The former secret policeman takes out the bottle of black dye, tears off a wad of cotton wool and starts covering his face and hands. Then he carefully closes the bottle and puts it back in his suitcase. Two days, he thinks. He can last two days easily. He’s noticed that on everything he’s touched he’s left black fingerprints. What an idiotic idea, he thought, impersonating a black man. He had to tell his wife that he’d gone on a business trip, to accompany a very valuable bank shipment. Mozoň hates lying. Not out of morality or for other stupid reasons. He hates lying because a good liar has to have a perfect memory and remember what he said and to whom. And Mozoň doesn’t have that good a memory. Yet his whole life is a big lie. Even his wife and children know him as Ščepán. That’s his name in private life: Ščepán, the bank clerk. Those were his superiors’ instructions. Now it’s too late to change things. Mozoň can’t imagine his wife’s reaction if he were forced to tell her the truth. She’s known him as Ščepán for years.
“Well, that’s how it goes,” Mozoň reflects. “Once you’re at war, you’ve got to fight.” He leaves his room and goes downstairs to the lobby. There are a lot of new guests at reception. Šolik and Tupý sit in comfortable leather armchairs, reading newspapers. Through holes cut into the papers they discreetly observe their surroundings. Bwawenu sits down nearby. He crosses his legs. “You pricks!” he whispers at them, not moving his facial muscles. His subordinates become uneasy. They put down their papers. They’re both wearing dark glasses. Šolik has put on a giant false moustache and Tupý has covered his face with a long false beard. “I’m telling you that you look like idiots,” Bwawenu addresses the wall.
“Why, chief?” Tupý asks in a hurt voice, observing movement around the reception desk.
Bwawenu sighs. He looks round the lobby. “Get out!” he orders quietly, but decisively.
Šolik (alias Livid) and Tupý (alias Bear) have settled into their armchairs. They don’t want to go out. It’s cold outside; inside it’s pleasantly warm.
“Can’t you hear me?” Bwawenu goes for them, still looking at the wall. “Get out and throw the false moustache and glasses away! You look as suspect as a sledge in summer.” Bwawenu turns to his subordinates. “Did you hear me, or not?”
“But it’s freezing out there, chief,” Šolik objects.
“Then go to the snack bar in front of the hotel and get yourself some hot tea,” Bwawenu commands. “But you’ve got to be outside. In an emergency I’ll signal to you from the window. Out, you bloody idiots!”
Mozoň’s subordinates reluctantly get out of the comfortable armchairs and slowly make for the exit, as if still hoping that their superior would call them back at the last moment. But Bwawenu takes no more notice of them. A stocky, broad-shouldered man in a leather jacket and an earring in his ear, who has just come out of the lift, claims his attention. Everyone greets him politely with a bow. “That’s him,” Bwawenu thinks, “it’s Rácz!” That’s Mozoň’s target. Bwawenu gets up and inconspicuously follows the stoker.
* * *
An orgy is taking place at Urban’s place. The music is blasting. Urban is embittered. Only after the event has he realised that he was in love with Lenka. Now it’s too late. Rácz pestered him so long for Lenka’s address that he finally let him have it. He couldn’t refuse Rácz’s offer. A thousand crowns is good money. Now he feels sorry. Rácz really has sent Lenka a hundred orchids.
Urban is copulating mechanically, with a sullen face. Wanda can’t understand why he’s in a bad mood.
“What’s got into you?” she asks, lying under him with her thighs spread wide.
“Nothing,” says Urban, interrupting the coitus and lighting a cigarette.
Wanda wipes herself on a towel and also gets up.
“Where are you going?” asks Dripsy Eva.
“To have a pee,” says Wanda.
Hurensson sits naked in the armchair by a round table. His shrivelled penis dangles between his thighs. He’s poured himself a whisky and is sipping it. He’s back. He had some more money saved up, so he has to have some fun. The whores Urban has supplied are fine. They let you do anything you want. The sight of Urban having sex with Wanda wasn’t too bad either.
“Put the music out,” says Hurensson to Urban in his Swede’s English. “I have a headache.”
“What does he want?” asks Wanda, who has now come back.
“Says he has a headache,” Urban translates. “We have to turn the music off.” He goes to the stereo and turns it off.
“That’s fine!” Hurensson smiles with relief. “I hate that kind of jazz you like,” he admits to Urban.
“What does he want?” Wanda asks and bites into a sandwich.
“He doesn’t like jazz,” says Urban.
“I don’t like jazz neither,” agrees Dripsy Eva.
“I don’t like jazz, either,” Urban irritably corrects her.
“What about jazz?” Hurensson enquires. “They do not like jazz, too,” says Urban in his English. “And so do I. You know, man, I mean the word ‘jazz’ in phonetical form. Like ‘dzez’, as is usual in our language, dig it?”
Hurensson reflects. “So you don’t like your language?”
“Oh, God, no!” Urban shakes his head. “I only do not like the way they write the word ‘jazz’ Something like ‘d-zhass’.”
“But I don’t like the jazz itself,” says Hurensson. “And I don’t give a fuck on the way other people call it.”
“What’s he saying?” asks Wanda.
“He says he doesn’t like jazz,” says Urban.
“That’s what he said before,” Wanda objects.
“Now he’s said it again,” Urban shrugs.
“Didn’t he say anything about us?” asks Eva.
“No, he didn’t.” Urban shakes his head.
“What they speak about?” asks Hurensson.
“They think you are speaking about them,” says Urban. “Will you have some wine?” he asks the prostitutes, reverting to Slovak. They both nod. Urban gets up and brings another bottle. He uncorks it and fills their glasses. “Gunnar?” he asks.
“Thanks,” says Hurensson. “I’d rather stay by my whisky.” He drinks and pours himself some more. “But the girls are really very fine,” he remarks. “Very pretty, both. Especially that tall one. Somehow unusual. Almost exotic. Really fine. And both have great drive.”
Urban smiles. “In our country people call it ‘turbo’,” he says “Do you understand? Turbo fucking.”
The Swede bursts out laughing. “Yes, yes, turbo fucking. I like it! The girls are both ‘turbo’,” he adds gallantly.
“What’s he saying?” asks Wanda, scratching between her legs with her long lacquered fingernails.
“He says you’re both ‘turbo’,” Urban translates.