Peter Pišťanek - The Wooden Village

“I’ll have a Becher,” Silvia says.

“One Becher, please,” Martin tells the waiter as if he is translating from a foreign language.

The atmosphere at dinner is friendly. Martin tells Silvia what brought him back to the old country. Of course, he doesn’t say a word about Žofré’s ghost. Silvia, in turn, tells Martin that she’s made some money in Austria (how, she keeps to herself), that she’d like to invest in a business (what business, she keeps quiet about). Martin orders bœuf Stroganoff with chips and tartar sauce; Silvia chooses a mixed salad. Instead of a dessert, Martin orders a glass of Courvoisier, and Silvia has a chilled bunch of grapes.

“We have excellent champagne,” says the waiter in a conspiratorial voice. “French,” he adds significantly, as if he’d been told to say so.

“What make?” Martin asks, always eager to drink the very best.

“Veuve Cliquot,” says the waiter proudly, “Dom Perignon, Moët & Chandon, Marmot and Monnet…”

“Let’s have a bottle of Marmot,” Martin orders. “But well chilled.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter bows and leaves.

Soon a dew-covered bottle of champagne comes on a silver tray. It is brought by the man who introduced himself yesterday as the owner of the hotel, Rácz. He’s smiling amiably.

Silvia is shocked: in all the time of their intimacy she has seen him smile only once or twice.

“So,” says Rácz, “I’ve brought you the best French champagne we have in our cellar. Rácz never talks hot air. We had none yesterday; today we carry five brands. We don’t do things by halves.”

Rácz puts the tray on the table and shows Martin the champagne.

“I may join you for a moment,” he says without a question mark at the end of the sentence.

Silvia and Martin have to agree. Martin points Rácz to a vacant chair. Rácz joins them and loudly claps his hands twice. A waiter carrying three glasses appears from behind the curtain.

“Naturally, this is on Rácz’s tab,” says Rácz, looking at Silvia. “You are Rácz’s guests,” he adds: it sounds more like an order than an invitation.

The waiter takes out a special tool to uncork the champagne. He first scrapes the top of the cork, and then loosens the wire. The champagne unexpectedly expels the cork and a jet of foam splashes all over Silvia’s sparkling mini-dress. “Oh, I’m sorry,” stutters the waiter.

Rácz gets up, clenches his fist and, before Silvia and Martin can react, floors the waiter, who is taller by two heads, with a blow to the chin; the bottle of champagne also hits the ground. “What are you doing, you idiot?” he shouts at the prostrate stunned wretch. But Rácz quickly gathers his wits, puts a hand in his pocket, takes out his wallet, removes a few thousand-crown notes, crumples them and throws them at the waiter.

“Spend that on the dentist, Uličný!” he says, rubbing his fist. “You’ll never make a decent waiter. Consider yourself fired.”

While the trembling waiter picks the banknotes off the floor, Rácz turns to the table.

“Please excuse my temper,” he says, smiling politely. “But this is the only way to treat them. Finding good staff today is almost impossible.”

Rácz looks at Silvia.

“Your dress is wet, Silvia,” he says. “You should go and change.”

“What into?” says Silvia who doesn’t know if she is more shocked by being drenched in champagne, or by Rácz’s intervention.

“I’ve got some of your dresses in the wardrobe in my office,” the hotelier says. “I haven’t throw them out…”

“They are as old as the last government and just as unfashionable,” says Silvia, more for Junec’s hearing.

“That doesn’t matter now,” Rácz replies. “The point is they’re dry.”

Actually, Silvia feels uncomfortable in wet clothes, so she gives Junec an enquiring look, as if waiting for him to accept or reject Rácz’s proposal. Martin is surprised at being given so much authority so quickly, but ends up nodding silently: Silvia follows a female waiter to the hotelier’s office.

Meanwhile, another waiter brings a new bottle of champagne. Rácz takes it from his hands and deftly opens it himself. He pours two glasses.

“By the way, my name is Rácz,” he says to Martin. “Hotelier Rácz.”

“Junec,” says Junec. “Martin Junec.”

“American?” Rácz asks with attention. “You speak Slovak too well to be an American.”

“I’m from here,” says Junec, “But I’ve spent a long time in America.”

“And Silvia is your significant other?” Rácz asks. “Is she?”

“Why do you ask?” Martin asks evasively.

“Well, because it would be funny,” says Rácz. “I used to screw her years ago. I stayed in the same suite as you do.”

“How do you know which room I’m in?” Junec asks.

“What a question!” exclaims Rácz. “This is all my territory. Rácz likes to keep himself informed. There used to be people who didn’t… but… you know what I mean.”

Rácz runs his hand over his throat, throws his head back and shuts his eyes.

Martin nods to show he understands.

“I took her off the streets,” Rácz continues, “and made her my mistress. She didn’t have to look for punters on the street any more, you see? But then she treated me like shit. You don’t do that to Rácz twice. I threw her out so fast she flew like greased lightning.”

Rácz takes a sip of champagne, refills his glass and Martin’s, too.

“Why don’t you say something?” he asks.

“What can I say?” Junec asks, and steals a glance at his watch.

“You might be interested why I’m telling you this,” says Rácz.

“Then why are you?” Junec asks, pretending to be bored.

“Just because,” says Rácz. “When I kicked her out, I thought that I’d forget about her. I got married and my wife’s given me a nice healthy son. I bought this hotel and a few other businesses. I dabbled in politics, too. I have my people everywhere: in the government, in parliament. Do you know what she’s been doing since then?”

“No,” says Martin.

“She went to Austria,” says Rácz “and worked in a brothel. But not an ordinary one, with ordinary fucking, you know. She worked in a special one, where all they get up to all sorts of filthy tricks.” Rácz can’t even imagine the filthy things that go on over there.

Hotelier fixes his immovable, stern, steel-blue gaze on Junec.

“She’s come back now,” he says. “She wants to start the same filth in a brothel here. Look, Rácz is no saint, either. But I do go to church from time to time. But her? She doesn’t respect anything. Not children, not animals. And she acts the fine lady here. But when I saw her here, I knew that it’s still not over between us. I saw it in her eyes, too.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?” Martin asks.

“If you want a woman to sleep with,” says Rácz, “I’ll get you the best-looking crumpet in town. But don’t touch Silvia. Rácz is interested in her.”

“And is she interested in Rácz?” asks Junec.

“You leave that to Rácz,” says Rácz. “Now I’ll have to break her a bit, but in the end they all give in.”

Rácz has clenched his fists, and his dark gaze is trained on Junec.

“Take my advice and drop her,” he says. “And if you listen to my advice, you’ll find that Rácz can be grateful.”

Martin is bewildered. On the one hand, he finds the hotelier’s proposals insulting; on the other hand, he’s not all that interested in Silvia, particularly now that Rácz has told him a few things about her past. Rácz interprets Junec’s silence as hesitation, or even defiance.

“You see,” he says. “Silvia used to be my mistress and basically she still is. All she ever did was done just shit on me. But I gave her as good as I got, too. We suit each other. All that’s between her and Rácz. So keep out of it. But Rácz can make it worth your while. I’m offering you my help.”