In the garden of the hotel "Vojvodina" we finish our third beer, dipping the fries, staked on burned matches (the karafindl lacked toothpicks, it seems), into the ground pepper. Salt is already there, and the extra sulphur and phosphorus are good for you. Perhaps Sleš was with us that evening, perhaps it was T.T. with whom we went once to try for more beer and brandy (see Borsalino). And, amazingly, we weren't sitting at the riverside remote corner, but halfway between the entrance and the band, close to the dance stage (which wasn't elevated, just a part where they put no tables).
About T.T. we later heard that, by the end of the evening, he got so drunk that he got up, went out in a moderately straight line, slapping himself and muttering to himself „you drunk hungarchino, scram home“.
We want to hail the waiter for the fourth beer. Not in evidence anywhere. Had we walked without paying, one would materialize instantly, but we already paid so far. Well, if we did anything untoward... (... 12 words...) No waiter anywhere. Half the audience applauds her. (... 12 words...)