Emese turned and walked away without a word; she reminded herself to bring along the switchblade next time. She had stolen it from her father two years ago and always promised herself she would keep it in her pocket, just in case. The world is a dangerous place for girls, or so she had heard, and a knife could make it a little safer. Despite the promise, she never actually had the guts to walk around with a knife on her.

‘You’d be better off!’ Feri shouted after her. ‘You’ll regret it if you say no.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Emese muttered under her breath, then bent over to pick up a snail.

The men, Gergő and Hugó, worked in the garage at night, oiling the silver chains.

‘Tourism helps a lot,’ Gergő explained. His voice was flat, always on the verge of sounding bored. ‘And of course, what we sell is ours, and the prices are up. But life gets more expensive year after year too. It gets tougher, expenses run higher. Every year it gets harder.’

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.