“You’re right,” says Urban. Urban doesn’t do money-changing any more. If he shows up, it is just to have a coffee and a shot of Becherovka. Money isn’t everything.
Rácz throws up his hands: that is, after all, just Urban’s personal opinion. Rácz doesn’t agree. What are you without money? Shit. An absolute nobody.
Video Urban takes a sip of Becherovka and says nothing. “That’s true of you,” he thinks. “Even a dog wouldn’t bark at you, if you didn’t have money.” But he doesn’t say it. Urban is an artist. He doesn’t have to be a hustler.
Rácz has his opinion of Urban, too. Lately Urban has been getting too big for his boots. As if he were somehow better than others. As if his shit didn’t smell. He wants to make money, but he wants to stay clean, too. But that won’t work. You’re either as poor as a church mouse, or you get your hands in shit. Rácz unwittingly raises his hands to his eyes. They’d never been so clean and well kept. If he wants, he’ll get a manicure today. “Either I have the money for it, or I don’t,” the stoker tells himself.
* * *
As Christmas approaches, the stoker can’t resist an urgent flying visit. He arranges it all in one day. He leaves two days’ dry rations for the gypsies in the boiler-room and orders Ďula to wax the hotel minibus. They find the way to Rácz’s native village on the road atlas. Meanwhile, Rácz gets some presents together: French perfume for Eržika, a bottle of Cognac, Martell. He thinks of his Uncle Endre: another, cheaper bottle of Cognac. Rácz gets in the minibus and Ďula drives off.
On the way there Rácz is quiet. He smokes cigarettes and takes swigs of rum from the bottle. When they reach the village, first they drive up and down, so that everyone can see the car Rácz is returning home in. Pity they don’t bump into proud Feri Bartaloš; Rácz would love to pay him back for splashing mud all over him. This spoils the stoker’s mood a bit.
They park in front of the Kišš house. Ďula carries the presents. “Is that you?” Kišš is surprised as he noisily gets off his chair. Mrs. Kišš runs in from somewhere, dragging a blushing Eržika by the hand. Rácz looks at her with different eyes now. He no longer feels the torments of love; the tremors are over, so are the butterflies in his stomach and the embarrassment. He is an experienced man of the world and Eržika is not such a great beauty.
Rácz hands out the presents.
“I can see you’re doing well,” says Kišš. “What do you do?”
“I’m a stoker,” says Rácz evasively.
“And do they pay well?” Kišš asks, touching the sleeve of Rácz’s new Italian-styled jacket. He winks at Mrs. Kišš and shows her Rácz’s sleeve. She touches it, too. They murmur their approval. Kišš grabs Eržika’s hand and forces her to feel the quality of the suit. Blushing, she pulls her hand away.
“They pay well,” says Rácz. And he makes a bit on the side, as well.
“What do you mean, on the side?” Kišš doesn’t understand.
“Just — on the side,” says Rácz. He sorts things out, this and that, and he gets his share.
“So it must be him, then!” Kišš yells, and bangs the table for joy. “It’s him! It is him, after all!”
Rácz is puzzled, but doesn’t show it. He says nothing and waits. Kišš stops laughing and has a bad coughing fit, gesticulating with his arms and legs. Kišš’s brother is a butcher in the next village, as Rácz well knows. Recently he imported a Mercedes from Austria. He had to buy hard currency in the city. They sent him to some hotel to see a Mr. Rácz. He was a rich powerful man. He doled out the money, which he kept in an enormous box. Kišš’s brother had never seen so much money in his life. And he’s a village butcher. Then he told Kišš all about it. “Suppose it’s your Rácz, the one you sent off to the city?” Kišš’s brother asked him. “Go on with you!” Kišš had laughed then. The age was right, so was the way this Rácz looked. Kišš had one more thing to wonder about. He woke up many a night, wondering: “What if it is him?”
“Yes,” says Rácz, “it was me. I didn’t recognize your brother, Mr. Kišš. If I had, I’d have given him a discount.”
Kišš still can’t believe it. Ďula has to confirm that his boss, Rácz, is the most powerful man around the Hotel Ambassador. Everybody has to do what he says. Even when Kišš finally believes him, he still incredulously shakes his head. He carefully puts the cognac in his bureau. He’ll drink it later. He won’t let anyone else have a single drop. He puts a half-empty bottle of pear brandy on the table and pours drinks. They drink. Rácz, used to cognac and fine Scotch, starts to cough.
“You must be wondering how your pig, cow, and horse are doing,” Kišš remarks.
Rácz is not in the least interested: he’s forgotten that he’d given the butcher his animals to look after. He finally gets up and follows the old man into the barn and the pig pen.
“They get good fodder,” says Kišš. “They’re warm here, too.” They didn’t have it so good at Rácz’s old place. The horse does best of all. The butcher regularly puts on riding breeches and boots and gallops like the wind over the fields. Riding is healthy, and it looks good. “The gentry used to ride,” explains Kišš. Kišš belongs to the local gentry. He knows that a riding horse would be more appropriate, but it couldn’t take his bloated body.
Rácz’s horse is a giant draught gelding: it can carry Kišš. Finally, Kišš concedes, Rácz is now one of the family, too. He too belongs to the local gentry. Kišš has heard a lot about Rácz from his brother. None of them had ever done so well. Rácz will come back to the village and will sit at the gentry’s table. Kišš will be proud of him, his future son-in-law. They’ll go everywhere together and Kišš will introduce him to everyone. “This is Rácz, my son-in-law.”
Rácz is now utterly bored with this. He lets the fat butcher blether on in the dark humid pigsty. He goes into the yard and hungrily breathes in fresh air. When old Kišš joins him outside, he tells him: “Well, big deaclass="underline" if it makes you happy, keep the horse.” Kišš trembles with joy. “And as for the pig,” Rácz adds, “we have to butcher it.”
“When,” asks Kišš.
“Why not now?” says Rácz. “We’ll invite all the family and friends for the evening. Let everyone see I’m here.”
“Good idea,” says Kišš. “Right away. I’ll just call in some people to help. You can go to the house. Keep Eržika happy. We’ll manage all right. Off you go.”
The news of Rácz’s arrival spreads through the village. Soon Uncle Endre shows up.
“Why didn’t you drop by?” he asks Rácz. “You know where I live.”
Rácz says nothing. He shrugs. Kišš saves the situation.
“No need to get so worked up,” says the butcher. “We kept him here, as a matter of fact. The boy wanted to go, but I said, ‘Don’t, he’ll come here anyway.’ Don’t take offence, Endre, now we’re as good as family.”
They drink pear brandy. Endre softens.
“I just wanted…” he mumbles.
“Will you help us?” Kišš asks, pointing to the pig that had been let out to get the blood circulating. The pig grunts and digs its snout into the frozen ground. It can sense that something is not quite right.
* * *
Rácz sits in the living room, looking at his hands. Eržika sits in a chair opposite him, blushing and looking at the carpet. In a corner at the back of the room Mrs. Kišš sits in an armchair, smiling slyly, knitting. The window looks out onto the courtyard. The glass is covered with hoar-frost. Kišš, Endre and a couple of neighbours can be seen vainly trying to catch the pig.
“So, tell us,” Mrs. Kišš addresses Rácz, “what’s city life like?”
Rácz shrugs, and looks at Eržika. “Fine,” he says.