Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

* * *

This is the third day that Šolik and Tupý have been standing outside the hotel, freezing. The long-awaited signal from Mozoň doesn’t come. They dare not enter the lobby; they’re afraid of their superior. At the same time, with an agonizing feeling of resignation, they physically take in waves of heat, radiating from the revolving door of the hotel into the chilly street. Oh, if only they dared warm themselves up for just ten minutes!

From time to time the black face of Mr. Bwawenu-Mozoň appears, now in the lobby, now in the window of his hotel room. As if his strict expression were trying to remind them of their duties. They have no escape. In a snack bar in the old car park there is good mulled wine. The aroma of cloves, Jamaica pepper, cinnamon waft far and wide. The man in charge of the bar, a stocky moustached fellow in a white coat, can’t complain. Everyone who walks by stops. Both ex-secret policemen are there, too. They have enough money; from time to time, they trap some country bumpkin who’s seen a film about currency dealers and come to make his fortune in the city. They sip hot wine till their eyes water. They stamp their feet in the snow. They silently await the signal. In a snowdrift lies a drunkard, dozing, face down in the snow. Someone picked up his hat and put it on his head. The drunkard said nothing. The regulars treat him the same and ignore him. Šolik and Tupý don’t complain. It’s cold and their feet hurt before their day is over, but they know, too, that they could be standing outside the job centre. Nobody’s keen to employ people like them. On the other hand, they have a safe house, money, and can still put the frighteners on somebody. And at three thirty they finish work.

Anyway, they realise that when they render Rácz harmless they’ll get far more out of the lawyer than a shitty hundred thousand. They’ll be able to squeeze him, blackmail him at any time. Whenever they need something, the lawyer will have to arrange it. And if not, then he can kiss his management job goodbye. They’ll make things hard for him. That’s their unwritten law. The lawyer should have realised that before he got into bed with them!

Šolik and Tupý drink their mulled wine. Time flies. Soon they knock off for the day. The drunkard sleeps like a log in the snowdrift. Pedestrians, fording through the slush, hurry round him. It began to snow, but now it’s stopped.

* * *

Silvia is aggrieved. She’s sick and tired of Rácz. She won’t go back to the Hotel Ambassador and, even if she does, then only after the stoker comes personally to beg her pardon. Naturally, she soon began to miss Rácz’s money. She’s still got her savings, but she doesn’t want to fritter them away. She’ll stay at home for a few days; a week, maybe two. Maybe three. Then she’ll look for work. With a body like hers she’s not afraid she’ll have to walk the streets. Recently, quite a few private businesses have opened up and a dancer of Silvia’s talent will always be in demand. Until then she can rest. When she feels that she’s been out of circulation too long, she can cruise the town at night and get a few punters. After all, the Ambassador is not the only hotel in the city. Silvia can have fun in the hotels Sartor, Acropolis, or even International.

Edita doesn’t move an inch from her side. They live together. She doesn’t go to the Ambassador any more, either. They spend a lot of the morning asleep. Edita wakes up first. She runs her tongue all over Silvia’s body, parts her legs and puts her tongue into her crotch. She makes Silvia do the same to her. “Good morning.” Then they get up and have breakfast. Any shopping is done in the supermarket across the street. They don’t feel like going into town. It’s cold, snowy and chilly. They undress, get into bed, and caress each other’s long, slender bodies. Edita knows every freckle on Silvia’s body, and Silvia likewise. That’s how they entertain themselves for hours on end. They don’t need anyone else. Silvia is certain that, as she and Edita feel so good together, she will reject Rácz’s first attempt at reconciliation. And only then will she agree to go back — possibly. But Rácz does not come.

* * *

Rácz is sitting in the dark in a taxi taking him home to the hotel. It’s a few minutes after midnight. Rácz is content. He got a taxi and called on the dot for Lenka. He introduced himself to Lenka’s parents. “I am Rácz,” he said. He brought Lenka’s mother, a tiresome old witch, a bouquet. Not like the hundred orchids he had sent to Lenka, but still a beautiful bouquet. At Lenka’s parents’ invitation he took off his long black overcoat and narrow white scarf. He left his hat on the hat-stand and accepted the offer of coffee. He sat in an armchair and drank the coffee exactly as the restaurant manager had taught him that morning: saucer in one hand, cup in the other. He ate just one biscuit. He didn’t dunk it in the coffee as he dunked his roll at breakfast in the hotel. He ate with his mouth closed and tried to move his jaws as inconspicuously and slowly as he could. Then came questions from Lenka’s parents. “What was his profession?” Rácz said, “Businessman.” The parents nodded their heads respectfully. Then Lenka’s father, a typical intellectual parasite with glasses and a beard, asked where Rácz had studied. Rácz replied that he’d graduated from agricultural college. “You mean economics?” Rácz pondered. “Yes,” he said after a moment. The father nodded, as if he knew but was just checking. “And what is the nature of your business?” he asked. “I’m mostly in the hotel branch,” declared Rácz. “Meaning what?” asked the tiresome old witch. Rácz shrugged. It was hard to get the words out. Rácz would like to buy the Hotel Ambassador and the department store next door. Then he’d see. He took a sip of coffee, resisted temptation and declined a second biscuit.

Lenka’s parents were dumbfounded. The intellectual parasite was able to control himself; you couldn’t tell anything from his expression. But the old witch was impressed; otherwise her eyes would not have bulged so much.

Then Lenka appeared. In her gown and her evening make-up she was even more beautiful and tempting than he remembered her from the New Year’s Eve party. He would have loved to rip that dress off her body and stick himself up her right there, in front of her parents, but once more he overcame his instincts. He got up and politely kissed her hand.

“Good evening, Lenka,” he said. “Shall we go?”

They left the apartment and out of the corner of his eye Rácz could see Lenka’s parents, sitting in their armchairs completely charmed, like fat flies stuck to the wall. If he were not so self-possessed, he’d have jumped for joy and burst into song.

The opera worked out well. Going upstairs, into the box. Horrid squawking. Screeching violins. Goggle-eyed singers performing various live tableaux on stage. Sporadically, each would sing alone, sometimes a pair, or even a trio, shaking comically and rolling their eyes at the ceiling. The main hero was a fat bearded man. He squawked much higher than the rest, burying his fat fingers into his lace-edged shirt. Rácz felt like roaring with laughter at the ridiculous clowns, but when he looked out of the box where he and Lenka were sitting, he saw that nobody was laughing. In the interval he went downstairs. He ordered two glasses of champagne. He would have drunk a bucket of sparkling wine by himself, but realised this was inappropriate. Lenka told him about French art and Parisian bohemians. She also told him about French impressionists. Rácz listened in silence. In the meantime he was thinking who in the hotel he could grab by the scruff of the neck and force to give him all the available information about these things. Rácz decided he’d take an interest in these things. Not too much, of course. Rácz would be happy to say, if Puccini was mentioned, “Yes, Puccini the painter.” After the interval, going upstairs again. More squawking. One of the performers was dying of TB and expressed it in dark, bass tones. Then some died and others survived. The fat man, the main hero, survived. He sang the loudest. At the end they hurled flowers at him. They raised and lowered the curtain several times. The fat bearded man did not want to leave. He kept coming back forever. His soft white body shook comically under the lace-edged Bohemian shirt. Then going downstairs. Cloakroom, and taxi waiting at the entrance.