“You know something?” Jessie said, interrupting. “I was once a barkeep. In my country, it’s considered you’re in the hospitality business.” A trace of heat crept into her voice as she spoke. “Now I’m sorry your fancy degree didn’t get you a fancy job, and it just tears me up that your kids prefer MTV to whatever Magyar hootenannies you got for them, but—”

“Honey,” Janson interjected, with a warning tone. “We’d better hit the road now. It’s getting late.” With a firm hand on her elbow, he escorted her out the door. As they stepped into the sun, they saw an old man seated on a canvas folding chair on the porch, a look of amusement in his eyes. Had he been there when they arrived? Perhaps so; something about the old man blended into the scenery, as if he were a piece of nondescript furniture.

Now the old man tapped the side of his head, the sign for “loco.” His eyes were smiling. “My son is a frustrated man,” he said equably. “He wants to ruin me. You see the customers? A Ruthenian. A Palóc. They don’t have to listen to him talk. No Magyar would come anymore. Why pay to listen to his sourness?” He had the uncreased, porcelain complexion of certain elderly people, whose skin, thinned but not coarsened by age, acquires an oddly delicate appearance. His large head was fringed with white hair, scarcely more than wisps, and his eyes were a cloudy blue. He rocked back and forth gently in his chair, his smile unwavering. “But Gyorgy is right about one thing. The people around here have suffered too much to be civil.”

“Except you,” Jessie said.

“I like Americans,” the old man said.

“Aren’t you the sweetest,” Jessie returned.

“It’s the Slovaks and the Romanians who can go hang themselves. Also the Germans and the Russians.”

“I guess you’ve seen some hard times,” Jessie said.

“I never had Ruthenians in the bar when I was running things.” He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like those people,” he added, softly. “They’re lazy and insolent and do nothing but complain, all day long.”

“You should hear what they say about you,” she said, leaning in toward him.

“Em?”

“I bet the bar was packed when you were running things. I bet there were lots of ladies flocking there especially.”

“Now why would you think that?”

“A good-looking guy like you? I got to spell it out? Bet you still get yourself in a heap of trouble with the ladies.” Jessie knelt down beside the old man. His smile grew wider; such proximity to a beautiful woman was to be savored.

“I do like Americans,” the old man said. “More and more.”

“And Americans like you,” Jessie said, taking his forearm and squeezing it gently. “At least this one does.”