The manager spends the whole day sitting motionless in the tree, singing. He knows that he hasn’t won yet. He puts a piece of dry meat in his mouth and sucks on it. After this breakfast he dozes off, stubbornly clinging to the branch. A tic distorts his face. He shouts something in his sleep, and that wakes him up. It is beginning to snow. The snow falls on the white fields producing a wet, feathery rustle.
A group of men and dogs passes the tree a few times: they are armed with guns and torches, but fail to notice him. The snow confuses the hunting dogs’ sense of smell. They strain against their leashes and whimper. Then the wind starts to blow, carrying wet snowflakes from the fields. Soon it gets dark. The moon is hidden; the sky is as black as indigo paper. Thanks to the fresh snow, visibility is good. After a moment’s hesitation, the manager lowers the captured sledge and then climbs down the tree. He stretches his limbs, heavy prolonged and tense immobility. Ahead of him is a night march through enemy territory. He sets out with determination, pulling his booty behind him.
* * *
Just before midnight, Urban and Lenka enter Hotel Ambassador lounge. The party is in full swing. Urban looks around the room. The guests have split into small groups, discussion circles. Urban knows most of them: some are nodding acquaintances, others he knows personally. He knows the Albanians and hookers very well indeed. He does not feel a stranger here. Lenka, on the other hand, knows no one. She holds his hand, as he is her only support.
Rácz sits at the head of the table with a poker face, drinking. When he spots Urban, he gets up. “I knew you’d come,” he says. “It’s good you’re here. There’s plenty of everything,” he adds, “Food and drink.”
He notices Lenka and falls silent, as if struck by lightning.
Lenka, too, stands up and for a few seconds can’t take her eyes off Rácz.
“I’ll introduce you,” says Urban. “Lenka, this is Rácz. Rácz, this is Lenka.”
He steps aside. Rácz produces one of his smiles. He takes Lenka’s hand and touches it with his lips. Lenka smiles in embarrassment. It seems so old-fashioned, yet it isn’t unpleasant.
Urban is surprised at this, but doesn’t stare. He’d never have expected such a gesture, however clumsily done, from Rácz.
Rácz accompanies his guests to the head of the table and seats them next to him.
“I’m glad, I’m glad you’ve… both… come. You’ve broken the spell. I had no one to talk to. They’ve all come here to stuff their faces and get sloshed.”
Rácz waves a hand, smiles again and takes a good look at Lenka.
Lenka feels odd under the magnetic metallic stare of this strange, stocky, broad-shouldered man. His wide face radiates a kind of primordial energy. She is unsettled.
“Friends are precious nowadays,” Rácz says, taking three champagne glasses from the tray.
This leaves Urban cold. Perhaps it’s a new trick of the stoker’s, he thinks. Rácz pours the champagne. He’s skilled; he doesn’t spill a drop. Lenka realises that Urban’s strange friend probably drinks champagne far more often than once a year on New Year’s Eve.
“To our friendship!” declares the stoker and raises his glass.
A sarcastic remark is on the tip of Urban’s tongue, but he bites it back. “Why does Rácz want to talk about friendship?” he thinks. Urban still hasn’t forgotten Rácz having him followed so as to find the source of Urban’s foreign currency. And Rácz might well have set the two undercover policemen onto him out of vindictiveness. Urban looks truculent.
Rácz downs his glass with relish and puts it back on the table forcefully. Perhaps too forcefully, Lenka thinks.
They are silent. From the restaurant they can hear muffled conversations, laughter and the bass notes of the band. At the other end of the table the Albanians are arguing in their incomprehensible language full of absurd sounding consonants. Ďula clinks glasses with a drunken Khunt. The whores have left their glasses half full and moved closer to the bar. They can’t skive on a night like this.
“Urban let slip that you’re the uncrowned king of the hotel,” says Lenka with a smile.
Rácz nods. “Yes,” he says. “It’s true. They do as I say.” There’s no trace of self-consciousness in his voice. He responds like a man asked if he likes cheese scones.
Lenka says, “I can see you don’t suffer from lack of self-esteem.”
“No,” agrees Rácz, “I don’t. But you’re not drinking,” he remarks.
“I’m not used to drink,” says Lenka.
“Are you Urban’s girlfriend?” the stoker resumes after a pause.
Lenka shakes her head. No, they’re just good friends. There’s nothing between them. “Look at Urban: we’re more like brother and sister, aren’t we?” Urban absent-mindedly nods and looks at his watch. It’s half past eleven.
“Are you married?” Lenka asks the stoker.
Rácz shakes his head. No, Rácz is single. Single, but unhappy in love. His girl left him. It was a blow, terribly painful. But he’s got over it. Rácz can see now that she stayed with him only for his money. And because of his power. Rácz longs to meet a girl who’d like him for his own sake. Rácz knows that this is not impossible.
Lenka smiles. “Certainly,” she says. She’s sure that one day Rácz will find a girl like that. She takes the glass of champagne and drinks. She likes it. She doesn’t object when Rácz tops up her glass, touching her shoulder.
Rácz’s chat-up is beginning to make Urban want to throw up. Who is that oaf pretending to be? What sort of idiotic theatre act is this? Is the stoker getting back at Urban by seducing his girl? But Urban is convinced that sooner or later he will be rewarded for his helpfulness and patience and will have Lenka. Why else would he spend so much time with her? And what was she saying just now? Like brother and sister! The silly pseudo-intellectual goose! As if she hadn’t noticed the way Urban looked at her, how eagerly his entire body reacted to every single accidental contact with hers.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks Lenka. Lenka takes her eyes off Rácz’s face. “No,” she says, “I don’t feel like it. I’m fine sitting here.” Urban pours himself champagne and downs it in one.
“Don’t you have anything stronger?” he asks the stoker.
“Go to the bar and order anything you like. Tell them to put it on my tab,” he adds.
Urban gets up. He can still pay for a couple of shorts. He turns round and heads for the door. Rácz intercepts him outside the lounge.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asks, his arms spread wide. “You’re my guest, so the drinks are on me. At least, don’t insult me!” Rácz is smiling. “Are you angry because I’m chatting to her? She’s not your girlfriend. If she was, I wouldn’t even look at her. For Rácz, a friend’s girl is off limits. Rácz doesn’t need them.” Rácz grabs Urban by the shoulder and with a broad gesture shows him the interior of the restaurant, the band and the dance floor in the middle of the room. “Look,” he says, “there are plenty of women here. Pick one up and have fun. Eat, drink, and put it on Rácz’s tab! I can afford it. Just don’t act the insulted lover!” Rácz lets him go and pushes him back into the room. “She’s not your girlfriend, or your sister,” he says. “And I like her. She came with you, but she doesn’t belong to you.”
Urban waves his hand dismissively. “All right,” he says, and backs down. Wanda the Trucker grins at him from the bar. Her long indigo-black legs are crossed, and she sends him a signal that is hard to resist.