“Ow!” Silvia hisses and, with her lips angrily clenched, she slaps Edita on the cheek. “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she says, frightened, then embraces her friend. With gentle caresses she tries to erase the red mark her five fingers have left on Edita’s face.
* * *
“You should apologize to the boss, like I told you last time,” Ďula advises the manager during one of his inspections of the icy office. “He might forgive you.”
“Me apologize?” The manager leaps up and his ski trousers swish. “On my knees? Never!”
“I don’t care,” says Ďula calmly, chewing a piece of American gum. “It’s too late now anyway. It’d do bugger-all for you. I just wanted to get you worked up. You’re so funny when you get upset. It’s all your own doing. Nobody else is to blame. You were acting the strong man, but you didn’t have what it takes. Why bark, when you can’t bite?” Ďula turns up the collar of his leather jacket and sits down next to the red-hot embers of a fire in the middle of the office. “Look at me,” he tells the manager. “I managed to adapt. I want an easy good life. But you just won’t take advice. You could have had peace and quiet by now. The boss would have let you keep your job. You could have had tons of money. The boss isn’t mean.”
“Boss! Boss! Boss!” The manager gets livid. “Not so long ago you were kissing my arse.”
“You can’t criticize me!” Ďula shoots back and gets up. “Look at yourself and look at me. I just want to live! And when I try to help you, you insult me!”
“I don’t need help!” The manager shouts and bursts into tears. Ďula shrugs and leaves. The manager gets out of his tent and sits at his desk. He wonders if his former driver might possibly be right. But not on his knees! He desperately thinks what he can do to save himself. Maybe no one can help him now. Rácz is adamant, vengeful, and vicious.
The manager reaches for his accordion, picks it up and draws the air in. Ever since he flung it at the window, only the bass notes have been working. Deep plaintive notes are heard in the cold office. The manager plays a romantic melody and tears flow down his cheeks. His wife and her lover are probably sitting down to Sunday dinner now. The table is set and the kitchen smells of food: a schnitzel, potatoes and cucumber salad. Or beef in cream sauce. Yes, the manager’s wife is a good cook. Her lover will lick his chops. The manager can’t remember when he last ate, it’s been so long. His stock of packet soups and tins has long run out. He’s drunk all his tea. Someone must have taken the fuse out of the fuse box, as there’s no power in the office. The toilet is locked. The door handle has been removed. Fortunately, the water is still running in his sink. Nobody has turned it off. The manager lets it drip a bit so that the pipes don’t freeze. He can urinate in the sink. For anything more he has to wait until night. Then he goes to relieve himself furtively in the dark courtyard in front of the boiler-room. But for the last few days he’s been spared that ordeal. He’s not eating. He drinks boiled water and imagines it’s tea. The used tea bags in the skip are no good, as the waiters use them three times in a row. They bring a guest a cup of tea with the teabag already in it. They throw them out when there’s nothing at all left in them. The manager’s stomach is now used to being empty. He can contentedly ponder various dishes and is not likely to go mad with hunger.
Suddenly, he jumps up from the embers. He’s got it now! The manager now knows how to win the powerful stoker’s favour and yet still keep his dignity. It’s a fact: the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. The manager has heard that Rácz likes to eat, and eat a lot. He’s decided: tonight the manager is going to cook dinner for Rácz. He already imagines the stoker consuming with pleasure the piquant delicacy he’ll prepare, licking the plate and asking for seconds, and himself, the manager, then entering the dining room, bowing deeply, while Rácz applauds loudly and then shakes the manager’s hand passionately and warmly.
There is amazement in the kitchen. The manager hasn’t been seen there for a long time. Ever since the chef kicked him out.
“What do you want here?” The chef jumps at him, wielding a filleting knife.
The manager shakes his head. He pats the chef on his back trying to calm him down with a pleasant smile. He’s come to lighten the chef’s workload. He promises not to leave any mess behind him. Everything will be cleaned up and the dishes will be washed. He’ll cook for Rácz all by himself. “It’s vital,” he adds.
The cooks exchange glances of dismay. In the end, they agree. The daily menu is ready. And they were about to cook the special orders, and of course one for Rácz. Lately he’s been asking for special meals. He prefers simple dishes, the ones he was used to at home. Bean soup, bread with pork lard and raw onion, potatoes with butter and sour cream, and so on. He’s lost his appetite for the delicacies that the kitchen used to cook for him in an effort to win his favour.
Finally, they shrug. They’re as lazy as cats and welcome any opportunity to skive. The manager gets to work. He puts a white apron over his tracksuit. He quivers with impatience. The cooks go out for a smoke.
Soon the manager’s special dish wafts its seductive aromas all over the place. The apprentice chefs reluctantly fetch him spices, mustard, soy sauce, Cumberland and Worcestershire sauce. Choice larded morsels of meat braise under bouncing lids. The manager is chopping onions. He rids his eyes of tears by blinking frequently.
The chef enters the kitchen, a cigarette in his hand. “You think that’ll do you any good?” he asks, ironically screwing up his eyes.
The manager deliberately ignores the comment. He starts to sing ostentatiously. The chef spits angrily and leaves. He lacks the courage to kick the manager out. The cooks play cards in the changing room.
“Has he come?” the manager asks a pop-eyed waiter.
“Who?” asks the waiter, baffled.
“The stoker,” says the manager.
“No,” the waiter shakes his head, “the boss isn’t here yet.”
Finally, the manager is ready. He wipes his hands on his apron. Then he takes it off and throws it on the table. The waiters watch him with astonishment through the serving window. The apprentice chefs are jolting each other and playing catch on the slippery floor. The manager keeps an eye on them, while occasionally checking the bouncing pot-lids.
Soon the moment has come. The waiters whistle. Rácz is sitting in the dining room, banging the table impatiently with his fist. His stomach is rumbling. An old blue-rinsed American lady turns around in panic. When she finds out that the source of the strange stomach noises is the stoker himself, she gives him an ingratiating grin. She knows what an unheated hotel room is like.
“What are you staring at, you stupid cow?” Rácz mutters; he is calm, alert, and in a good mood. Silvia and Edita went shopping in the morning and haven’t come back yet. Rácz can eat any way he wants, he doesn’t have to suppress the noisy lip-smacking or banging the spoon against the crockery, as he has to do when his girlfriend and her friend are there. His business is also running like clockwork and that’s another reason to be content.
“Well, what have you got for me that’s good?” The stoker jovially asks the headwaiter approaching him with dignity from the left.
“We have a few specialities for you, boss,” says the headwaiter with servility. “They’ve been cooked by…”