Someone pushes Sarma out onto the stage—she’s got makeup on, lipstick—Sorry.

Good, very good. She looks good, sympathetic, but there’s no sound, talk into the microphone. NO, NO, NOT THAT LOUD. What’s she saying? What? Why should we care? You’ve got to understand, the audience doesn’t care, not about your trauma, your stutter, your troubled childhood, etcetera. They want entertainment, and short of that, they at least want to be able to understand the words coming out of your mouth, okay, so—shoulders back, chest out, showbusiness is ruthless.

Taiga has invited an actual director to the rehearsal for their end-of-season standup show. A man. His assistant is with him, a woman. And it’s the assistant who runs up to Sarma and whispers, don’t worry, everything’s fine, but Sarma needs to know that He’s right, it’s crucial the audience be able to parse out and understand her message, a unique message they’re willing to give an hour of their time to . . . My set is only te-te-ten minutes long, Sarma murmurs. The director and his assistant are there to help their all-female standup gain some traction, reach the masses, step into the spotlight. No one wants ten minutes of wasted time, either, He shouts from the back of the darkened room, but a ten-minute set is genius, actually; the entire fate of a nation can be decided in just ten minutes. Now, since we don’t care about your woes, or how your diaphragm works—even Ziedonis once said: don’t show us your insides, ballerina[1]—what’ve you got for us?

I’d like to tell you . . .

Into the mic!

I’d like to te-te-tell you . . .

Start over, but without the “I’d like to” and “duh-duh-duh” . . . Just say what you’ re gonna say—and, hey, what’s the deal with her tits?

The assistant runs back to Him and whispers something into His ear, her mouth hidden behind a folder. He’s not thrilled, but fine, so be it. Well, davai, or as you’d say in Latvian—aidā—okay? The assistant giggles.

I’m single, again. The director cackles encouragingly, though it’s not funny. It’s more tragic, no? Sarma repeats the sentence to gauge the director’s soundness of mind. I’m single, again. This time He only clears His throat and waits for what’s next. Because my husband—my ex-husband—doesn’t like me anymore. Which got me thinking, how do famous people get so famous? Which led me to lists: who’s had the most relationships, who’s the world’s most-desired—in short, lists of who’s got the highest “body count.”

Sarma thinks this is where the director would laugh. He doesn’t. His assistant, however, giggles. The other women are backstage and too anxious about their own trials to pay attention to what Sarma is saying. She regroups and continues.

You can f-f-f-find this list onli-li-line. The world’s top t-t-ten people who’ve had the most sexual partners. In tenth place is Hugh Hefner with one thousand women fucked. In ninth are Simon Cowell, Dennis Rodman, and Jack Nicholson with just under two thousand women each. And Jack’s count is corroborated by others—the girls, namely. Well, not girls, of course they’re not girls—it’s the women themselves who tell the listmakers[2] how they’ve had the honor to sleep with or get otherwise fucked by Jack Nicholson. Whereas Simon Cowell and Dennis Rodman are offering up this information themselves. Simon calls his mom: Mummy, Mummy, write this down—two yesterday and three today. Did you get that? No, Mummy, don’t tally them up, that’s not your job, my assistant will have her assistant do it. Hello, Mummy? I got three more yesterday and five today—write that down, will you?

Sarma tries to imitate Simon’s accent. The director doesn’t laugh. His expression is serious. His assistant glances from the floor, to him, and back. In eighth place are the singer Julio Iglesias, and several men unfamiliar to us—athletes and politicians who haven’t yet dipped their spoons into the Eastern European pot. The assistant sputters. Charlie Sheen is in sixth place with six thousand women and an AIDS diagnosis. Fifth place is Warren Beatty.

Fourth place is Chamberlain—the basketball player, not the statesman.

In third we have Cuban president Fidel Castro with thirty-five thousand . . . thirty-five thousand women. And top of our list—drumroll, please—in second and first place, are two Dutch women: the Fokken twins, clocking in a combined total of 335,000 . . . men.

And what line of work do you think they’re in? Hmmm, Sarma is blazing, her stutter gone. Not even the silence of the darkened room bothers her anymore. What line of work do you think they’re in? No one answers and Sarma forges on: well they’re not school teachers—that would be unsettling. They’re what you’d call whores. Prostitutes—sluts.

That’s when it hits me: this isn’t a list of people who fuck, or a list of people who are the most fuckable—it’s a slut list. Because if the winners are whores, then everyone else on the list is one too.

Jack “The Whore” Nicholson with two thousand clients.

Charlie Sheen—executive whore—with six thousand clients and a work-related illness.

Überwhore Fidel Castro with thirty-five thousand clients.

And at the top—the Fokken twins, true businesswomen, because they were the only ones on the list getting paid for their work. The others were doing the paying, in one way or another.

Sarma is glowing, unashamed to keep repeating the word “whore.” Then she falls silent and looks for the Nice One. She’s nowhere to be seen. The director is staring at his phone, and when He notices the silence He looks up and says: Oh, you’re done. Alright, next. I’ll give my notes at the end.

Once all the “girls” have run through their sets, the director rushes off, leaving the assistant to share His notes. She reads out some positive feedback; then she reads His suggestion for Sarma to talk shit about herself more. Her opening was good, but He’s not convinced people will care about who’s had the most sex. The bit is outdated, and Hugh Hefner is really sick, doesn’t Sarma know? Oh wow, no, Sarma didn’t, and now she feels so guilty. God, what if her meanspirited joke flew like an arrow out of this stuffy room, this Cultural Center, all the way to the United States, piercing the unhappy, ailing Hugh Hefner right through the heart—and he trembles from the audacity of being called, albeit indirectly, a whore. The Nice One has wrapped herself around Sarma like a soft, yet prickly scarf, and whispers: ask, go on, ask, you’ve got to ask. What’s wrong with my tits, Sarma finally says, almost shouting. The Nice One falls from her shoulders like a silver-fox stole from the shoulders of Anna Karenina as she rushes into Vronsky’s room. The others laugh. No, you’re fine, it’s just, He believes breasts are an asset that should be emphasized. Maybe try a pushup bra. I’m still nursing, that’s why they’re so big. Normally they’re pretty average.

The assistant is flustered. You really are so brave. All of you girls are. BUH-RAVE.