men?!. . Where were the men around here, except him? Schmidt with his stinking feet? Futaki with his gammy leg and soaked trousers? The landlord — this thing here, with his potbelly, rotten teeth and foul breath? She was familiar with “all the filthy beds in the district” but she had never met one man to compare with Irimiás, before or since. “The miserable faces of these miserable people! What are they doing here? The same piercing, unbearable stench everywhere, even in the walls. How come I’m here? In this fetid swamp. What a dump it is! What a bunch of filthy polecats!” “Ah well,” sighed Halics, “what can you do, that Schmidt is one lucky son of a bitch.” He gazed lustfully at the woman’s broad shoulders, her substantial thighs, her black hair wound into a knot, and that beautiful vast bosom delicious even under a thick coat, not to mention in the imagination. . (He gets up to offer her a glass of pálinka. And then? Then, they get to talking, and he asks her to marry him. But you’re already married, she says. No matter, he answers.) The landlord put another glass of pálinka down in front of Mrs. Schmidt, and while she drank it off in little sips her mouth filled with saliva. Mrs. Halics’s back was covered in gooseflesh. There could be no more doubt that the landlord had given her another glass of pálinka, though she hadn’t asked for it, and that she had drunk it. “Now they’re lovers!” She closed her eyes so no one else should see what she felt. Fury and frustration ran through her veins from head to toe. This time she all but lost control. She felt trapped because there was nothing she could do against them; after all it was not just that they were “constantly mouthing off” but that she had to sit here helplessly while they went about their wicked affairs. But suddenly a great light brightened her terrible darkness — she could have sworn it was a beam directly from heaven — and she inwardly cried out: “I am a sinner!” She grabbed her Bible in panic and, lips moving silently, but screaming inside, she instinctively started mouthing the Our Father. “By morning?” the driver cried. “It can’t have been later than seven, half-past seven at most, when I met them at the fork in the road, and, OK. . I did the journey in, let’s say, three or four hours, though the horses often had to slow down to walking pace in that mud, so for them, four or five hours might be enough shall we say?!” The landlord raised a finger. “It will be the morning at least, you wait and see. The road is full of ridges and potholes! The old road leads directly here, of course, it’s straight as an arrow, but they’d have to come by the metalled road. And the metalled road goes a long way around, it’s like having to skirt an ocean. Don’t even bother to argue: I am from these parts myself.” Kelemen could hardly keep his eyes open by now, and was reduced to waving and leaning his head on the counter, where he pretty soon fell asleep. At the back of the room Kerekes slowly raised his terrifying shaven head, covered in the scars of old injuries, his dreams practically nailing him to the “billiards table.” He listened to the driving rain for a few minutes, rubbed his numb thighs, gave a shudder on account of the cold then turned on the landlord. “Dumb ass! Why is that fucking stove not working?!” The obscenity had a certain effect. “Fair enough,” added Mrs. Halics: “It’d be nice to have a bit of warmth.” The landlord lost his temper. “Tell me, honestly, what are you gabbing on about? What!? This isn’t a waiting room. It’s a bar!” Kerekes rounded on him: “If it’s not warm in here in ten minutes, I’ll wring your neck!” “OK, OK. What’s the point of shouting?” the landlord caved in, then looked over to Mrs. Schmidt and gave her a cheesy grin. “What time is it?” The landlord glanced at his watch. “Eleven. Twelve at most. We’ll know when the others arrive.” “What others?” asked Kerekes. “I’m just saying.” The farmer leaned on the “billiards table,” gave a yawn, and reached for his glass. “Who’s taken my wine?” he asked in a flat voice. “You spilled it.” “You’re lying, you dumb ass.” The landlord spread his palms, “No, really, you did spill it.” “Then bring me another.” The smoke slowly billowed across the tables and in the distance they heard the sound — now there, now gone — of furious barking. Mrs. Schmidt sniffed the air. “What’s that smell? It wasn’t there before,” she asked, startled. “It’s just the spiders. Or the oil,” the landlord replied in unctuous tones, and knelt down by the stove to light it. Mrs. Schmidt shook her head. She put her nose to her trench coat and sniffed it both in and out, then the chair, then got down on her knees and proceeded to inquire further. Her face was practically up against the floor when she suddenly stood up straight and declared, “It’s an earth smell.”