Europe in Winter (The Fractured Europe Sequence)(6)

He held his phone so he could see it over Amanda’s shoulder – she was a little taller than he was – and dialled a number, touched call to arm the device implanted in her belly. She’d carried it for so long, so stoically. She had never faltered. His heart swelled with love and pride for her.

The alarm on his phone started to beep. He dialled another number, hovered his thumb over call.

He said, “I love you so much.”

She hugged him tighter. “Oh, sweetheart...”

He touched call.

For a fraction of a second, before the top of the mountain blew off in an explosion which was heard in Kyiv and detected by a college seismology experiment in Vermont, both ends of the tunnel jetted a plume of plasma as hot as the corona of the Sun.





1.





THE HUNGARIANS CAME into the restaurant around nine in the evening, eight large men with gorgeously-tailored suits and hand-stitched Italian shoes and hundred-z?oty haircuts. Micha?, the maitre d’, tried to tell them that there were no tables free unless they had a reservation, but they walked over to one of the large tables and sat down. One of them plucked the Reserved card from the middle of the tablecloth and sailed it out across the restaurant, causing other diners to duck.

Instead of calling the police – which would at very least have resulted in a brawl and massive property damage – Max, the owner, seized a notepad and set off across the restaurant to take the Hungarians’ orders. This show of confidence did not prevent a number of diners signalling frantically for their bills.

The Hungarians were already boisterous, and shouted and laughed at Max while he tried to take their orders, changing their minds frequently and causing Max to start all over again. Finally, he walked back from the table to the bar, where Gosia was standing frozen with fear.

“Six bottles of ?Zubrówka, on the house,” he murmured calmly to the girl as he went by towards the kitchen. “And try to be nimble on your feet.”

Rudi, who had been standing in the kitchen doorway watching events with interest, said, “Something awful is going to happen, Max.”

“Cook,” Max replied, handing him the order. “Cook quickly.”

By ten o’clock the Hungarians had loosened their ties and taken off their jackets and were singing and yelling at each other and laughing at impenetrable jokes. They had completed three courses of their five-course order. They were alone in the restaurant. With most of the meal completed, Rudi told the kitchen crew they could go home.

At one point, one of the Hungarians, an immense man with a face the colour of barszcz, began shouting at the others. He stood up, swaying gently, and yelled at his compatriots, who goodnaturedly yelled at him to sit down again. Sweat pouring down his face, he turned, grasped the back of a chair from the next table, and in one easy movement pivoted and flung it across the room. It crashed into the wall and smashed a sconce and brought down a mirror.

There was a moment’s silence. The Hungarian stood looking at the dent in the wallpaper, frowning. Then he sat down and one of his friends poured him a drink and slapped him on the back and Max served the next course.

As the hour grew late the Hungarians became maudlin. They put their arms around each others’ shoulders and began to sing songs that waxed increasingly sad as midnight approached.

Rudi, his cooking finished for the night and the kitchen tidied up and cleaned, stood in the doorway listening to their songs. The Hungarians had beautiful voices. He didn’t understand the words, but the melodies were heart-achingly lonely.

One of the Hungarians saw him standing there and started to beckon urgently. The others turned to see what was going on, and they too started to beckon.

“Go on,” Max said from his post by the bar.

“You’re joking,” said Rudi.

“I am not,” Max told him. “Go and see what they want.”

“And if they want to beat me up?”

“They’ll soon get bored.”

“Thank you, Max,” Rudi said, setting off across the restaurant.

The Hungarians’ table looked as if someone had dropped a five-course meal onto it from ceiling height. The floor around it was crunchy with broken glass and smashed crockery, the carpet sticky with sauces and bits of trodden-in food.

“You cook?” said one in appalling Polish as Rudi approached.

“Yes,” said Rudi, balancing his weight on the balls of his feet just in case he had to move in a hurry.

The Polish-speaker looked like a side of beef sewn into an Armani Revival suit. His face was pale and sweaty. He crooked a forefinger the size of a sausage. Rudi bent down until their faces were only a couple of centimetres apart.

“Respect!” the Hungarian bellowed. Rudi flinched at the meaty spicy alcohol-and-tobacco gale of his breath. “Everywhere we go, this f*ck city, not respect!”

This statement seemed to require a reply, so Rudi said, “Oh?”

“Not respect,” the Hungarian said, shaking his head sadly. His expression suddenly brightened. “Here, Restaurant Max, we got respect!”

“We always respect our customers,” Max murmured, moving soundlessly up beside Rudi.

“Fuck right!” the Hungarian said loudly. “Fuck right. Restaurant Max more respect.”

“And your meal?” Max inquired, smiling.