The Wooden Village (Rivers of Babylon 2) by Pišťanek Peter

Author:Pišťanek, Peter [Pišťanek, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Garnett Press
Published: 2008-10-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

All next day Martin spends running round government offices, getting the necessary permits. He is looking forward to the evening. He’s got everything arranged. After dinner, Martin Junec and his new acquaintance will go dancing somewhere. He’ll get her a little tipsy, when they dance he’ll work her over, and then he’ll invite her to his suite for a glass of bubbly. Then he’ll shag her. He’s a man. He needs a woman. His girl friend is a long way away; she’ll never find out a thing. Anyway, in Martin Junec’s opinion, infidelity isn’t such a big sin.

At a quarter to eight, Martin turns up in the restaurant. The headwaiter has been warned: he takes Martin to the table he reserved.

“What shall I bring you to drink?” he asks obligingly.

“Well, maybe a dry Martini. With an olive, please,” says Martin.

It’s not long before Silvia appears. She’s wearing a sparkling mini dress, black seamed stockings and dark violet shoes with silver heels, the highest that Martin has ever seen. She is dazzling. As she strides, accompanied by the headwaiter to the table, Martin appreciates that even on high heels she walks quite naturally and gracefully.

Martin rises and takes the hand she offers. He lifts it to his mouth and brushes it with his lips. Then he helps her to her chair.

“What will you drink?” he asks.

“I’ll have a Becher,” Silvia says.

“One Becher, please,” Martin tells the waiter as if he is translating from a foreign language.

The atmosphere at dinner is friendly. Martin tells Silvia what brought him back to the old country. Of course, he doesn’t say a word about Žofré’s ghost. Silvia, in turn, tells Martin that she’s made some money in Austria (how, she keeps to herself), that she’d like to invest in a business (what business, she keeps quiet about). Martin orders bœuf Stroganoff with chips and tartar sauce; Silvia chooses a mixed salad. Instead of a dessert, Martin orders a glass of Courvoisier, and Silvia has a chilled bunch of grapes.

“We have excellent champagne,” says the waiter in a conspiratorial voice. “French,” he adds significantly, as if he’d been told to say so.

“What make?” Martin asks, always eager to drink the very best.

“Veuve Cliquot,” says the waiter proudly, “Dom Perignon, Moët & Chandon, Marmot and Monnet…”

“Let’s have a bottle of Marmot,” Martin orders. “But well chilled.”

“Yes, sir.” The waiter bows and leaves.

Soon a dew-covered bottle of champagne comes on a silver tray. It is brought by the man who introduced himself yesterday as the owner of the hotel, Rácz. He’s smiling amiably.

Silvia is shocked: in all the time of their intimacy she has seen him smile only once or twice.

“So,” says Rácz, “I’ve brought you the best French champagne we have in our cellar. Rácz never talks hot air. We had none yesterday; today we carry five brands. We don’t do things by halves.”

Rácz puts the tray on the table and shows Martin the champagne.

“I may join you for a moment,” he says without a question mark at the end of the sentence.

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