Today’s entry in my church’s prayer diary was an unexpected one, which is not a sentence I get to say often. Yesterday’s entry was the usual: all about praying for guidance for the new after school club for the kids, where the day before that was for praying for the minister as he delivered the sermon – the usual things you’d find in a church prayer diary. But today’s one was more than unusual, it was a challenge: the red light prayer.
My route to work has a lot of traffic lights, so I immediately thought of being stuck at one or several of those. It turns out, this was part of the prayer, but the red light they were also referring to was the seedy, dodgy part of town, the red light district. The place where there are sex workers, and probably drugs, disease and crime. Probably – definitely! I don’t know where ours is – there must be one; it’s a major city, after all. I never think of these things, but the prayer diary outline some alarming statistics.
As a Christian, I believe in the power of prayer, but it seems a little like “good intentions”, of hoping to overcome an appalling crime by doing something so passive, like praying. The prayer diary has an answer for that – noted abolitionists considered prayer their number one weapon in the fight to end slavery. They didn’t think prayer was a passive thing! Yes, these people did other things, real things to stop slavery, but they relied on prayer. Stopped at a traffic light, I thought about it. All those people in the sex trade…how much degradation and humiliation did they have to go through every day? I clenched my jaw, thinking about it – something my dentist has warned me not to do. I need to relax my jaw, keep my teeth apart and rest my mandibular joint. I’ve had problems with my jaw, and made me feel in danger of developing TMJ, which is like the arthritis of the mandible. I’ve been asking people to pray with me about that, keep me from clenching my jaw or grinding my teeth. But pain in my jaw seems so insignificant when compared to people being smuggled into countries and forced into prostitution. People? Children…ow. I opened my mouth slowly as the light turned green and I could drive off. I have to stop clenching my teeth. I wasn’t aware I did it until my jaw started hurting. It doesn’t even hurt that much, just a sharp spasm every now and again, but my dentist says it could get worse. It’s a self-inflicted problem, not like being kidnapped, deceived, imprisoned, raped…those poor people! Lord, help those poor people! At the next red light, I closed my eyes. Save those people, those women, those children, I prayed. I opened my eyes. The light was still red. I closed my eyes. How could people hurt other people like this? I wondered. The car behind me tapped its horn. I opened my eyes and drove off, still thinking about people who sold and exploited people. The victims are women and children – are all of the perpetrators men? A woman’s life is not worth much in many parts of the world. You just need to see the global statistics of infanticide to come to that conclusion. A daughter is seen as a burden, weak and useless in carrying on the family name. The thought that baffles me is can a man really see his own flesh and blood as worthless? Can a man only see value in a daughter if he sells her? What about the mother of that daughter…what does she think? Better off dead than sold? As I drove into my parking spot, I turned off the engine and closed my eyes. How many women really believe they’re worth nothing? How many men believe that to the point of thinking it’s OK to exploit women? Lord Jesus, you love each and every one of us. We are not worthless. I opened my eyes. If God loves every one of us, he loves the exploiter as well as the exploited. Please God, change the heart of those who sell people. I noticed my jaw was clenched, and so I took a deep breath. I stretched my mouth into a fake yawn. This red light prayer was not doing me any good. Could I mean what I was doing, praying for someone who preyed on the weak? Let me forgive them as you forgive us, Lord. I moved my jaw, and felt no pain. I undid my seatbelt and got out of the car, ready to face the day.
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It was an early start for Mircea Rotar – early start, after the night he’d had, meant 11 am. His head was still throbbing from the all the vodka he drank – someone must have slipped some of the cheap local stuff in when he was too drunk to pay attention. He always insisted on the good Russian vodka, but someone was always sneaking some rotgut in, cutting corners. Saving money was something Mircea could understand, but he didn’t like being the cheated one.
At the border, he showed his Moldovan passport – he didn’t need anyone asking him what he was doing in a Moldovan car when he used the Romanian one. Those Ukrainians asked enough questions as it was when someone was crossing over from Moldova! He tucked some Hrivnia in the passport; US Dollars made him seem too prosperous, too international. A man who claimed to be a small-time businessman would only have local currency to bribe border guards into not being too nosy – Mircea wasn’t sure if the “children” he had listed in his passport were still supposedly under twelve or not. He rubbed his eyes while the bored looking guards flicked through his papers. To his great surprise, the notes were still there when they handed the passport back and motioned him through. It seemed the guards weren’t interested in their own money. He drove on, hoping the traffic police wouldn’t pull him over. They certainly would accept nothing less than US Dollars, and then rough him up for not having enough of them. He might be technically sober, but his Moldovan license plate could be tempting…his beaten up Nissan might not attract their attention, but one never knew. He found himself muttering a request of intercession to Saint Olga, something he must have obviously overheard somewhere. Prayer? He must still be drunk. Mircea made a note to stop at the next petrol station for a coffee. He drove slowly, trying to think of the schedule he had before him. It would take a while to get to the local capital, Vinnytsia, especially at the slow rate of driving he was doing. He had to make rounds of the businesses he owned shares in – the laundry, the café and the bar. More importantly, he had to make his other rounds – see what the latest crop of silly girls who would do anything to get the West were like. Mircea grimaced; those peasant girls with big stupid dreams were a motley lot. They were thin, but genetically programmed to balloon up with a few good meals. At least they tended to be fair, unlike their swarthy sisters in eastern Ukraine. Blondes always brought more money than brunettes, but most of them needed good dental work. A former colleague of his, Vasile, who ran his business from Chernivtsi, used to smash the rotten teeth out of girls’ mouths and shove in clumsy dentures instead. Mircea found even that too much trouble – it was much easier and cheaper to pull individual bad teeth. It was not like these stupid whores were going to be on magazine covers! By the time he pulled into a petrol station Mircea’s head was pounding. He had no idea how much he had drunk the previous evening, but it was obviously too much. He was getting older, much as he liked to pretend he wasn’t. He squinted at his reflection in the lavatory mirror – he was still good looking, his dark brown hair not showing any greys, but his hazel eyes were bloodshot. He clearly remembered days where one too many drinks would not have this effect on him, even if it was cut-rate moonshine. Nowadays, Micea had to keep the bosses sweet, even if it meant ruining his liver. Petrol station coffee was vile; quite conceivably even the stuff you pumped into the car’s fuel tank. Mircea swallowed two extra-strength painkillers, which were quite possibly illegal, but he was beyond the point of caring. He was at the point of punching anyone who looked at him funny, which was certainly not a good way to not call attention to himself. He took several deep breaths, trying to avoid the temptation of smoking – not only were the only cigarettes available worthless Ukrainian ones, but further dehydration would not do Mircea any favours. He bought some mineral water, even though he suspected it was not imported Alpine stream water but sourced from the tap out back. He needed liquid now, and more medication in a while. He wanted lieutenants to do these kinds of runs for him; too bad he didn’t trust other people with the business. He and Vasile were lieutenants in Chernivtsi, and Mircea clearly remembered the cuts they’d take. Breaking the girls into their new profession was a given, but the profits and drugs they’d skimmed could be hard to hide. They’d only just gotten away with it when the boss had been gunned down by a rival gang of filthy Turks. One of the new bosses was Vasile’s cousin, so he was safe, but Mircea could see the writing on the wall. He left without making too much of a fuss –damn! Business was better in Chernivtsi. The headache had ebbed some, but his whole face was tender. Mircea didn’t remember getting into any fights last night, so he was vaguely worried about what exactly he’d been drinking. He blinked a few times to test his vision, making sure he wasn’t going blind. What did these peasants make their firewater from? A reasonable man would cut down on his drinking, but being reasonable wasn’t part of Mircea’s world. He would be in a bad mood when he reached Vinnytsia, but luckily, that would be a good thing. He liked to make people afraid; it ensured their having to keep their corner-cutting to a minimum. He needed to keep profits up if he wanted to move up in the world. He flicked through the radio stations as he got back on the dual carriageway. Listening to some young girls screeching to an electronic drumbeat made him think of Vasile’s cousin smuggling prostitutes across the Mediterranean as nightclub acts. Surely that was a pricey enterprise in itself, having to equip them with musical instruments; certainly some of the bosses would expect their money’s worth in entertainment also! Mircea could just imagine those girls trying to sing, through bad dentures if Vasile had anything to do with it. He switched to the CD player, realising he had a loud heavy metal disc in it just before the pounding beat kicked in. He winced and felt his headache resurface. He stabbed at the eject button, cringing when that brought back the bad local radio station. He tossed the CD into the back of the car; this trip was going to be endless. Looking at the ragged countryside, he was glad for the billionth time that he didn’t have to live here. In a way, he should be grateful for the region’s poverty, as desperation filled his coffers. But on the other hand, the charade irritated Mircea. Why did he have to spin elaborate stories to get those naïve girls into the brothels? Did those idiots really think that Western Europe granted visas to talentless ill-educated nobodies like a big fairy godmother? Why did those buffoons expect that all their dreams would come true? Mircea knew that the United States constitution guaranteed its citizens liberty and the pursuit of happiness - but if that was impossibility for rich Americans, what chance did poor Ukrainians have? Mircea’s temper flamed as he realised his face hurt more than his head had. Pain made him cranky, and liable to get violent. As he was alone in the car, he gripped the steering wheel and cursed in as many languages as he could, finding the world did not have enough swear words. He struggled to keep within the speed limit, as he was in no shape to deal with traffic police. He lamented his lot in life – why did some stinking Bedouin get to be born into unbelievable luxury thanks to oil bubbling underground while he had to use all his wits to scrape together some semblance of a living? Just as he’d expected, he was in a filthy temper when he finally reached Vinnytsia. He was ready to spit bullets as he made his way into the laundry, the insolent look the clerk gave him making him nearly see double. He slammed his fist on the counter and demanded the receipts for that week, satisfied with the look of fear that crossed her stupid cow-like face. The clerk had remembered that he was the boss, and started visibly trembling as she scrambled for the ledger. “NOW!” Mircea roared at her, barely able to keep from laughing as she jumped. He called her old and ugly, thinking to himself that that was her fortune; had she been younger and prettier, she would be on her back under some drug-addled customer in a dirty room. The clerk had the good sense not to delay things further – she handed over the ledger, and then poked her head in the back office, loudly calling for the pressure readings, which was code for the other ledgers, the “real” ones. Mircea liked the irony of using a laundry as a front to launder money, but his face hurt too much for him to smile at the private joke. He pushed his way into the back office, glad to see the clerk gave him a wide berth. He was surprised to see a new worker in the office, a fit young girl in a shapeless smock. He motioned for the other workers to leave the room, which they did swiftly and silently. He didn’t even have to say anything to the new girl; wordlessly she knelt before him, not meeting his eyes. Business is good, Mircea concluded with a small sigh of satisfaction. After Bible Study one night I told my friend Kate about the Red Light Prayer, and the next time we met she showed me some literature she found on human trafficking. Poverty is the cause of trafficking, one pamphlet concluded. People who have no hope of economic advancement are particularly vulnerable to criminal gangs. As the brochure is produced by a socialist worker’s organisation, they go on to say the solution to the problem is a redistribution of wealth. I showed Kate that passage in the leaflet, and she laughed.
“Okay; no mention of education and awareness, never mind prayer!” she said, taking the literature from me. Kate is a teacher, so to her mind, any discussion that omits the role of schooling is not worth pursuing. “They have a point,” I argued, trying to get the brochure back from her. “If your primary concern is not survival, spurious sounding job offers from shady characters won’t seem so tempting.” She made a disapproving face at me. “If not having money is the source of the problem, how do you explain the traffickers? They have plenty of funds, from their victims and the people they sell them to! Why don’t they stop when they get enough money?” “Because maybe they don’t know any other way to make money…” I let my voice trail off, while Kate gave me a knowing smile. “Education,” she practically sang. “Let people know about the world, about opportunities, and more importantly, about God!” “You’re the one who had the pamphlet,” I said defensively, my cheeks burning. I caught myself clenching my jaw, and tried to relax my face. “Their literature has valuable statistics,” Kate explained. “You don’t have to agree with their conclusions, but yes, poor people are easier to lure into exploitation.” “I don’t understand the traffickers. I can’t see how people can treat other people so badly!” Kate flipped through her stack of brochures. “Maybe they don’t see it as wrong.” Anticipating my outrage, she showed me a picture of a poster campaign in Southeast Asia. A little girl was smiling up at her daddy, who was holding her hand. Printed above her head was My father does not go to prostitutes. My heart melted – how could anyone not be moved by that image?! “So they’re not saying my father does not traffic people, but they are targeting the attitudes in society that exploit people,” Kate said. “In some societies, paying someone for sex is perfectly acceptable!” “Isn’t it in ours?” I asked. Kate raised an eyebrow at me, but looked thoughtful. “Okay, maybe out and out prostitution is not, but what about lap-dancing and strip clubs? Remember what Tommy told us?” Tommy is a high-flying accountant in our congregation. At one of the Bible Studies, he asked for prayers of strength and perseverance, as he had a very difficult colleague to deal with. A colleague who thought after-hours gentlemen’s clubs were good places to have meetings with clients. “I didn’t think there were men who would pay a lot of money to not touch a girl,” Kate said. “I’d do it for free!” I sighed. “According to Tommy, there are. Accountants and businessmen!” I playfully slapped Kate’s shoulder. “Maybe you should let them know you’re offering your no-touching services for free.” She smirked. “I don’t think they’d want to see me writhe,” she said. “I certainly couldn’t fit into a slinky outfit, what little of it there is.” She gestured to her ample features, which she tends to cover up in cardigans and shapeless trousers. Her referring to a sexy outfit made me picture the scene: some poor girl clad in very tacky (and skimpy) clothes, having to grind up against some leering customer. Worst of all, the woman would have to pretend to like it. She’d have to pretend there was nothing wrong with taking money for simulating sex, that it was all part of a day’s work. “Do you really think that’s it?” I asked Kate. “That lap-dancing really does stop at no contact?” Kate winced. “Tommy says everything’s available for a price.” I felt a jab of pain in my face, and realised the mere thought of lap-dancing descending into prostitution was making me clench my jaw again. I rubbed my jaw. “Kate,” I began, “would you ever pay for sex?” The shocked face she made answered my question. “I don’t get it either, but obviously there are people out there who would.” She considered this. “Instant gratification,” she said. “I want my pleasure now, and can’t be bothered to go through a relationship or considering someone else’s needs.” I kept a hand to my throbbing jaw. “So you’re not doing an act with someone…the prostitute is not a person, just a means to an end. You’re a person, but she’s not.” “You really should see a dentist about that jaw of yours,” Kate said. I groaned. “I did. He said I have to stop clenching my jaw.” I opened my mouth slowly, stretching the joint. “Maybe that poster doesn’t go far enough,” I said, referring to the campaign is southeast Asia. “Maybe it should be my daddy knows the prostitute is someone’s daughter!” Kate nodded. “I hear some celebrities are getting into the act,” she told me, listing off some well-known Hollywood hunks. “They appear in campaigns with the message Real men don’t buy women.” “Do you think that’s effective?” I asked Kate, thinking of how many times some of those actors played someone who patronised the sex industry in the films. She shrugged. “One can only hope,” she said. “I wish they’d get some rappers to make statements like that!” As a teacher, she always complains about the music her students are listening to. Rap music with misogynistic lyrics is a particular bugbear of Kate’s. “Hey, you’re in the PR business…how about getting rappers involved in an anti-prostitution campaign? Or at least get them to stop calling women bitches and whores…” I started thinking about how Jesus lifted women up when he was on earth. He lived in a society that could be seen as chauvinistic by today’s standards, but he did not shy away or keep the Word from women. He openly spoke with them, praised them – even saved one from stoning. In Middle Eastern society, it’s the prostitutes who are the “bad” ones, not their clients – and these were the people Jesus reached out to, defended, and forgave. “You know,” I said to Kate, “we need to make these anti-trafficking posters with Christian messages!” She gave me a look that said that’s obvious!, so I tumbled on. “I mean like, Jesus forgave me and says go and sin no more. How about you?” Kate nodded slowly. “Like, Jesus doesn’t see me as dirty – neither should you!” Just then, Tommy came in, and sat with us. He’s a middle-aged man, full of biblical wisdom and practical professional ideas. He’s one of the more respected elders of our church, and only through this Bible Study had I learned not to be intimidated by him. He asked Kate and me what we were talking about, and we told him. In light of his difficult colleague who wanted to have meetings in strip clubs, we figured he would like hearing about campaigns to stop the sex industry. “Reminding men that a woman is a person, not just an object, is great,” he said. “When I had clients from the Middle East, they used to talk badly about prostitutes, but still went to them. But I think a poster reminding them that the “dirty whore” is someone’s daughter would just make them think the prostitute is dishonouring her father.” I was disheartened. So what message would get through to them? Kate, as usual, wouldn’t be discouraged. “Did you know that in Scandinavian countries it’s illegal to buy sex, but not sell it? So it’s not the prostitute who’s the criminal, it’s the John! If they had laws like that all over the place, no one would think a woman was dishonouring her father.” Tommy frowned, unconvinced. He was thinking out the picture, as he always reminded people to do. “What is the point of legalising only one side?” he asked. “That wouldn’t work in other scenarios. Do you think it makes sense to penalise the drug taker, who’s probably addicted, and not the drug kingpin who is supplying the stuff and profiting from the misery of others? Why not keep it all illegal!” “I don’t think a prostitute is the same as a drug kingpin,” Kate said quietly. “Prostitutes very rarely see any gain from their activity – it’s usually the pimps and brothels who get the money.” “OK, so what they’re doing in Scandinavia is trying to ensure a more fair distribution of wealth from prostitution?” Tommy countered with a sceptical lift of his eyebrows. “It’s changing the way society looks at prostitutes,” Kate clarified. Tommy shook his head. “In places where prostitution is legal, it’s still a shameful business,” he argued. “I saw a documentary on the red light district in Amsterdam, where things being legal provides more protection to the prostitutes, but the prostitutes were still using assumed names and not appearing on camera, as their families didn’t know how they make their money. I don’t think any kid says “I want to be a prostitute when I grow up!” “That’s what bothered me at the end of Pretty Woman,” I admitted. “Yes, man rescues woman from a life of prostitution, but what happens in ten years’ time, when their child wants to know how mummy and daddy met?” Tommy sighed. “I get where you’re going with this. You want to say it’s not OK, and that the prostitute is also a child of God. But does criminalising only one side do that? Doesn’t that make prostitution more like aiding and abetting instead of a full crime?” I was dejected by the flaws Tommy was pointing out, but I still thought it was good to get a male perspective on this. “Well, what do you think we should do?” I asked Tommy. “Get men to see that using someone is not power,” he said quietly. “Make them see that it is exploiting someone, that prostitutes do care what happens to their bodies. Make them realise that when you can buy someone, that doesn’t make you strong or virile. Paying women to do things for you degrades you as well as them!” “It’s like a talk we had on bullying at school a while ago,” Kate said. “The facilitator had us consider why the bully was doing it. Only people who feel small and worthless themselves have to make other people feel bad. Once some of the students understood that bullying was a big flag that someone felt inadequate, the bullies lost their power. People felt pity, not fear for them.” Tommy smiled. “So if we make people who use prostitutes look weak, that will stop them?” he asked. “I’d like to think so.” I studied Tommy for a moment. He sounded so depressed. “Are you still having troubles with your colleague?” I asked him. He laughed bitterly. “I tried to get him to see things differently. He told me you can’t outlaw sex.” “Prostitution isn’t sex!” I said, louder than I wanted to. People looked up from their conversations and over at us. Again, I felt a twinge in my jaw as my cheeks burned. I cleared my throat, and continued, quieter this time. “I mean, yes, technically it is, but it’s like the difference between having sex and making love…you know, the talk grown-ups used to give us when we were teenagers. Going to a prostitute is not a conquest…those women will go with anyone who has money!” Kate tried it out. “Going to prostitutes does not make you special.” “When you have to pay for a woman, you’re not a man,” Tommy intoned. I rubbed my jaw, nodding. Mircea insisted on the good Russian vodka as he checked up on business – the figures were not as good as he wanted them to be, and he was getting more and more angry. He was liable to get a tension headache, and cheap booze would not help. At the club he had a share in, he demanded they open the bottle in front of him, trying to ensure he was getting the good stuff. It was more an exercise in power than any real safeguard against imitations, but it made him feel good. It let those lowly underlings know he didn’t trust them.
It was a tough evening – he had to meet again with the bosses, Ivan and Piotr. Mircea really hated them – they were the bosses, with stacks of money and power, but didn’t act the part. Mircea liked to dress up, with nice suits and good shoes, whereas Ivan and Piotr were happy to emulate gangster rap stars, in track suits and trainers. (Piotr had a thing about wearing sunglasses indoors. It made a lot of stupid superstitious people nervous; they thought the eyes were actual windows to the soul - Piotr cultivated a rumour that he didn’t have a soul, and had to wear sunglasses.) The absolute worst part of dealing with them was they sneered at Mircea’s outfits, saying he looked like an Italian waiter. Mircea couldn’t bring himself to copy them; to be more precise, Mircea couldn’t afford to imitate them. Their designer sports gear was more expensive than a good suit! Mircea dawdled at the bar, not wanting to go back to the table where Ivan and Piotr were waiting. He really hated them. He was incredibly jealous of the things they had – not just the material things, but the British passports and the connections they had in the UK. Ivan’s passport was thanks to his wife, some mixed-race dimwit whose parents must have been happy to unload her off on any man. Mircea had heard they had children – not a happy thought for the future generation. Piotr had been born in the UK, the bastard son of a Russian diplomat and a cleaner. His papa had provided for him, but not enough to make his big babushka of a wife back home angry. Piotr’s legitimate half-brothers went to the best schools in mother Russia and followed in Papa’s footsteps in the diplomatic corps, while Piotr made due with the shadier Russian connections in the UK. There were plenty of places and situations Mircea wished he had been born in. It seemed so unfair that there was a lottery in the universe, one that you couldn’t buy a ticket to. Or, as Mircea preferred, forge a ticket to. A shot like Piotr’s wasn’t even one he could grab – since 2007, he had an EU passport, so Mircea was saved the indignity of a sham marriage like Ivan’s. What Mircea needed, what Piotr had, were the connections. And those were out of reach – as far as the people who mattered were concerned, Mircea in his good suit was just as powerless as the peons pouring the drinks. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see that Ivan and Piotr were glaring at him, obviously wondering what was taking so long. Mircea didn’t want to look like he was rushing, but he knew he had to get back to the table immediately. “Be quicker with the drinks!” he hissed at the barman, who began to sputter something about them being ready. Mircea scowled and leaned over the bar threateningly. There was a bit of a hush as people looked to see what would happen. Mircea knew he had to handle this correctly – if he made too much of a scene, it would look like he couldn’t control the staff, but if he did nothing, he would look weak. Fighting a tremble, he lightly cuffed the barman’s ear. “Be lazy on your own time,” he snarled. Saying nothing was often a lot more powerful than empty threats, so he left it at that, keeping his eyes locked on the barman’s. If the barman looked down first, Mircea was still the top dog; if he returned the stare, Mircea would have to act. He felt a trickle of sweat run down his back; fortunately, the barman lowered his eyes. Mircea uttered a curse and took the drinks. He sloshed them slightly as he made his way back to the table, but he pretended not to notice. “We need to get better staff,” he said as he put the drinks down. “Like ones who can carry the tray of drinks?” Piotr sneered. Mircea clenched his jaw tightly to keep from swearing, hearing a clicking sound as he did. Ivan smiled and shook his head, but took a drink without saying anything. Mircea had an urge to slap the sunglasses off Piotr, and fought to keep calm. “Look, are we here to chat, or are we here to do business?” Ivan asked. Mircea couldn’t read Piotr’s expression behind those sunglasses. They spent the next few moments downing shots, the booze going straight to Mircea’s head. “We’ll be extending our business to Cyprus,” Piotr announced. Mircea looked at him in surprise. They were going to try to horn in on the trade Vasile was doing with his fake girl bands? “We have some new gentlemen’s clubs in Northern Cyprus,” Piotr continued. “Those Turks can’t get enough of blondes from Europe. Problem is, can we get that kind of quality here.” “Of course we can,” Mircea insisted, feeling slighted. Piotr sneered. “These are high end joints, with rich fussy customers. We can’t give them half-starved peroxide peasants.” Mircea bluffed. “So we’ll cast wider nets, attract girls from other places.” That was risky – they could cross other gangs by doing that. “Hold beauty pageants…set up a fake modelling agency…” “Not here,” Piotr said. “There are plenty of match-making and modelling businesses snapping up young girls with stars in their eyes. So many that these stupid bitches are wising up. Demanding proper papers, talking with journalists.” “I don’t think ours are-“ “I’m not talking about these cows, I’m talking premium pussy!” Piotr snarled. “Girls who are good-looking and know it. Women who think that being tall and having good cheekbones entitles them to the good things in life! We’re dealing with the chaff right now, dumb farm girls who know they only have a limited appeal. We need beauties from the pits, with no access to real agencies. We need Belarusians.” Mircea went rigid. They’re getting rid of me! He already had to make the move to Vinnytsia – there weren’t too many places left for him to make a good living. Ivan interrupted Mircea’s growing panic by smiling at him. “You speak good Russian…ever been to Minsk?” The relief Mircea felt was palpable. He turned to Ivan, resisting throwing his arms around him in gratitude. “No…I’ve never been to Minsk. Is it nice?” This brought loud guffaws from both, and Mircea realised how naïve he sounded. Like those idiot girls! We’re not having a chat here! “Is Minsk nice?” Piotr parroted in a whiny imitation of Mircea’s voice. “It’s a dump, you fool. A place people want to leave!” Ivan reached over and patted Mircea’s shoulder. “We need you to go there, in your nice clothes, and convince the good-looking girls you’re giving them an opportunity. Make their dreams come true!” “Exactly like you do here, but this time, get girls who make the customers’ dreams come true,” Piotr added. Mircea started to grow suspicious. “Will you be coming with me?” he asked. Piotr uttered a curse, and probably rolled his eyes under those sunglasses. “Do we hold your hand here?” he asked. “Are you a businessman or what? Can’t you handle this on your own?” “Of course, of course,” Mircea said quickly, then changed gear. He couldn’t let himself be easily intimidated. “What are the risks?” Why aren’t you going? “What are the risks anywhere?” Piotr said, pulling out a cigarette. A waiter came over to light it for him. “Rivals?” Mircea persisted, clenching his jaw to keep steady. Piotr blew smoke, not answering. “Pretty much the same,” Ivan answered. “You know, Russians…” Mircea found himself exchanging a glance with the waiter, a beefy thug named Oleg. It was blatantly obvious that this was a high-risk venture, with dangers of treading on the toes of some mobsters. He waved the waiter away, trying to think of how he would handle this. It was, after all, a chance for him to expand his territory and make his mark. It was also a chance for him to get seriously hurt if he poached on someone else’s turf. “Relaaaax,” Ivan wheedled. “We have your back. We have some agreements with the others...” “Gentleman’s agreements,” Piotr put in, nodding at Mircea’s tie. “They’ll like you.” That sounds like the kind of thing we tell the girls. As he was pondering the situation, Mircea felt a sharp pain on the side of his head. He cried out, and put a hand to his face. His jaw was throbbing. Ivan and Piotr looked startled. “What’s wrong?” Ivan asked. “My mouth hurts,” Mircea mumbled, hating to show weakness in front of Ivan and Piotr. Piotr looked confused for a minute, then burst out laughing. “Your mouth hurts?” he squawked. “What have you been doing?” Mircea’s cheeks burned. “Nothing. I don’t know. When do I leave for Minsk?” He grabbed another shot and poured it into his mouth, hoping the alcohol would sort whatever it was that was causing the pain. “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Piotr teased. Mircea kept his eyes on the table, not trusting his facial expression. May whatever I have be transferred to you, ten times over! “I probably need a filling,” he managed finally. “Too many sweets…I’m rotting my teeth.” He looked Piotr square in the sunglasses. “So…Minsk?” Piotr drew on the cigarette. He stared back at Mircea, a challenging look. Mircea kept his gaze. After an eternity, Piotr exhaled a plume of smoke and shrugged. “We’ll have to make arrangements. Probably next week.” Mircea took a deep breath, carefully testing how far his mouth would let him smile. He didn’t want to beam from ear to ear, but he felt like he had cause to celebrate. If handled correctly, this could be his chance to move up. With a bit of luck, he could control his own show…get his own lieutenants in Belarus, make his own syndicate. All things going well, he could get away from Piotr and his tracksuits and sunglasses. “How about sampling the local beauty before we expand into other territories,” Mircea suggested. Piotr snorted. “Local beauty? There is none here; that’s why we’re expanding!” He held up an empty glass. Oleg swiftly came to take it and fill it with drink. “I’m sticking to liquid and chemical entertainment tonight.” Mircea fought back a groan. He didn’t want to think about how much his head would hurt in the morning. He looked to Ivan for support. “I don’t know about you, but I’m fine for drink. I need a woman!” He threw in a lewd gesture, which Ivan chortled over. Ivan got to his feet, and Piotr looked lost for a second. After pause, Piotr threw back his drink and rose to his feet as well. “Right, then…let’s have a go at the local girls this evening, to remind us of what we should be looking for elsewhere!” He and Ivan slapped palms in a high five Mircea wasn’t part of. Mircea didn’t care – they were doing what he suggested, and saving him a further hangover. Treasure every victory, no matter how small. He watched smugly as Piotr and Ivan hitched up their baggy tracksuit bottoms, carefully adjusting his tie. Like a lot of Irish people, I have a sister who is ten years younger than I am. I’ve always enjoyed the relationship I have with Cara, as it keeps me young. While a lot of the friends my age have no idea what the hot TV shows and bands are, Cara has given me an introduction, although I won’t pretend I enjoy a lot of them. I look on this as a professional necessity, as I need to know what the latest trends are for PR. Cara and I bond over sharing contemporary culture -she says at least I have an open mind, something she wishes more Christians would have. When I went to her place for dinner one night, I told her about the red light prayer. She was sceptical. “Praying as a weapon?” she scoffed. “It sounds very passive to me.” Cara is the least tolerant of my “religious phase” in my family, something I’m always working on to change her outlook. So I told her how highly abolitionists rated prayer, and she just wrinkled her nose. “That was a different time. Do you really think it can work in today’s world?” That’s an argument I never stop having with her. She thinks the church needs to “move with the times”. I keep trying to tell her how eternal God is but she just shakes her head. Instead of having this discussion yet again, I focussed in on how important prayer is. “You pray about everything…there are plenty of examples of people who pray for things, and miraculous things happening!” “You sound like Mum…she swears that I passed my exams with the help of all her prayers.” I had to smile. “And you think that’s not true?” “I walked right into that one,” Cara had to admit. She handed the takeout menu to me “So which pizza should we get?” I thought of my jaw and must have winced, because Cara gave me a look of concern. “Is your jaw still hurting you?” she asked. “I feel a sharp twinge every now and then.” I was starting to get worried about eating, which was probably a good thing in the long run. “Sometimes when I eat, I feel it. So maybe this will help me lose those ten pounds I’ve wanted to shed by summer!” Cara laughed and shook her head. She thinks Christians are incorrigible optimists. “Please tell me that you’re talking about losing weight doesn’t mean you won’t be ordering in; I’m starved!” Niamh, Cara’s flatmate, had just gotten home. She was taking off her jacket and was peeling her over-sized tote out from under her armpit. “We’re ordering pizza,” Cara told her. One second ago, she was worried about my jaw, and now we’re all having pizza. She handed a pizza takeout menu to Niamh, while I waited for Niamh to say hello, or at least acknowledge my presence. “Hiya Niamh,” I ventured. Niamh stuck out her lower lip and blew upwards at her fringe as she considered the menu. “I love Hawaiian pizza!” she said. I don’t, and said so. She didn’t look at me, just set her mouth as she continued looking at the menu. I bristled at her rudeness, something I should be getting used to. I looked at Cara, who was trying to ignore the growing tense atmosphere. “We were considering pepperoni and mushrooms,” Cara told Niamh, sticking to the topic at hand. Were we? That was the first I’d heard of it. “How about BBQ chicken?” Niamh suggested, still not looking up. “What else is on that?” I asked. I like my pizzas simple – too many toppings muddles the taste. Niamh handed me the menu wordlessly. I checked – BBQ chicken pizza has onions. “We’ll ask for it without the onions,” Cara said, reading my mind. She took the menu from me and dialled the phone. “Whatever,” Niamh said, picking up her tote and heading for her bedroom. “As long as it has chicken and cheese, I’m happy!” I don’t really like Niamh, I will admit. She’s a friend of a friend of Cara’s; when that friend moved to Australia and left Cara without a flatmate, Niamh stepped in. She’s tidy and pays her half of the rent on time, but other than that, there’s not much I can say for Niamh. In one of the first chats I had with her, she called me intolerant for not sharing her viewpoint on a “woman’s right to choose.” When I tried to point out that not respecting differing points of view was not very tolerant, she made a face and walked away. Since then she makes a point of censoring everything she says, so it won’t offend my delicate sensibilities, but I’ve frequently caught her rolling her eyes up to heaven when she’s listening into conversations Cara and I have. While she’s certainly not in the same league as the colleague of Tommy’s who wants them all to go to lap dancing clubs, she’s the person I need perseverance in dealing with. Cara knows the difficulty I have with Niamh, but she’s not much help. Like all spoiled little sisters, can’t help herself and enjoys stirring it when Niamh is around me. The smile that crept over her face after she hung up after ordering the pizza told me she was at it yet again. “Niamh, tell Lisa about that show you found on satellite!” Niamh was coming into the kitchen when Cara spoke, and stopped in her tracks. Her face looked about as uncomfortable as mine when she heard Cara’s request. “Come on, Cara; it’s not her thing!” Something not suitable for the intolerant, obviously. “Oh come on,” Cara soothed. “She doesn’t have to watch it…” “I watch that show about the serial killer you’re all so crazy about,” I reminded them, feeling defensive. I don’t agree with the morals of most shows on the telly, but I don’t live in an ivory tower. “That show isn’t a reality show,” Cara said. “This one is about real people!” Niamh sat down, scowling at Cara. “This is definitely something she wouldn’t like.” “I’m not a fan of reality TV,” I admitted. Those shows were a showcase for bullying, as far as I was concerned. “This one is worse,” Cara told me, grinning. “This is about wife-swappers!” Niamh at least looked as awkward as I felt. Cara was obviously just goading me, something I’ve asked her to stop doing. I found myself exchanging a look with Niamh as Cara gloated. “You really watch a show about men swapping wives?” I asked. I was amazed such a show existed – it was probably from Sweden or the Netherlands. “It’s about people who are polyamorous,” Niamh clarified. “It’s not just men swapping wives, it’s couples who are in open relationships.” “Not just open relationships.” Cara sang. “They form groups where they have sex with each other’s partners…and each other!” Sodom and Gomorrah was now on satellite TV. “Where do you find these things?” I asked, horrified. “America,” Cara said smugly. “I thought it was Scandinavia or something, but Niamh says it’s in Florida!” Niamh said nothing while I digested this. “Is that legal there?” I asked after a pause. “You can’t outlaw sex,” Niamh said in exasperation. “Why do you watch this?” I looked at Cara. Was she watching it, too? What were they showing on that programme – not full on pornography, I hoped. “I wanted to see how other people live,” Niamh said, a touch defensively. “They don’t show them having sex, obviously. It’s all about them and their relationships.” To be honest, that sounded kind of boring. These people were having a wild life, so I couldn’t really picture them sitting down to talk about their liaisons calmly. It probably didn’t even make good television if everyone was in on it – where was the secrecy, the jealousy and in-fighting that reality TV thrived on? If they weren’t filming full-on orgies and people were happily sharing partners, what was there for the cameras? “It must not be all happy families, if they’re making a reality show about it,” I said. “Those kinds of shows live off conflict!” “Oh, they’re not happy!” Cara supplied. “They’re all very selfish and terribly jealous! Someone’s always having ‘an affair’ – going off with someone outside the group and not sharing!” It sounded horrible. Not just because of the racy content, but because a production company was exploiting the agony of these misguided people. “How can you watch people make themselves miserable?” “I keep hoping they’ll find someone who’s happy in their alternative lifestyle,” Niamh said quietly. “Some who doesn’t live by the rules and isn’t sad and lonely.” She peered up at me through her fringe, reminding me of Cara when she was a toddler. I prayed to God to give something non-judgemental to say. “Sometimes living without rules is not as freeing as you’d hope,” I managed finally. It wasn’t gold, but Niamh just shrugged slightly. She offered me a weak smile. I smiled back and turned on my sister. “I hope you’re not still watching it,” I said sharply to Cara, playing bossy older sister. “I never watched it!” she cried in a loud protest of innocence. “You did!” Niamh reminded her, just as loudly. “More than once!” “I never watched a whole episode, like you do!” Cara howled, sounding very much like the child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. The door buzzer sounded – our pizza had arrived. “Saved by the bell,” Niamh grumbled as Cara ran to answer the door. I shook my head sympathetically. It was all right for Cara to get others into hot water, but when she got scalded herself-! We split the bill and sat down to eat. While Cara and Niamh chatted about other things, I ate slowly and carefully. I thought about what Cara and Niamh had told me. A show about sleeping around, and it didn’t sound like these people were enjoying it. They weren’t being forced into it, but they were trapped. I had a minor spasm of pain as I crunched down on a bit of crust. These people needed to be added to the red light prayer, I realised, rubbing my jaw. |