There were many at Švraka’s inn that night, it’s a village and everybody comes, father, son and grandson, and what’s even worse, daughters also crawl around, putting straws into beer bottles and then hiding somewhere behind, as if there was no-one behind, as if nothing could be seen nor heard, as if anything could be hidden at all. There was a musician from Zrenjanin, a man-orchestra in a gray jacket which the firm had provided him with in order for him not to appear at anniversaries and celebrations looking like a scrag, he had a guitar and a small amplifier, and he was yelling that Keka’s got young girls who do anything for money, hardly anybody was listening, some of them were looking in the direction of a Slovenian television, two channels, the first or the second, most often the first
