Peter Pišt'anek - Rivers of Babylon

“So let’s go and take a closer look,” Lenka suggests, heading for the gate. Rácz shakes his head. “Not yet.” He smiles. “It’s in a mess. Besides, Rácz hasn’t brought his keys with him. Lenka will see it later,” Rácz promises, dragging her away by the hand from the house.

“I still don’t believe you,” remarks Lenka, when they’re sitting in Rácz’s car and the stoker drives off carefully, like any new driver with an expensive car, towards the city centre, to the Hotel Ambassador. “Who’d want to get rid of a villa and try to sell it in times like these?” She doesn’t understand.

Rácz smiles under his moustache. He is not impatient in this sort of business. He has no desire to prove to her at all costs that he is right. Lenka will find out and then recognize that she was wrong. She still underestimates Rácz’s abilities.

Back at the Ambassador, they each follow their own interests. Lenka is in her armchair, reading lecture notes, or a novel. Rácz watches a video. He loves sadistic horror movies and while he watches them, comments loudly, with satisfaction. Above all he looks out for horror movies with action in space, with monsters and aliens. But he won’t say no to a good massacre. His favourite heroes are Freddy Krueger, crazy Mike Myers with a white mask on his face and the immortal monster Jason Vorsteed, wearing a hockey goalkeeper’s mask. Later, he shows their moves and gestures to Ďula, though not as often as he used to. First of all, he now has a dignified, hotelier-entrepreneur style; secondly, sudden attacks on the unsuspecting sidekick don’t arouse the same side-splitting hilarity in Lenka as they used to in Silvia. Rácz doesn’t mind watching a good western, particularly if there are no women in it, and he also likes historic battle films: the bigger the swords, the better.

Recently, new private shops have been springing up. Rácz is interested in every one of them. Of course, he’s choosy. Each day he wants to see in his suite a list of newly opened small businesses in the centre and hear detailed reports about them. Apart from their shifts in the safe house, Ščepán and his men do nothing but monitor small businesses. Rácz listens, sometimes while still in bed, with his eyes closed. His face has a stony expression: his sharp hard features do not react to mentions of a luxurious entrance, extravagant and expensive décor, colourful advertisements, and the number of customers gawking at the full shop windows. No reaction either to the supplementary information about expensive ads in the papers. But that’s only a mask. No matter what is involved: private art gallery, café, vegetarian restaurant, electronics shop, cosmetics shop, boutique, or grocery store, Rácz is interested.

When the report is finished, Rácz reflects and very soon issues instructions in a concise dry voice. Ščepán and his men listen to the instructions and then leave to implement them. They start to visit owners selected by Rácz.

For example, they stop in front of Sandra boutique, near the Ambassador. First, they take a good look round. Cheerful and colourful children’s clothing in the shop window, obviously designed to transform any child into mobile kitsch, is of no interest to them. Nor do they pay attention to the breathtakingly extortionate prices. However, as experienced specialists in the lives of strangers, they note an expensive Mercedes parked outside the boutique. It has a Bratislava licence plate and is parked where it can easily be seen from inside the shop. The ex-secret policemen exchange glances and enter the boutique.

“Please, come in,” says a respectable lady in her forties, coming towards them. Her voice is tinged with a polite, but audible warning. It is aimed at anyone who is not a potential buyer and who can therefore be thrown out shortly after entering. She speaks firmly, but the experienced policemen detect a note of hysteria in her voice. They have no doubt that this lady in her forties has not spent most of her life on the wrong side of a shop counter, but was stuck in an office. They look at each other, inspired by special police telepathy. “This will be an easy job,” say their eyes.

“Good morning,” says Ščepán. “Could we speak to the manager?”

“I am the manageress,” says the lady, cut to the quick.

“Excellent,” says Ščepán. “We need to speak to you. Will you invite us into the office for a moment?”

The manageress swallows a couple of times dryly.

“Are you from the security police?” she asks.

Ščepán smiles mysteriously, as if hinting that this is possible.

“Sandra,” says Ščepán in the office. “Sandra Boutique,” he repeats thoughtfully.

Šolik pushes aside the curtain and looks outside. He sees a grey courtyard surrounded by blocks of flats, with a row of rubbish bins lined up like soldiers against the wall.

“Nice name,” Ščepán comments and sits down on the chair.

“Thank you,” says the manageress ironically and also sits down.

“Is that your name?” asks Ščepán.

“What do you mean?” says the manageress, puzzled.

“Well, Sandra,” says Ščepán.

“No, says the manageress, “it’s a business name. My name is Agnes. Is that what you came to ask me?”

Ščepán smiles. Šolik by the window smiles, too.

“To tell you the truth, no,” Ščepán admits, looking like a man who would regret such a thing. “We’ve come to inform you of two important facts. One is good and positive. The other is worrying and not so good. Which would you like to hear first?”

“Do they concern me personally in any way?” the manageress asks dismissively.

“Unfortunately, they do,” Ščepán admits. “And at the same time, thank God they do,” he adds with a smile.

“Well then, let’s start with the bad news,” the lady in her forties concedes.

Ščepán begins his speech. “Small businesses are flourishing in the city. Thankfully, they are now widely approved of. Just last week, four new cafés and two boutiques opened. Right here, in the city centre. But this also has its bad side. Several criminal gangs are operating in the city. They’re not afraid of anything. They rob businesses at night and then, to cover their tracks, they set fire to them. By the time the firemen arrive, enormous damage is done. What’s more, most business owners start up to their ears in debt, so they don’t have any money left for expensive insurance or a new start-up.” Ščepán says this with a tragic mask on his face and with moist eyes, as if he were touched by the fate of each and every destitute businessman. “You also get another kind of nastiness: teenage hooligans throw a smoke bomb, a stink bomb, or a teargas grenade into a restaurant or a shop. Devil knows where they get the stuff! And they don’t spare business people’s cars: characters with grudges won’t leave them alone, especially the better cars that businessmen prefer. They scratch them with keys, spray them with paint, and slash their tyres.” Ščepán pauses dramatically. The manageress fiddles with a pencil and says nothing.

“Fortunately,” says Ščepán, there is a private service that he, Mr. ‘Silent’ (as he introduces himself) happens to represent. “It is designed for business people in the city centre and immediate surroundings. For a ridiculously modest fee compared to the sum that you’d have to pay to rebuild a burnt-out business, or for lost business after repeated attacks with stink bombs or tear gas, for this modest fee this private service, Sekuritatia, will ensure they can sleep peacefully at night and their businesses can flourish.” Ščepán stops. His throat is dry.

The manageress is quiet. She is reflecting. “Sekuritatia?” she asks.

“Yes, Madam,” Ščepán confirms.