“I can,” Rácz says. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“But you’ll destroy us all,” the restaurant manager moans.
“I’ve told you what I want,” Rácz ends the interview, goes to the door and opens it. “Rácz never says anything twice,” he adds. The restaurant manager sits in the armchair staring in disbelief. “Well, yes or no?” asks Rácz from the doorway. “I can count on the lounge?!”
“Tell me what to do,” the restaurant manager whimpers in despair, “or how to do it.” He reflects. He gets up and finally declares, “No. It’s impossible. It’s out of the question.” Something inside him snaps. He falls on his knees and puts his hands together. “I beg you on my knees, don’t ruin me!”
Rácz proudly sticks his chest out. “What do you mean ‘Don’t ruin me!’ If Rácz wants to,” he says menacingly, “he can ruin people, too. Now, out!” Rácz has said all he needs to. It all depends on the restaurant manager now.
The restaurant manager, a broken man, gets up and leaves. Rácz closes the door behind him. Silvia comes out of the bedroom dressed in black lace lingerie. She comes to Rácz, puts her arms round him and snuggles up.
“What do you say?” she whispers.
“About what?” reacts Rácz, still thinking about the restaurant manager.
“About my outfit,” says Silvia.
“Well, it looks good,” decides Rácz, and gives her buttocks a firm squeeze.
“Do you fancy me?” Silvia asks, inserting her hand under his sweater.
“Yes,” says Rácz, feeling his blood pressure rising.
“And how do you fancy me?” asks Silvia. She lets Rácz slowly push her back into the bedroom.
“I fancy you a lot,” says Rácz. He grabs her below the breasts. Silvia moans with pleasure. Rácz picks her up into his arms and carries her towards the bed.
“Watch out,” Silvia reminds him, laughing, “you’ll tear my stockings. You know how much they cost?”
“How much?” Rácz asks.
“Don’t ask,” Silvia says.
“But I am asking!” Rácz says and stops dead with Silvia in his arms half-way to the bed. Silvia tells him. Rácz freezes.
“That many crowns?” Rácz is astonished.
“No, five times as much, since it’s in foreign currency vouchers.”
Rácz opens his mouth. His excitement has ebbed away. The immobilised stoker clenches his fists. Silvia drops from his embrace. She falls on the floor. She hurts her tail bone badly, and groans.
“You bully,” she cries.
Rácz stands above her, his eyes popping, all red in the face. Rácz has money, but not for stupid things! To spend so much on bloody stockings! He doesn’t dare ask how much she paid for the lace panties she’s wearing!
Silvia bursts into tears. She gets up and limps to the couch, pressing a hand to her tail bone. She moans disconsolately. And how much is her time with Rácz worth, she bawls. How much are her days and nights worth? For him she gave up the profession that she enjoyed so much! Has Rácz ever looked at himself in the mirror? And finally, for whose benefit, actually, did Silvia buy those trinkets? For herself? Or for the receptionist?
“Trinkets!” Rácz bellows. “Trinkets, you said?” He lifts a fist like an anti-tank grenade.
But there’s no stopping Silvia. Rácz is a boring client. He’s an oaf and ignoramus. As a lover, he’s useless.
Rácz’s eyes bulge out of their sockets. In his rage he puts his fist in his mouth so as not to kill the whore.
“Rácz might like to know,” says Silvia, “maybe it doesn’t happen in the country, but here, in the city, women usually expect when they make love to have something called an orgasm.”
Rácz takes his fist out of his mouth. “What organism? What sort of organism?” He’ll bash the bitch right away so hard she’ll have a couple of organisms right away! Rácz keeps her and clothes her. Silvia gets anything she can think of! And Rácz asks nothing in exchange, except for her to be nice to him! She doesn’t like him? Rácz isn’t keeping her! He took her off the street and made her his mistress. Now, if she wants to walk the streets and kick her legs up in cabaret, she’s welcome to it!
Silvia jumps off the couch. Rácz doesn’t need to say it twice! Silvia opens the wardrobe and quickly begins to dress. She can’t see for tears. Her bottom hurts. She gets dressed, puts on her shoes, takes her bag and slams the door with all her might.
Rácz races after her into the corridor. “Don’t slam that door,” he shouts, “or I’ll slam you!”
By then Silvia is running downstairs. Her pattering feet sound like a bird’s wings when it flees its cage.
“If you don’t like it, fuck you!” the stoker bellows, and bangs the door so hard that the whole building shakes. He returns to his suite and sits down to a drink of whisky. “The gall!” Rácz reflects. “Who does she think he is? Rácz is no jerk off the street. Rácz is somebody. Somebody!”
There is a knock at the door and Ďula appears. “What’s happened, boss?”
“Nothing,” says Rácz. “Sit down and have a drink!”
“No, thanks, boss,” Ďula declines. “I’ve got to drive today. I’ve got to get twenty new chairs from the furniture store. Chairs have been vanishing mysteriously recently.”
“Just sit down and have a Heevash Reygahl!” Rácz orders. “Forget about the chairs. Let the guests sit on the floor, if there aren’t enough chairs!”
Ďula reluctantly joins him and lets him pour the Chivas Regal.
“Your health,” he says, and drinks.
“Your health,” says Rácz, lost in reflection. “She’ll be back!” he adds with certainty. “But cross her off the list!” Rácz orders Ďula after briefly mulling it over. “And cross Edita off, as well! I’ll show them!” Rácz threatens them with his fist.
Soon the bottle is empty, most of it drunk by Rácz; Ďula was only sipping. Rácz can take as much as a horse. Alcohol seems to have no effect on him. He sits and watches. Occasionally, his lips mutter a Hungarian curse. But in the end, the bottle of Scotch has clearly calmed him down. He thinks about something else and even smiles. “Don’t you worry, Ďula,” he tells his driver, “we’ll have a wild party. Oh, what a party we’re going to have on New Year’s Eve! We’ll celebrate with Silvia or without her. Better without.”
Ďula enthusiastically and obsequiously agrees. He greatly appreciates being allowed to sit next to the boss and being on close terms with Rácz, and drinks the Scotch, even though he doesn’t like it. Rácz puts away his empty glass and gets up. So does Ďula.
“Have you got the keys to the boiler-room?” asks the stoker.
Ďula nods and shows the keys, with a query in his eyes. For quite some time Rácz hasn’t shown any desire to see the boiler-room. It is Ďula who takes the food down to the gypsies. Sometimes he forgets, or can’t be bothered: he’s got no time. When Berki and Šípoš grumble, he threatens them that Rácz will come and torture them with a red-hot poker. Then the gypsies shut up. They’re glad at least occasionally to get some food.
“And what are we doing there?” asks Ďula.
“You’ll see,” says Rácz. “There’s something we have to sort out. Something very important.”
This is a special occasion, Ďula realises. Rácz never smiles at other times. But then, why should he?
The gypsies are emaciated and watch them with big eyes. They hastily bow low to Rácz.
“Oh, boss,” says Berki politely, “you’ve finally come to let me go and see my wife and children. Oh, what joy for a poor Roma!” Both gypsies are happy.
“Shut your trap, you filthy swine!” Ďula snaps at Berki. “If the boss wants to, he’ll let you go. If he doesn’t, you’ll stay and rot here.” Rácz remains silently on the stairs, deliberately ignoring the gypsies. He casts his eyes round the boiler-room. How long it’s been since he worked and lived here! It doesn’t seem true now.