Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

Lenka bursts out laughing. “You’re mad,” she tells him, “but nice!” She lightly touches his shoulder and gets into the taxi. “And put your d.j. back on,” she tells the stoker.

Rácz shouts at the taxi driver: “I’m paying. When you’ve taken the young lady home, come back and find me. You know who I am, right?”

The taxi driver nods. “Sure, boss! Who doesn’t know you?”

Rácz murmurs with satisfaction. He steps back from the car window and waves. The taxi moves off.

Rácz adjusts his bow tie and puts the dinner jacket on. “I’ll get you, my little dove,” he tells himself, as he watches the taxi leave. By God he will! He’ll get her and he’ll teach her to dance to his tune.

When the stoker gets back to the restaurant, Urban blocks his way. Urban’s face is red from drink.

“What is it?” Rácz asks.

“Have you sent her home?” asks Urban.

“Yeah, she went home to sleep,” Rácz confirms.

“Did she go up to your room?” asks Urban.

“And what if she did?” Rácz wonders.

“Did you do anything to her?” Urban pulls himself to his full height.

Rácz smiles and pushes Urban out of his way.

“Get a grip on yourself, Rácz,” says Urban. “Don’t harm her! She’s not one of the Ambassador scrubbers. She’s not the right girl for you.”

The stoker turns away.

And why should Rácz be restricted to the whores in the hotel? Who said that Rácz isn’t allowed to fall in love with a decent girl? Who decided that Rácz has no right to love? Who decided that Rácz could only have gypsies and hookers? Urban can get off his back. Doesn’t Urban realise that he means nothing to Lenka? She didn’t even say good-bye to him. Isn’t that proof enough for Urban? Rácz didn’t even touch her. They went up only to see the fireworks. It was romantic. She gave him her telephone number, yes, him, Rácz! And why not? And anyway: Urban should stop behaving like a relative of hers. He’s not. Urban is Rácz’s guest. He should be having fun; he should be dancing. He can eat and drink his fill. He can screw Wanda: she’s eager for it. But he’d better keep the fuck out of Rácz’s business, or he’ll be sorry. This isn’t a threat, it’s a friendly warning.

Rácz’s steely eyes blaze with anger. His fists are clenched. He is sizing up Urban, whose hackles are up. Then he changes tone. He smiles. He comes up to Urban and slaps him on his shoulder like a friend. And anyway, he says, why would they argue? Aren’t they friends? Haven’t they done lots of deals together? Haven’t they known each other for some time? So what’s this all about? Over a woman? Maybe in the end she won’t let either of them screw her.

The taxi driver turns up. Rácz pays him off. “Keep the change,” he tells him. Rácz wants to know the girl’s address.

“She didn’t tell me,” says the taxi driver. “After the bridge she told me to stop and she got out.”

“Fine,” says Rácz, and turns to Urban. “Give me her address,” he says. “I’d like to send her flowers. The most expensive ones: a hundred orchids. Only, I don’t know where she lives.” Urban says nothing. Rácz grabs him round his shoulders and drags him off to the bar. “It doesn’t have to be right now,” he says amiably. “The flowers can wait. Let’s drink. Two double Heevash Reygahl whiskies!” He forces Urban to down his drink in one. His strong teeth crunch the ice as if it were nothing. He orders another round. He signals to Wanda. “Show him a good time,” he orders her. “Do anything he wants!” He pulls out two hundred- deutschmark notes and with two fingers sticks them down her cleavage. Rácz has money. He couldn’t care less about a few hundred. Especially not today.

“Now we’re going to drink!” Rácz shouts at Ďula and Khunt, who were getting sozzled in the lounge. “Bring us three bottles of champagne,” he orders the waiter. “One each.” Ďula and Khunt are as happy as schoolboys. They both habitually drink themselves senseless. They don’t need any females for a booze-up. Rácz, on the other hand, can take his drink like a horse. He sits and drinks. His companions may still be sitting up, but their eyes are glazed over. They’ve already vomited. There are more and more empty bottles. When the waiter brings three more bottles of sparkling wine, Rácz just sweeps them off the table. The sound of broken glass wakes everyone up. “Enough of this gripe water!” Rácz yells at the waiter. “Bring us whisky! Heevash Reygahl !” Ďula only has to hear Rácz pronounce those words and he promptly vomits under the table. Khunt does not, because he can no longer take anything in. He sits there, his eyes open and his face frozen. Rácz spits point-blank into his face a couple of times, but the dealer does not react. “Shit!” The stoker is disappointed. Rácz is in a party mood tonight. He’s extremely happy. No, there’s no need to look too far ahead. But he’s met the girl of his dreams. Not a whore, not a village goose. And Rácz doesn’t leave her cold. She may even like him. He can’t be quite sure, but he fancies he’s in love. She’s a city girl, educated. Rácz feels quite different in her company than he did with Silvia. Silvia is an ordinary whore. And Eržika? Only now can Rácz see that what he felt for Eržika wasn’t love. He let them take him for a fool. He was the laughing stock of the whole village. And Silvia? Why, she was an ordinary dealers’ hooker. She took a fancy to his money. But that’s all water under the bridge. Rácz owes her nothing; he’s paid for all the screwing he had with her! Is Ďula even listening to him? Rácz clenches his fist and punches the sleeping Ďula in the forehead. Ďula’s eyes blink. Rácz can manage just as well without Silvia. But she’ll have to give back the presents he gave her: the fur coat, boots, watch, gold, and so on. And Rácz will make sure she won’t get her job back in the cabaret. He swears he will. And Edita will have to go, too. At least they’ll have plenty of time for shopping. But not with Rácz’s money! That’s over! Is Ďula listening to him at all?

Ďula jerks to life. “Of course, boss,” he says.

“Well, what was I saying?” the stoker asks grimly.

“That it’s over,” says Ďula.

“Right,” Rácz agrees, “it’s over!” Rácz is no longer a milch cow. He won’t let that gang of hangers-on suck him dry. He’ll make a fresh start here and now. Lenka is something quite different. Rácz has a drink of vodka. She doesn’t see him just as a money-bag. Of course, Rácz’s wealth and power impress her. But that is something different. Women will always be impressed by successful men, and Rácz is successful. Everything he’s achieved and acquired has been done with these two hands and this head. How can somebody like Video Urban push in on him? “Spoiled city brat! Con man! Crook! Do these spoiled intellectual shits get the sexiest girls, and real men like Rácz make do with hookers like Silvia, or village geese, like Eržika? Not on your life!” decides the stoker.

Ďula has collapsed onto the table.

“Bring on the musicians!” Rácz roars and bangs his fist on the table. Rácz wants to party! “It’s like a morgue in here, damn it,” says Rácz.

Stojka’s musicians run in, dripping sweat. Rácz gets up and walks from musician to musician, sticking thousand-crown banknotes to their foreheads. “And now play my tune!” he shouts at them sternly, raising his arms above his head. “Play Rivers of Babylon !” The gypsies exchange glances, count in the song in a regular csárdás beat and start playing with typical gypsy csárdás clarinet ornamentation. Their olive faces shine. Rácz dances, his arms above his head and his eyes closed. He doesn’t sing; he’s silent. He leaps to his table, takes the bottle of whisky and downs it straight from the bottle. Then he goes wild and smashes the bottle against the wall. The gypsies play another tune. Rácz dances, now on his haunches, now on his feet.