to that. I am fast beginning to lose my patience now. Frank, what is it you want, darling? I ask.
‘Snore,’ he said, ‘snore … had viga.’
‘Oh, viagra?’ Of course, I was so stupid. He was as limp as a jelly sausage, and would never get it up, let alone penetrate anything more substantial than an empty circular hole. He seemed to want to take viagra. I got up and filled a glass with water.
‘You should have taken your viagra half an hour before coming in,’ I said. He declined the glass.
‘No, miss, like ad viga, my dear departed wife, snore …’
I finally understood that he wanted her to snore like his dead wife.
‘Your wife, dead?’
‘Da,’ he said, ‘Jadwiga.’ I tried to snore, but ended up giggling, and this annoyed the client and I could see his furrowed brows, but he relaxed.
‘Snore like Jadwiga, and I give you another hundred,’ he entreated. I took a deep breath and tried again, but was unable to repress my giggling fit.
‘Another hundred … snore please … horkolash…’ The thought of so much money should have concentrated my mind, but my giggling fit redoubled. Finally Ferenc sat up and angrily ordered me to take the nightie off.
‘You are a disgrace to the memory of my dear wife,’ he said, ‘a saint if there ever was one.’
He had not come for sex, he explained, what sort of man did I take him for? He wanted to pretend that he was sleeping next to Jadwiga. Was all. Muttering to himself all the time, he changed into his proper clothes, and as he left, he said, ‘kurwa, kurwa, never again, never again.’
