The manager runs to his office. Then he impatiently sits down to the cold fire in the middle of the room and from his ski trousers he takes out his loot, his prize — a jar of caviar. Here’s a reason for celebration! He looks for his accordion and soon the office resounds with the bass notes and the manager’s booming voice.
The jar of caviar is soon finished. The manager is thirsty. The water has stopped running. Strange sounds come from the water pipe and soon they stop, too. Luckily, there are snowdrifts all around the hotel. The manager takes a bucket, fills it with snow from the yard and warms it up over the fire in his office. The water is a bit sour and salty, but it quenches thirst and warms him.
* * *
Freddy Piggybank does the rounds of the snowbound car park among the cars, which are covered in snow. He is dressed warmly; his cheeks are red with frost. Sausages and beans warm his stomach. His hands in knitted gloves rest on his red collecting bag filled with change. He is making vindictive plans involving shootings, mass executions, and torture. Today the gypsies came for their money. Berki was not among them, nor was Šípoš. Young Čonka was the spokesman. He told the parking attendant that it was getting harder for them to talk the bad gypsies out of attacking his trailer. That’s why the good gypsies have to ask Piggybank for an increased contribution. Otherwise they can’t answer for anyone or anything. Piggybank burst into tears, but ended up paying what Čonka asked. As soon as the overjoyed gypsies left, a bitch from the town council showed up and announced to Piggybank that the rental contract for the car park would be void for the next two weeks: tomorrow the car park will be fenced, booths and tanks full of carp will be brought in, and a Christmas market will open up in front of the Hotel Ambassador. Piggybank exploded. He didn’t dare to protest to the gypsies, but now he gave free rein to his emotions. The bitch from the town council was not impressed; she waved a document at the furious miser, and all was calm. The fat attendant tried to appeal to her better nature, but it got him nowhere. “You’re free from tomorrow until Christmas,” said the bitch maliciously and left, wriggling her behind.
Cars come and go. Piggybank is strict, almost cruel; he carefully checks the parking tickets and pedantically collects the fees. If a customer is just five minutes late, the attendant charges him an additional hour. Gnashing of teeth does not help the customer.
The lot is full of big Austrian cars. The Austrians are feverishly doing their Christmas shopping. The department store and the city are full of them. In this foul weather, gigantic, garish painted buses, bringing more and more customers, force their way into queues of slow-moving cars. These are happy times for the currency dealers. They all bravely hang around the parking lot and the entrance to the Hotel Ambassador. They freeze and wait for new punters.
“I’m in the shit,” Piggybank tells Urban. “In the shit,” he repeats, when Urban fails to react as he expected. Then he continues anyway: Freddy is the victim of incredible ingratitude. The gypsies are swine. He’s always known that. The time will come when they’ll beg him on their knees for mercy and to let them give him back the money they stole. He’ll torture them one by one. He’ll start with their children. The parents will have to watch. To stop them closing their eyes, Freddy will cut off their eyelids. “Just wait, you pigs, your turn will come,” he’ll tell them. “You’ll envy your filthy kids’ easy death!” He’ll spend a week devising the tortures he’ll inflict on Berki. Then there’s the bitch from town council, Piggybank remembers. For her, too, Piggybank has thought up tortures. Finally, at the very end, after two or three days, Freddy will sharpen the end of a pole this thick! And he’ll slowly impale her — or what’s left of her — on that pole! “Selling carp? I’ll show you carp! Two weeks, that means a total…” Freddy takes out his calculator and works out how much money he’ll have lost in two weeks. “Bugger,” he says with resignation. He still can’t and won’t believe that today is his last day here. He finally collects himself and with a martyr’s expression on his face throws his red money-bag into the corner of his trailer. “Let’s go and have a drink,” he says to Video Urban. “Drinks are on me.”
Urban can’t believe his ears. He thinks he’s misheard. Freddy Piggybank paying for a round? But the attendant locks up his trailer and makes a beeline for the entrance to the Ambassador’s bar. Urban follows. “I have to get rat-arsed,” says the miser when they sit down at the table. “I’m so pissed off. Know how much money I’ll lose? Business is bad. The Germans come by bus. They do their shopping and go back to Austria by bus.” Buses can’t get into Freddy’s car park. What he earns by changing money is from car drivers. Not a lot. It’s less than he’d get from one bus. But what can he do when the buses can’t park in the lot? The buses come around nine and by that time his lot is full. He can’t afford to block spaces until nine because of the buses. The car drivers would tear him to pieces. People are swine; they don’t understand that you have to make a living. Freddy Piggybank hates them.
Urban agrees. He understands. But he doesn’t think Freddy Piggybank should make a tragedy out of it. He will lose some money, true, but he’ll get a break, too. It’ll soon be Christmas. After the holidays, the car park will reopen and he’ll make up his losses.
Like hell he will! Freddy Piggybank gets livid and downs a shot of gin. He coughs and farts. It’s the sausages and beans. Freddy works and saves. He spends nothing on himself. And what does he get for his effort? A carp sale! A painted floozy from the town council! He’ll never catch up, because nobody will pay for his losses. But don’t let them think that Freddy Piggybank will pay taxes for those two weeks. He doesn’t spend money on himself. He only saves. And now this? To him? Shit!
Urban has his drink and quickly reaches for a coke. He hates the local gin. The attendant ordered it because it was the cheapest drink. Urban suggests that Freddy should look after himself, indulge himself, find a girlfriend, get some decent clothes, eat better. There’s more to life than making money: life’s for living. Women and fun. Why, for example, can’t Freddy Piggybank get a car? He wouldn’t have to fucking walk to work or take a tram.
The attendant downs another gin and orders expensive cigarettes. He bangs capriciously on the table. “The menu! Steak and eggs! One more coke and two more gins! No? All right. Just one gin and one Becherovka liqueur for this gentleman!” Freddy Piggybank doesn’t give a damn today. They’ve destroyed him. Beggared him! What a fucking life! What’s he going to do for the next two weeks? Why doesn’t he have a car? Because he doesn’t have a licence. He couldn’t get one either. Freddy Piggybank hasn’t even done army service. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. He’s got an exemption certificate from military service. He’s a head case. Nerves. But not a word to anyone.
Urban sighs. This isn’t fun any more. The fat attendant is pissed. His breath stinks. His eyes shine madly. He attacks his steak wildly. Urban coughs politely. He has to go now. He’s got things to sort out. But Freddy needn’t worry. Urban hopes he has fun, and thanks him for the drinks.
Video Urban goes out into the cold. He grins. The attendant’s complaints have given him an idea. He stands by the entrance and is happy. The idea is simple and ingenious. Starting tomorrow, he’ll put it into action. He’s already done the Christmas decorations; nobody can complain. Every minute a loudly sign-painted mammoth bus stops at the pavement and spews out a new batch of shopping-besotted Austrian tourists. Albanians with professional smiles on their swarthy faces are waiting with fistfuls of banknotes, ready for the onslaught. Urban’s ears are freezing, but he laughs as he anticipates outwitting them all. And the funniest thing is that this magnificent idea was inspired by stupid and stingy Freddy Piggybank.