Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

Rácz races after her into the corridor. “Don’t slam that door,” he shouts, “or I’ll slam you!”

By then Silvia is running downstairs. Her pattering feet sound like a bird’s wings when it flees its cage.

“If you don’t like it, fuck you!” the stoker bellows, and bangs the door so hard that the whole building shakes. He returns to his suite and sits down to a drink of whisky. “The gall!” Rácz reflects. “Who does she think he is? Rácz is no jerk off the street. Rácz is somebody. Somebody!”

There is a knock at the door and Ďula appears. “What’s happened, boss?”

“Nothing,” says Rácz. “Sit down and have a drink!”

“No, thanks, boss,” Ďula declines. “I’ve got to drive today. I’ve got to get twenty new chairs from the furniture store. Chairs have been vanishing mysteriously recently.”

“Just sit down and have a Heevash Reygahl !” Rácz orders. “Forget about the chairs. Let the guests sit on the floor, if there aren’t enough chairs!”

Ďula reluctantly joins him and lets him pour the Chivas Regal.

“Your health,” he says, and drinks.

“Your health,” says Rácz, lost in reflection. “She’ll be back!” he adds with certainty. “But cross her off the list!” Rácz orders Ďula after briefly mulling it over. “And cross Edita off, as well! I’ll show them!” Rácz threatens them with his fist.

Soon the bottle is empty, most of it drunk by Rácz; Ďula was only sipping. Rácz can take as much as a horse. Alcohol seems to have no effect on him. He sits and watches. Occasionally, his lips mutter a Hungarian curse. But in the end, the bottle of Scotch has clearly calmed him down. He thinks about something else and even smiles. “Don’t you worry, Ďula,” he tells his driver, “we’ll have a wild party. Oh, what a party we’re going to have on New Year’s Eve! We’ll celebrate with Silvia or without her. Better without.”

Ďula enthusiastically and obsequiously agrees. He greatly appreciates being allowed to sit next to the boss and being on close terms with Rácz, and drinks the Scotch, even though he doesn’t like it. Rácz puts away his empty glass and gets up. So does Ďula.

“Have you got the keys to the boiler-room?” asks the stoker.

Ďula nods and shows the keys, with a query in his eyes. For quite some time Rácz hasn’t shown any desire to see the boiler-room. It is Ďula who takes the food down to the gypsies. Sometimes he forgets, or can’t be bothered: he’s got no time. When Berki and Šípoš grumble, he threatens them that Rácz will come and torture them with a red-hot poker. Then the gypsies shut up. They’re glad at least occasionally to get some food.

“And what are we doing there?” asks Ďula.

“You’ll see,” says Rácz. “There’s something we have to sort out. Something very important.”

This is a special occasion, Ďula realises. Rácz never smiles at other times. But then, why should he?

The gypsies are emaciated and watch them with big eyes. They hastily bow low to Rácz.

“Oh, boss,” says Berki politely, “you’ve finally come to let me go and see my wife and children. Oh, what joy for a poor Roma!” Both gypsies are happy.

“Shut your trap, you filthy swine!” Ďula snaps at Berki. “If the boss wants to, he’ll let you go. If he doesn’t, you’ll stay and rot here.” Rácz remains silently on the stairs, deliberately ignoring the gypsies. He casts his eyes round the boiler-room. How long it’s been since he worked and lived here! It doesn’t seem true now.

Šípoš says, “Your Excellency, I am just an ordinary romano chaneya , a gypsy man. I have nothing, just a wife and a bunch of children— chuprikane devlehureske . It’s him,” he points at Berki, “who is the bad gypsy.” He, Šípoš, is the good gypsy. There’s no need for two men in the boiler-room. When His Excellency lets him go, Berki will easily manage on his own.

“You baro kar , big dick!” Berki shouts and clenches his fists. “ Haz yeg na mindzh , I’ll fucking knock you out!” He is about to throw himself at Šípoš.

“SHUT UP!” The stoker shouts. “Just tell me, if one of you can manage the work on his own. The other one can go. That way!” Rácz points to the noisy furnace. “Up the chimney you’ll go!” he adds, sticking his index finger up. The gypsies fall silent. They tremble with fear. “Nobody asked you to come here,” says Rácz. “You came by yourselves. You don’t like it here now? Haven’t you got everything? Are you cold? Hungry? Is the work too hard?”

“Gypsy swine find any work hard,” says Ďula, and shakes his fist at them. “Now stand by the wall, over there, and keep your mouths shut,” he orders. We haven’t come here to see you.” He looks at Rácz.

Rácz points to the distribution valves. “Turn off that one, third from the left,” he says.

Ďula snaps his fingers at the gypsies. “Did you hear?” he roars.

The intimidated cowardly gypsies run to the valves. Rags that once were precious leather jackets, Italian shirts and tailor-made fashionable trousers, flap on their shrivelled bodies.

“Turn off the third valve from the left!” Ďula orders.

The gypsies turn the valves as if it were a matter of life or death. When they’re closed, Ďula approaches and tightens the valve firmly with a wrench.

“They talked too much,” says Rácz about the gypsies. “They get no grub today.”

“Right, boss,” Ďula joyfully agrees. “That’ll teach them to keep their mouths shut. May I ask, boss,” says Ďula after they lock the metal door behind them and stride across the snow-covered yard, “may I ask what we were doing down there, actually?”

Dishwashers and cleaners look at them through the dishwashing room window. Ribana is there, too. The women shout at Rácz and Ďula.

“What do they want?” Rácz asks Ďula, as if he couldn’t understand them.

“They want us to pay them a visit,” says Ďula.

“Well then, let’s go,” says Rácz, who’s in a sentimental mood.

“Do you mean it, boss?” Ďula wonders.

“Let’s go,” says the stoker and heads for the back entrance to the kitchen.

The kitchen welcomes him with its familiar and private aroma of cooking, disinfectant, and humidity. The chef almost faints when he sees the stoker himself striding among the cauldrons together with Ďula. He drops his cigarette butt and stands to attention. But Rácz ignores him. He peers under the pot lids, checks the electric fryers and ovens.

“Well, what’ll we have?” he asks Ďula.

Ďula shrugs. Rácz picks up a serving fork and fishes out a big piece of boiled meat.

“A plate for the boss!” Ďula shouts.

Rácz decides to eat in the dishwashers’ changing room. Ribana enters with a bottle of wine sent in by the chef. Rácz looks at the label on the bottle and then at Ribana. The gypsy woman is ugly and skinny. Her breasts droop under her colourful apron. Her hands are bleached from washing dishes, but there is enough to get Rácz’s blood racing round with excitement.

“Are we going to do it ?” the gypsy asks.

“What do you mean do it ,” says Rácz, putting the bottle on the table.

“Do you feel like doing it ?” Ribana repeats.

“You mean…” the stoker finally gets it.

The gypsy nods with her tongue between her teeth. Rácz takes a bite of meat and gets up. Ribana puts her elbows on the table and sticks her bottom out. Rácz, still chewing, approaches her and lifts her apron. Underneath he finds the gypsy’s bare bottom. He unbuttons his trousers. His member is sticking out and up. He weighs it in his hand and then enters the gypsy. They move wildly, but not for long. After a moment, Rácz stops chewing, his face freezes and a suppressed sigh escapes his mouth. He chokes. He has a coughing fit.