Rácz is waiting for him in the boiler-room with a pile of foreign currency on the table. “Will you have something? Whisky Heevash Reygahl? Benson and Hegyesh cigarette? The notes are here on the table.” Rácz needs to sell them. “There’s a list on this bit of paper.” Next to the paper is an estimate of what they’d fetch according to the bank rate. Rácz is no fool. All you have to do is to buy the Friday newspaper. Rácz could insist on the bank rate, but he knows that Urban needs his cut, too. He’ll be happy to get X crowns.
“How much?” Video Urban asks: he thinks he must have misheard. Rácz repeats the sum.
Urban is ready to do the deal immediately. He gets out his wallet and looks into it. Rácz drinks his whisky and puts the tin cup down on the table. Of course, Rácz is no idiot. Yes, Urban heard right. X crowns. Rácz knows it’s a very good deal. Urban can count on him for more foreign currency in the future. Rácz is not interested how much Urban sells the money for or what he does with it. That’s Urban’s business. But Rácz needs a favour. Rácz is a stranger here. He needs Urban to tell him from time to time what people want, what everyone’s after, what’s in short supply. Rácz will get it and Urban will sell it. No, Rácz stresses, he’s not talking about stolen goods. It’s just that Rácz has no time to get information or tip-offs; he’s too busy working.
Urban nods, he understands. It sounds like a good idea. But what are the currency dealers going to say? Not the small fry, like Urban. He’s thinking of the big currency dealers: Harry, Fedor, Khunt, and mainly the Albanians.
“Albanians?” Rácz wants to know: “Who are they?”
Urban explains. “They’re Yugoslav Albanians. The Ambassador is teeming with them. All the big foreign currency deals, cigarette smuggling and so on is done by them. You don’t want to tread on their toes. And they’re police grasses; otherwise they couldn’t do their deals so calmly and boldly in broad daylight. They’re trouble!” Urban stresses the last point.
Rácz thinks hard. Then he makes his decision. “Screw them,” he says. “We’ll do as we like and we won’t worry about them. You can do a deal with anyone. First we’ll try the nice way!” Rácz says and clenches his fist until his hair stands on end. “Well, what do you say?” he asks, pretending to lose patience. “Are you in or out?” Urban can’t resist this tempting offer. He puts the cash Rácz asked for on the table. “Can I rely on you?” Rácz asks as he counts the money.
“Sure,” says Urban, “I’ll tell you the moment I know anything. What would you like to know?”
“Let me know, let’s say,” Rácz explains, “about car spares. Or when someone needs a leather jacket, or something. Understand?” Urban nods. Rácz gets up. The audience is over. He has to go to the hotel, and sort out a few things. They can’t do anything without Rácz.
Silvia needs money. She has savings, but is still short. She wants to buy a used car, a white Fiat Uno. Rácz shakes his head. He doesn’t lend money, he needs it himself. He wants to go into business. But he will give her advice. Be nice to Rácz, very nice, and she’ll gradually save up the money. Anyway, Rácz thinks that Silvia should have saved more than she has. He’s often watched her through the cellar window coming and going, he adds, with a hint of bitterness. “What about the gypsy?”
“He’s not a gypsy!” Silvia counters. “He’s a doctor from Vienna.”
“I’d no idea the Viennese look like gypsies,” Rácz says. “But he could easily help you buy a car if he’s a doctor.”
“We could go on trips to the country,” Silvia tries to tempt the stoker.
“I don’t go on trips!” Rácz gets worked up. “I get enough running round the boiler-room and hotel.” Rácz does not travel anywhere. He hates travelling.
“What’s the furthest you’ve travelled?” asks Silvia.
“All the way here,” says the stoker, “to this effing city.”
“But going by car is different,” the prostitute objects.
“It’s all the same, by car or plane,” the stoker declares. Rácz never travels. He’s too busy working. He’s got duties. He came here to make money, so he will. Silvia would love to get money out of him, wouldn’t she? Well, be nicer to Rácz and she’ll get more money, too.
Anyway, Rácz feels he’s spending too much, as it is. Every time warnings come from his inner voice, Rácz silences them: you only live once. Yes, perhaps the city lights have blinded him. Who wouldn’t they blind? He’s never known this sort of life. When he goes back home and marries Eržika, he’ll have only memories left. Then he will work, bring up his children, and on Sundays go to church and a football game. On Friday nights he will go to the pub for a beer and a shot of spirits. Everyone will respect him. He knows all about the city and nightlife. Don’t anyone try to tell him about them. After all, he’s even had a striptease dancer! They’ll all envy him. They’ve never in their lives experienced anything like that and never will. Rácz can’t complain about Kišš. If it weren’t for the butcher’s stubbornness, Rácz would never have even seen the city. But still, he shouldn’t spend so much. He hasn’t saved up anything. And he could have. On the other hand, you can’t say that he’s wasted his time. He’s made investments. After all, he had to get to know the sleazy scene at the Ambassador hotel, so as to find his way about.
Now Rácz no longer eats leftovers. Every day he eats breakfast, lunch and dinner right in the hotel restaurant. He enters with panache: in his work boots, a bag full of tools over his shoulder. He has his own place. It’s reserved for him. The waiters rush to him. Rácz slurps and tears wildly at his meat. With greasy fingers he takes the cork out of a bottle of Chateau Valtice Reserve, he takes a brief look to see how much is in the bottle, and pours it down his mouth. He stomps his boots wildly on the floor. All the different cutlery round his plate drives him berserk. He never uses anything but a spoon. Waiters hover over him, passing him pepper, salads, meat, and ketchup. The entire staff surrounds his table. The guests are now used to it. They’re happy to be kept waiting. The sight of Rácz at table is not easily forgotten. Only new, inexperienced guests nervously murmur and click their fingers for service. Others try to stop them. Including the terrified personnel. They all look at Rácz with fear, as he wrestles with boar’s head in rosehip sauce. If the impatient diners aren’t stopped in time, Rácz will be disturbed and, from a table littered with spilled sauce, wine, and broken glass, turn to fix the newcomers with a look that they are unlikely ever to forget. He has only to say a word to the headwaiter and that guest will not be served. He might as well clear off, wherever he pleases. If anyone angers Rácz, everybody suffers. If they don’t want to freeze, they’ll have to pay again.
* * *
The mall between the Ambassador restaurant and the shops serves as the gypsies’ headquarters. They stand and sit there from morning till night, surrounded by their womenfolk and screeching children. They have a good life. Their organisms, genetically designed for roaming free over the wide steppes, for quick travel and modest nourishment with periods of famine, have adapted badly to a sudden change in lifestyle, and they have become fat, monstrously so. All the male and female gypsies doing business in front of the Ambassador are terribly obese. Like shapeless whales, gasping for breath, eyes popping, they move clumsily to and fro. They’re on the lookout for a tourist sufficiently stingy and foolish enough to do a deal with them. They’ll offer him more than other currency dealers. Except they pay in Polish zloty, not Czechoslovak crowns. Probably, the foreigner will notice his mistake only later, usually in his car in the car park, bragging to his wife about the wonderful deal he got. Sometimes, however, the mistake is not discovered until he tries to pay in a restaurant or shop.