In the hallway I bump into my father who’s rushing to get the door. He’s dragging his slippers and flying towards the door knob with an outstretched hand. It’s hard to imagine this man was once Head of Department in public transport. He’s probably finding it hard, too. For years now his main occupation has been ironing the sheets for my clients. People develop throughout their whole life until they overdevelop, like film.
“Marga, someone’s ringing! It’s probably a client,” he whispers at the door. To make sure I’ve understood, he stares at me goggle-eyed and pronounces the syllables one by one with his mouth open wide.
“That’s right. It’s a client. Go away.”
My father backs into the living room and stands looking through the crack in the door to see who it is. In my line of work this is bad. Women don’t like to have an old man watching them get their revolutionary’s beards removed. For him, though, everything is news. People killing each other is news. A bomb exploding is news. A volcano erupting is news. Stefka from next door coming to have her pimples popped is news. I pull the living room door closed and he remains on the inside.
I look through the spy hole. The shoulders outside are so broad they block the view of the stairwell. I can’t see the head at all. The focus of the spy hole falls on the zip pull of his jacket which says O’Neill. I don’t need to see any more to know it’s Ivan Denchev–the Rat Snake. I open the latch.
He casts his eyes around the hallway before entering the studio. His hair is freshly clipped, so seen from the front, the skin on his head is visible through his hair, and from the side, there’s a thin brown line along the oval. Kind of like a mini halo. His squashed ears hold the frames of a pair of Armani sunglasses so stretched that the general impression is one of violation.
“Hello,” he says respectfully and takes off his jacket along with his T-shirt. I was recommended to the Rat Snake by the Canadian. I wax them. Why they want to get waxed I have no idea. I’m not curious, it’s none of my business.
“Should I lie down?” he asks, shifting his weight from foot to foot, T-shirt in hand. He treats me as if I were his school teacher.
“Yes, please, on the bed,” I reply, bringing the hot wax. I always wear a white lab coat when I work. Not that it’s necessary, it just instils confidence in people.
Usually the moment people stretch out on the sheet, they start chattering as if I’ve put a coin in a jukebox. So-and-so did this, the prices that, life I don’t know what. The Rat Snake doesn’t speak without being asked.
“So, Ivan, how’s life? Did you get your car fixed?”
He swallows with pain while I remove the hair from his chest. I spread the wax and pull. Little red dots of blood appear in place of the hairs and I soak them up before they’ve had a chance to run. Some peoples’ skin doesn’t bleed while others’ bleeds like they’ve been cut. If he weren’t so hairy I would say that the Rat Snake had baby skin.
“I fixed it, of course. I’ve got errands to run later, can’t do without the car.”
He winces and sighs, and in the end I see he’s gone pale. I offer him some cold rosehip tea to help him come round. I tell him it’s full of vitamins.
“Yes, please,” he says and diligently takes a sip.
I can see he’s squirming like he wants to say something. Then he spits it out.
“Could you wax me below the waist?”
“Of course,” I say. Every extra bit of cash is welcome. “Undress, please.”
I can see he’s faltering again.
“Umm, there’s a problem. I have an erection.”
Well, I cycle regularly, everyone tells me I look good, and so on. You have to keep up standards in this trade. But the Rat Snake is at least fifteen years younger . . . I bet it’s because of the pain. I purse my lips and say in a stern voice: “This is not a problem. As long as you’re not aggressive.”
The Rat Snake shakes his head while he takes off his jeans. Something heavy falls to the floor. “It’s OK, it’s OK,” he repeats, picks up a black gun and tucks it under the jeans. Eventually he lies down and grits his teeth.
The erection that I have to go around with the wax strips is unshakable. The blood gushes so hard it soaks the sheet. The Rat Snake lifts his head from time to time to see what’s happening, then flops back down so he can’t watch and blushes intermittently. It gets easier around the calves.
“You’re all done,” I declare at last.
“May I have a look?” he asks. The full-size mirror is the only luxury in my studio. Not counting the equipment, of course, but that’s old and the mirror will last forever because it’s made of pure crystal.
“Of course,” I say and start tidying up, tossing the bloodied sheet into the laundry basket to look busy while he admires himself. He is smooth and mighty like a bar of antibacterial soap. He’s really happy. He tips me three leva, though he isn’t usually one for tipping. He’d always pay what you ask but tip no more than one lev. I have a feeling that even if I’d said three hundred he would’ve stuck his fat fingers in his wallet the same way, taken out the exact amount, and then hesitatingly added a lev or two. Of course, I’ve never inflated the price for him. After all, I do want him to come back next month, don’t I?
Five more clients drop in before the evening: a herbal mask, blackheads, moustache. Small jobs, but it’s a good day altogether. I remember the worries of the Rat Snake from time to time and have a chuckle. If I started looking at clients’ bodies, I’d have to change my job. And he’s trying to apologise! On the other hand, this shows he doesn’t take me for a piece of furniture. Who knows. And I start laughing again.
I see the last woman out and take off my work coat. From the hallway I can hear the TV blasting in the living room. My son’s cuddling his girlfriend on the sofa, my father’s ironing the sheets for tomorrow. I tell them to scoot and make room for me. My father is gawping at the news like they’re saying who knows what.
“Change that news channel already. My head is exploding.”
“Just a minute, just a minute,” he reassures me and keeps staring while he irons energetically.
I take the remote and I’m about to change the channel when I hear: “Ivan Denchev, also known as the Rat Snake in underground circles, was killed today during a shootout. He was wounded in the chest and thigh and died on the way to the hospital.”
Shot in his freshly waxed chest and thigh. I feel like there must have been a big mistake. He was completely alive around noon. Then I feel like it’s all true but I am living two lives. In one of them the Rat Snake is alive and in the other he doesn’t even exist and I’m watching the news. I chuck the remote and run into the studio.
It’s dark, with that blueish darkness which only exists in cities because there’s always some light around. I don’t need to turn on the light. There, in the basket, everything sits untouched. The sheet with the Rat Snake’s blood is near the bottom. It’s dry and wrinkled, the way I’ve left it for the wash. I didn’t know that man, I don’t know what his business was. Actually I do, that’s why I never even asked. But now in my hands I’m holding a piece of him which in only a few days’ time would become the only remaining piece of him.
I go to the mirror and look through the darkness. It’s like I want to rewind the reel, to shake him out of past images and take out the Rat Snake from four hours ago, looking at himself, alive and pleased with the result. And suddenly I see it.
I see myself, crying, with a bloodied sheet in hand. I see what’s there to be seen.
