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Михаил Армалинский

Prostitution Divine. Short stories, movie script and essay

Copyright © 2014, 2020 M. I. P. Company, Minneapolis USA.

to Brian Kvasnik

It was a town in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by endless fields of undistinguished grain. My only reason for going there was to conduct a business deal with a man who had the distinction of owning nearly the entire town. His name was Rail, a veritable lord of the manor who counted among his possessions two banks, impressive acres of land, and several large warehouses of nonferrous metals.

Though I had known this man more than a year, we had never met face to face; all our business had taken place over the phone or through the mail. Our last phone conversation had degenerated into an argument over his refusal to accept an order of high quality aluminum cast at my factory. This considerable order had just been loaded for shipping when Rail phoned with the news that it wouldn’t pay him to accept such a large amount of metal at that time. When I insisted that he accept his merchandise, he refused, I lost my temper, and threatened to drive the load to his home and dump the entire shipment on his doorstep.

Rail hung up at that point, and we hadn’t spoken for nearly a month.

Now he had unexpectedly called to say he was prepared to accept and pay for a substantial part of the order. In the same breath, he invited me to come to his estate and inspect a scrapped wreck of a bomber plane he had acquired.

I found the prospect of further dealings with Rail abhorrent, yet I hadn’t the strength to reject business for the sake of catering to personal feelings. Even as I completed the arrangements for our meeting, I consoled myself with the thought that I would sell my factory as soon as it was large enough to provide me with enough money to last the rest of my life.

The problem was, I could never seem to decide what exactly I meant by “large enough”, as no matter how big it grew, it always looked small to me, as a son does to his mother.

It was evening when I arrived in town and checked into a hotel located in the standard, artificially cheerful downtown area. I had just signed the register when the clerk handed me Rail’s message to call him. His eagerness irritated me, and I decided to take a long, hot bath before making that phone call.

I was undressing when the phone rang. It was Rail.

“You’ve arrived? How are you? Did you get my message? When you’re ready, I’ll take you out to dinner and show you the town. ”

Rail saved me the problem of answering him in a civil tone by not bothering to wait for my replies. We agreed to meet in an hour’s time in the lobby.

I got there on time, but it was obvious from his pacing that Rail had been waiting for me. He was around fifty-five, with a bald spot that made his hair grow in a horseshoe shape around his head – a configuration which had apparently brought him luck. From the moment he realized who I was, a smile never left his face. It also never quite reached his eyes. Still, he managed to radiate an impression boundless joy, slapping my shoulder in a simulation of friendship of which I was thoroughly sick.