Rácz finishes the hard-boiled egg and another piece of bread. He frowns. Ďula has to wait a moment until he’s swallowed. “What do you think, Ďula?” the stoker addresses his driver. “Why do the blacks in Africa wear grass skirts? Why don’t they have furniture? Why no bed linen? Can you answer that one?” Rácz pauses. He reaches into the basket and pulls another slice of bread from under the napkin. Ďula has no idea. He is silent. Rácz smiles with a feeling of superiority. “Why? So they don’t get everything black.” Rácz touches his forehead. “Couldn’t that be the reason,” he says, rebuking Ďula.
Ďula is embarrassed.
“Don’t take it to heart, Ďula!” Rácz will have a look at the black man. You never know, that’s for sure. It pays to be careful, but today he hasn’t got time. He has to go to the Opera. Then he’s having supper. There are a lot of other duties. Today Rácz wants to spend the whole day having fun.
When Ďula leaves to see to his duties, Rácz takes off his dinner jacket and puts on his red track suit. He turns the television on and tunes into Eurosport. For a while he watches the billiards championship. He gets quite engrossed. But before long somebody knocks at the door. “Enter!” Rácz shouts.
It’s the restaurant manager. He enters, bowing fearfully. “Your secretary told me that you wished to speak to me, sir.”
“Yes,” says the stoker. “My secretary.” He likes that title. Secretary. Rácz puts on a kindly expression. “So, how are things?” he asks the restaurant manager. “You seem to have survived New Year’s Eve,” he says. “I hope Dr. Renceš did, too. What excuse did you invent for him?” Rácz is interested.
“We told him that the lounge was flooded and out of use,” says the restaurant manager.
“And then what? Did he have any objections? Was he unhappy about anything?” Rácz wondered.
“Not really.” The restaurant manager shakes his head.
Rácz gets up and approaches the restaurant manager. “There you go,” he says. “Things are never as bad as they seem.” He moves to the window and watches the ice floes passing down the river. He put his hands behind his back. He is silent for a long time. As if he’s forgotten about the restaurant manager. “That’s not the reason I asked you to come,” he says after a while, when the manager is beginning to think that they’ll be standing there like that until lunch. “It’s not about that,” adds Rácz, almost to himself. He measures the room in long, energetic strides. He suddenly stops and jabs his index finger into the air in the direction of the restaurant manager. “What did you study?” he asks.
“Hotel management,” says the restaurant manager.
“Why?” Rácz shakes his head and starts to walk up and down. Each time he stops by the window and knocks on the frame with his knuckles. “So you’ve got a doctorate,” he states.
“No,” says the restaurant manager, “I’m an engineer.”
“Oh yes,” says Rácz, as if he’s remembered something. “An engineer.” So it would not be too far from truth if he said that the restaurant manager knows all about those little trifles.
The restaurant manager throws up his hands. He’s the restaurant manager of the Ambassador. He doesn’t know what the boss is talking about.
“Oh, things like how to go upstairs with a lady,” says the stoker, “how to go downstairs with a lady, what to do in the cloakroom; how to behave at table in a restaurant, how to use a knife and fork, how to say goodbye. That kind of little trifles.” Rácz wishes to be taught all these things by the restaurant manager before lunch, if possible. After lunch, Rácz has things to attend to.
The restaurant manager is in a cold sweat. He’ll be glad to teach the boss all these things, but he fears that not even a month will suffice.
“What do you mean by that?” Rácz asks and his face congeals into a stone mask.
The restaurant manager takes a deep breath. He has no doubts about the boss’s abilities, absolutely none. But he would suggest that the rules of etiquette are a complex science. Take, for example, just table manners. Asking a lady for a dance, polite conversation…
Rácz shakes his head. “No dancing. No conservation. Some other time, perhaps. This evening, there will be going upstairs, sitting in a box, going downstairs, entering a restaurant and eating.” Rácz is no idiot. He learns quickly. He’s got a good memory. While the restaurant manager has been babbling about complex this and that, ten minutes’ teaching time have been wasted, which could have been used to learn how to do it. “Here’s a piece of paper and a pencil. Rácz is ready. No more talking!”
The stoker is a good pupil. He has a good memory. He is diligent. He writes everything down. Before evening Rácz will revise it a few times, he tells the restaurant manager. The latter explains everything: when to clap, when not to. Then comes lunch. Rácz phones downstairs and asks for the menu. He wants to choose. He will eat upstairs. He orders a meal for the restaurant manager, too. He wants him to teach Rácz how to use a knife and fork, how to pour wine and taste it and how to use a fish knife and dessert spoon. And to teach him how to summon the waiter; not by losing his temper and banging the table, or pulling the tablecloth and smashing all the china if the waiter is a bit slow. Not to make a toast with an apéritif, not to throw bones under the table, or drink from the bottle. The manager talks and talks. Rácz listens. He holds his knife and fork properly. He chews with his mouth closed. He eats without chomping sounds. He puts small portions of food into his mouth. His elbows are kept pressed to his sides. He knows this is the only way to win over Lenka. She is too young to be overwhelmed by Rácz’s money and potential alone. She notices little trifles like these. But Rácz will master this, too. This evening Rácz will eat in the Puszta restaurant like a count.
* * *
This is the third day that Šolik and Tupý have been standing outside the hotel, freezing. The long-awaited signal from Mozoň doesn’t come. They dare not enter the lobby; they’re afraid of their superior. At the same time, with an agonizing feeling of resignation, they physically take in waves of heat, radiating from the revolving door of the hotel into the chilly street. Oh, if only they dared warm themselves up for just ten minutes!
From time to time the black face of Mr. Bwawenu-Mozoň appears, now in the lobby, now in the window of his hotel room. As if his strict expression were trying to remind them of their duties. They have no escape. In a snack bar in the old car park there is good mulled wine. The aroma of cloves, Jamaica pepper, cinnamon waft far and wide. The man in charge of the bar, a stocky moustached fellow in a white coat, can’t complain. Everyone who walks by stops. Both ex-secret policemen are there, too. They have enough money; from time to time, they trap some country bumpkin who’s seen a film about currency dealers and come to make his fortune in the city. They sip hot wine till their eyes water. They stamp their feet in the snow. They silently await the signal. In a snowdrift lies a drunkard, dozing, face down in the snow. Someone picked up his hat and put it on his head. The drunkard said nothing. The regulars treat him the same and ignore him. Šolik and Tupý don’t complain. It’s cold and their feet hurt before their day is over, but they know, too, that they could be standing outside the job centre. Nobody’s keen to employ people like them. On the other hand, they have a safe house, money, and can still put the frighteners on somebody. And at three thirty they finish work.
Anyway, they realise that when they render Rácz harmless they’ll get far more out of the lawyer than a shitty hundred thousand. They’ll be able to squeeze him, blackmail him at any time. Whenever they need something, the lawyer will have to arrange it. And if not, then he can kiss his management job goodbye. They’ll make things hard for him. That’s their unwritten law. The lawyer should have realised that before he got into bed with them!