Madam appears quietly as a ghost, sits by my side and asks:
– Do you want more wine, Gunslinger?
I nod. Looks like I have spent a long time sitting here and looking at Vika. It was an evening twilight on the picture, she sat on the railing of the wooden verandah, the dark forest could be seen behind her, the dim yellow lantern in the high grass, the black mirror of the pool.
– We have many different customers here, – says Madam thoughtfully, – Some of them prefer movie stars, others – goats…
A slight smirk.
– Who is this girl?
Madam looks at me puzzled.
– Does she have a real prototype? – I ask.
The brothel mistress leans on my shoulder and looks at the picture for a long time.
– I don't have right to answer such questions Gunslinger. I even have no idea. It's thousands of faces here. Many of them might seem familiar to you, – a slight grin, – but this is not more than just a coincidence. Does she remind you somebody?
– Yes.
– Somebody real?
– Not exactly… – I cut my one-side openness, – Madam, can I… meet this girl?
– Of course, – our gazes meet, our faces are close, irony and mockery are in her eyes. – Ten dollars an hour. Forty dollars a night. Our prices are moderate, affordable to any hacker.
– You're cruel, – I say.
– Yes. When it seems to me that a nice young gentleman starts getting crazy, I'm cruel.
I take out the credit card.
– Forty dollars?
– Yes.
She accepts the money, hesitates, then says:
– Gunslinger, please listen to one story… Once there was a small silly girl, she studied in college, liked to hang in discos and to flirt with guys. And she loved a singer. He appeared on TV often, was interviewed, his pictures always were on magazine covers. He was a good singer and he sang about love. The girl believed in love very much.
– I know how these stories end, – I say. Not only Madam can be cruel.
– Once the singer arrived in her town during his tour, – Madam goes on.
– The girl was on all of his concerts. She jumped out on the stage with flowers and the singer kissed her cheek. Of course she had got what she wanted. On the second evening she entered his hotel room and left in the morning only. And never came to his concerts since. No, the singer really turned out to be a nice guy and a beautiful man. He was tender and sweet, sharp minded and cheerful. The girl didn't regret anything. But she didn't believe in love anymore. You know why?
– She mixed an illusion and reality, – I answer.
– You understand. Yes, sure. It would be better if he was dumb and dirty bastard. It would be much better. The girl would find the other ideal or would still love the singer's image. But this way… it was too much like a mirror, the love to reflection, the true and perfectly clean one. She really had met her dream, had found her ideal while it must be loved from a distance.
I nod.
Sure, Madam… Of course, the wise brothel mistress. Definitely, all-knowing master of love and sex.
I know.
– I'm sorry Madam, please remind me, have I paid you already?
The woman sighs.
– Follow me Gunslinger…
We ascend the stairs, there's a corridor, doors. Madam takes me to the door with number 6 and touches my shoulder.
– Take care Gunslinger… And by the way, the story that I've told you
– it happened not to me. But I know lots of such stories.