bird, muddied and fouled with his own vomit; and because he knew the precision and order demanded even of the workings of a simple pump he thought that, if a functioning universal principle did exist somewhere (“as it plainly does in machines!”) then (“you can bet your life on it!”) even a world as mad as this must be subject to reason. He stood at a loss in the pouring rain then, without any warning, started furiously accusing himself. “What an idiotic blockhead you are, Futaki! First you roll about like a pig in muck, then you stand here like a lost sheep . . . Have you lost what little brain you had? And, as if you didn’t know it was the last thing you should do, you get totally smashed! On an empty stomach!” He shook his head in anger, looked himself up and down, and full of shame, started to wipe his clothes down without much success. With his trousers and shirt still covered in mud he quickly found his stick in the dark and tried to sneak back into the bar unnoticed to get some help from the landlord. “Feeling better now?” the landlord asked winking, ushering him into the storeroom. “There’s a bowl and some soap, don’t worry about it, you can use this to dry yourself with.” He stood there with arms folded and did not move until Futaki had finished washing, though he knew he could have left him alone, but had decided it was better if he stayed, because “you never know what devil gets into people.” “Brush your trousers off as best you can, and wash that shirt,” he said. “You can let it dry off on the stove! Until it’s ready you can put this on!” Futaki thanked him, wrapped the ragged and cobwebbed old coat around him, smoothed back his dripping hair and followed the landlord out of the storeroom. He didn’t go back to rejoin the Schmidts but settled instead next to the stove and spread his shirt over the back of it, asking the landlord, “Got anything to eat?” “Just some milk chocolate and these croissants,” the landlord replied. “Give me two croissants!” said Futaki, but by the time the landlord returned with the tray the heat had overcome him and he was asleep. It was late now and the only people still awake were Mrs. Kráner, the headmaster, Kerekes and Mrs. Halics (who, now that everyone was exhausted, took the liberty of raising her unsuspecting husband’s glass of Riesling to her lips), so Futaki greeted the landlord’s laden tray (“Fresh croissants, help yourself!”) with a quiet mumble of refusal and the croissants were returned untouched. “Fine, drop dead . . . Give these corpses half an hour and it’ll be resurrection time again . . . ,” the landlord muttered in fury, stretching his stiff limbs before mentally making a quick calculation as to “how things stand.” It all looked pretty hopeless because the takings fell far short of what he had originally anticipated and he could only hope that a shot of coffee would bring “the drunken rabble” to their senses. Beyond the financial loss (because, “heigh-ho,” lack of income also amounted to loss) what most annoyed him was that he had been just one step away from getting Mrs. Schmidt into the storeroom when she went out like a light and suddenly fell asleep, which forced him to think of Irimiás again (though he had decided he would not let the thought “bother him because things would take their own course”) conscious that they’d be arriving soon and then it would “all” be over. “Waiting, waiting, nothing but waiting . . . ,” he fretted, then leapt to his feet because he remembered that he had put the croissants back on the shelf without covering them in cellophane, though “these bastards” would soon be up again and he’d be dashing round with the tray for hours. He was long used to the state of perpetual readiness and had been ever since he got over his first wave of anger, just as he was no longer anxious to find the last owner of the bar, “that blasted Swabian” and tell him “there was nothing in the contract about spiders.” Back then, just two days before opening the bar, having got over his shock, he had tried every possible way of eliminating the creatures but, discovering that it was impossible, he realized there was nothing for it but to talk to the Swabian again in the hope of persuading him to drop the asking price a little. But he had vanished off the face of the earth, which was distinctly not the case with the spiders who continued “joyfully cavorting” about the place, so he was obliged to resign himself for the rest of his life to the fact there was nothing to be done about it, that he could pursue them with rags and cloths and crawl from bed in the middle of the night, but, even so, he could only deal with “the majority of them” at best. Fortunately this never became a major subject of conversation because as long as he stayed open and people shifted from place to place, the spiders couldn’t “go around wrecking the place”: even they weren’t capable in “covering anything that moved in cobwebs . . .” The trouble always started after the last customer had gone and he had locked up, washed the dirty glasses, put things away and closed the ledger, at the point when he started to clean up, because then every corner, every table and chair leg, every window, the stove, the rising rank of nooks and shelves and even the line of ashtrays on the counter would be covered in fine webs. And the situation deteriorated from there because having once finished and lain down in the storeroom, quietly cursing, he could hardly sleep because he knew that, within a few hours, he himself would not be spared. Given this, it was no wonder that he shrank, disgusted, from anything that reminded him of cobwebs, and it often happened that when he could no longer bear it he would attack the iron bars over the windows but — luckily — because he went at them with his bare hands he couldn’t really damage them. “And all this is nothing compared . . . ,” he complained to his wife. Because the scariest thing was he never once saw an actual spider though at that time he’d stay awake all night behind the counter, but it was as if they sensed his presence watching them, and they simply wouldn’t appear. Even after he had resigned himself to the situation he still hoped — just once — to set eyes on one of them. So it became a habit with him, from time to time — without ever stopping what he was otherwise doing — to cast his eyes carefully round the place, just as he was examining the corners now. Nothing. He gave a sigh, wiped the counter down, gathered together all the bottles off the tables then left the bar to relieve himself behind a tree. “Someone’s coming,” he ceremoniously announced on his return. The whole bar was immediately on its feet. “Somebody? What do you mean somebody?” cried Mrs. Kráner, quite pale. “Alone?” “Alone,” the landlord calmly replied. “And Petrina?” Halics spread his hands. “I told you it’s just one man. That’s all I know!” “Well then . . . it can’t be him,” Futaki determined. “Quite right, not him,” the rest muttered . . . They sat back in their places, lit cigarettes in disappointment or took a sip from their glasses and only a few glanced up when Mrs. Horgos walked into the bar but even those then turned away again partly because, while not particularly old, she looked like an ancient hag and partly because she was not much liked on the estate (“There’s nothing sacred for that woman!” Mrs. Kráner declared). Mrs. Horgos shook the rain off her coat then, without a word, strode over to the counter. “What will you have?” the landlord coldly asked. “Give me a bottle of beer. It’s hell out there,” Mrs. Horgos croaked. She looked round the bar, hard-eyed, not out of curiosity, it seemed, but as if she had arrived just in time to bear witness to a crime. Her gaze finally settled on Halics. She flashed her red toothless gums and remarked to the landlord. “They seem to be having a fine time.” Scorn radiated from her wrinkled crow’s face, the water still dripping from a coat that seemed to have gathered on her back like a hump. She raised the bottle to her mouth and greedily started drinking. The beer ran over her chin and the landlord watched in disgust as it dribbled from there onto her neck. “Have you seen my daughter?” Mrs. Horgos asked. “The little one.” “No,” the landlord gruffly replied. “She’s not been here.” The woman croaked and spat on the floor. She took a single cigarette from her pocket, lit it, and blew smoke in the landlord’s face. “You know, the thing is,” she said, “we had a bit of a party with Halics yesterday and now the shit doesn’t even have the manners to say hello. I’ve been asleep all day. I wake up this evening and there’s nobody about, not Mari, not Juli, not little Sanyi, not one of them. But never mind that. The little one has skipped off somewhere, I’ll give her a hiding she won’t forget when she turns up. You know how it is.” The landlord didn’t say anything. Mrs. Horgos drained the remainder of the bottle and immediately ordered another. “So she wasn’t here,” she muttered, grimacing. “The little whore!” The landlord curled his toes. “I’m sure she must be somewhere on the farm. She’s not the kind to run away,” he said. “Sure she is!” the woman snapped back. “Fuck her! I hope she gets what’s coming to her, the sooner the better. It’s practically dawn and she’s out in this rain. No wonder I’m so worn out I’m in bed all the time.” “And where have you left the girlies?” Kráner shouted over. “What’s that to do with you?” Mrs. Horgos spat back, full of fury. “They’re my girls!” Kráner grinned. “OK, OK, no need to bite my head off!” “I’m not biting your head off, but you just mind your own business!” It was quiet. Mrs. Horgos turned her back on the drinkers, leaned an elbow on the counter and, tipping her head back, took another great gulp. “I need it for my bad stomach. It’s the only medicine that helps at times like this.” “I know,” the landlord nodded. “Do you want some coffee?” The woman shook her head, “No, I’d be throwing up all night. What good is coffee? Useless!” She picked the bottle up again and drained it to the last drop. “Good night then. I’m off now. If you see any of them tell them to get back home and be quick about it. I’m not going to hang around all night. Not at my age!” She pushed a twenty at the landlord, put away the change and started for the door. “Tell the girlies there’s no hurry — tell them to take their time,” Kráner laughed behind her back. Mrs. Horgos muttered something and spat once on the floor by way of goodbye as the landlord opened the door for her. Halics, who was still a regular at the farm, didn’t even “spare her a glance of his beady eye” because ever since he had woken he had been staring at the empty bottle in front of him and was only concerned about discovering whether someone had been playing tricks on him. He scanned the pub with eagle eyes and settling finally on the landlord, decided to watch the man like a hawk and to expose him at the earliest opportunity for the scoundrel he was. He closed his eyes again and let his head fall to his chest because he was incapable of remaining conscious for more than a few minutes at a time before sleep overcame him. “Almost dawn,” noted Mrs. Kráner. “I have a feeling they’re not coming.” If only!” muttered the landlord, wiping his brow as he went round with a thermos full of coffee. “Don’t panic,” Kráner retorted. “They’ll come when they are good and ready.” “Of course,” added Futaki. “It won’t be long now, you’ll see.” He took slow sips of his steaming coffee, touched his drying shirt, then lit a cigarette and fell to wondering what Irimiás would do once he got here. The pumps and generators could certainly do with a complete overhaul for a start. The whole engine room needed a new coat of lime-wash and the windows and doors would have to be repaired because there was such a draught there it gave you headache all the time. It wouldn’t be easy, of course, because the buildings were in a poor state, the gardens overrun by weeds, and people had carried away anything usable from the old industrial building leaving nothing but the bare walls so it looked like a bombed site. But there is no such word as “can’t” for Irimiás! And then of course you’d need luck, because there’s no point in anything without luck! But luck comes with intelligence! And Irimiás’s mind was sharp as a razor. Even back then, Futaki recalled with a smile, when he was appointed boss of the works, it was to him everyone ran in case of trouble, the managers too, because, as Petrina said at the time, Irimiás was “an angel of hope to hopeless people with hopeless difficulties.” But there was nothing to be done with bottomless stupidity: no wonder he walked away in the end. And the moment he vanished things ran straight-downhill and the community plunged to ever lower depths. First cold and ice, then foot-and-mouth disease with piles of dead sheep, then wages a week late because there wasn’t enough money to pay them, . . . though by the time it got to that state everyone was saying it was all over, and that they’d have to shut up shop. And that’s what happened. Those who had somewhere to go cleared off as fast as they could; those who didn’t stayed behind. And so began the quarrels, the arguments, the hopeless plans where everyone knew better than anyone else what should be done, or else pretended that nothing had happened. Eventually everyone was resigned to the sense of helplessness, hoping for miracles, watching the clock with ever greater anxiety, counting the weeks and months until even time lost its importance and they sat about all day in the kitchen, getting a few pennies from here and there that they immediately drank away in the bar. Latterly he himself had got used to staying in the old engine room, only leaving it to call at the bar or round at the Schmidts’ place. Like the others, he no longer believed that anything could change. He had resigned himself to staying here for the rest of his life because there was nothing he could do about it. Could an old head like his set itself to anything new? That was how he had thought but no longer: that was all over now. Irimiás would be here soon “to shake things up good and proper” . . . He twisted and turned excitedly in his chair because more than once he seemed to hear someone trying to open the door, but he told himself to calm down (Patience! Patience . . . ’) and asked the landlord for another cup of coffee. Futaki was not alone: the excitement was tangible everywhere in the bar, particularly when Kráner looked
out through the glazed door and ceremonially declared: “It’s getting lighter at the horizon’, at which point everyone suddenly came to life, the wine started flowing again, and Mrs. Kráner’s voice rose over the rest, shouting: “What is this? A funeral?!” Swinging her enormous hips she took a turn around the bar ending up in front of Kerekes. “You there! Wake up! Play us something on your accordion!” The farmer raised his head and gave a great belch. “Talk to the landlord. It’s his instrument, not mine.” “Hey, landlord!” Mrs. Kráner shouted. “Where’s your accordion?” “Got it, just bringing it . . .” he muttered, disappearing into the storeroom. “But then you’ll really have to drink.” He made his way to the food shelves, took out the cobweb-covered instrument, gave it a perfunctory clean, then holding it across his lap, took it over to Kerekes. “Careful now! She’s a bit temperamental . . .” Kerekes waved him away, put his shoulders through the straps, ran his hands over the keys of the instrument, then leaned forward to finish his glass. “So where’s the wine?!” Mrs. Kráner was swaying around in the middle of the room with her eyes closed. “Go on, bring him a bottle!” she harried the landlord, and stamped her foot impatiently. “What’s with you, you lazy scum! Don’t fall asleep on me!” She put her hands on her hips and upbraided the laughing menfolk. “Cowards! Worms! Haven’t any of you the guts to take a turn with me?!” Halics was not going to be called a coward by anyone and leapt to his feet, pretending not to hear his wife calling (‘You stay where you are!’). He bounded up to Mrs. Kráner. “Time for a tango!” he cried and straightened his back. Kerekes didn’t even give them a glance so Halics simply grabbed Mrs. Kráner by the waist and started dancing. The others cleared a space for them, clapping, cheering, and encouraging them, so not even Schmidt could stop himself laughing because they did present a truly irresistible spectacle, Halics, at least a head shorter than his partner, cavorting around Mrs. Kráner while she swung those enormous hips of hers without moving her feet. It was as if a wasp had got into Halics’s shirt and he was trying to get it out. The first