He worked with the old snail oil expertly, oiling each and every link on the five-meter-long silver chain again and again. He wore a sweater so stained that no amount of washing would ever get it clean. His skin was sensitive to the blade, yet he shaved each and every morning. His neck was always red and covered in pimples; Hugó was looking at this redness now. It wasn’t how Hugó had pictured farmers; he had always imagined them as having beards, or at least light stubble. Why should they care about their facial hair, or their lack thereof, when they had no boss to answer to, only nature and the land? Hugó’s face was stubbly now, even though he was usually meticulously clean-shaven on workdays. As part of the higher brass of a multinational oil company he couldn’t afford the luxury of looking shabby.

Still, as he nodded to the rhythm of Gergő’s nodding, a certain formless anger built up in him against things that make life tougher for the farmers. For what is Hungarian life if not the sweet nurturing of the motherland, the preservation of traditions, the production of iconic Hungarian goods? These are the real heroes, he always thought while looking over the account numbers at the firm; these farmers were the flesh and bones of the country, not office drones like himself. Oh, how he longed to be among them every weekday when he looked out his office window. And now, finally, he was here. He was paying for it by the week, but finally he and his family could get a slice of the farmers’ life.

‘It sure is tough,’ Hugó said, to reassure his host of his full agreement.

‘Through the links as well,’ Gergő said, watching Hugó’s movements as the city man used the oil-dripping rag on the chain. ‘You have to pull the smaller rag across them, and then through the middle too, so the oil gets dispersed everywhere. Every link has to be well oiled. It has to get inside the metal, be one with the chain’s spirit.’

Hugó nodded and wiped his hand anxiously on the North Face sweater which he otherwise used for hiking. When they were packing for this holiday he acknowledged with a sense of guilt that he only owned clothes for business, sports, and the theater; he had never bought any sort of actual workwear. Now he was staining one of his most expensive sweaters, bought specifically for the annual Austrian skiing season. He saw it as a sort of self-punishment, but he knew he would buy a new one soon anyway. He plunged the rag into the bucket full of snail oil and crammed it through the first link of the silver chain. There were a dozen chains in the garage altogether.

‘Chains are getting more expensive as well,’ Gergő said. ‘There are no state subsidies for silver like in the old days.’

Hugó nodded again, then began to speak.