A family portrait.

The Rat has only attended Father Pricop's Sunday service half a dozen times in seventeen years. This morning he would have happily slept until noon, breathing in Diamanta's spicy perfume, until that delicious moment when she woke up and tiptoed to the bar, wrapped in his pyjama top, to make coffee for the two of them--had it not been for the realisation that his absence would be very bad for business. After all, he is one of the pillars of his community: the people might feel offended if he didn't show up on such an occasion. Which would mean less custom, less revenue: the inevitable end of his enterprise getting closer ... He is old enough and wise enough to know that everything--no matter how sweet--has to end some time, and that there is more money to be made elsewhere, but after seventeen years he has great trouble imagining himself as anything else but The Rat, innkeeper and confidant, purveyor of cheap dreams, counsellor to the confused, mender of broken hearts, occasional helper to the misfit, and protector of all souls hounded by coppers, by nightmares, by bad memories, or simply by nostalgia.

It is not a mere coincidence that his joint has come to be known as The Church. There is, indeed, a deep and logical connection between his establishment and Father Pricop's. A complementary bond of sorts. Just take a look at this purple Chevrolet pulling over; take a look at the driver (his name is Panait), proudly descending from the car, mixing with Father's congregation, shaking hands, exchanging jokes. Look at him: freshly trimmed goatee, new leather jacket, new set of teeth, voluptuous third wife on one side, three kids on the other. No one, not even Father Pricop, has a clue what poor Panait has had to endure: his humble beginnings, his trouble with the law, his mother dying alone in the old country while he was in Loddon Jail ... That is, no one but The Rat.

He is the sole repository of all this underground pain, insecurity, fear and anguish. Always lending his ear, taking it all in, dispensing absolution in the form of vinjak or a belly-dancer after 10.30 p.m., never asking questions, and never providing advice unless requested to do so. He feels good in this job. It's the only thing he's ever done with a degree of competence. He holds the secret belief that by doing what he does he is playing a humble--but none the less valuable--role in the Big Picture (of which he has never understood much, but which, over the years, he has learned to acknowledge, with a mixture of humility and trust).

He feels tight in this suit, which he hasn't worn since the wedding of Lavinia, Marchizu's youngest daughter. (And what a wedding that was! The Rat had hired three cooks, five waitresses and fifteen chorus girls for the occasion. They had a Gypsy band flown in from Banat, who played non-stop for three consecutive nights. That was five years ago, only three weeks before Marchizu was busted. The streets of the neighbourhood were chock-a-block with undercover coppers, but Marchizu didn't care a bit--on the contrary, he even invited a couple of coppers to join the party. They were sitting in their unmarked car, outside The Rat's Church, and when Marchizu came up to them, and told them to come in for a drink, they got so confused they took off. What a guy! What great times! Golden times, the stuff that everlasting memories are made of.)

A long, hungry yawn escapes from The Rat's chest. He wishes he were behind the bar, right now, sneaking in behind Diamanta's sweet backside, while she's unsuspectedly busying herself with the morning coffee, and giving her the scare of her life.

On the other side of the road, Sava is waiting for the service to start. He is keeping to himself, at a safe distance from the congregation. He looks no happier in his Sunday suit than in his customary overalls, those grey overalls sprayed with paint that he wears whenever he stops by The Rat's Church for a brandy, on his way home from the factory. A loner, that's what he is. A loner, a loser. Some people just are. There's nothing they can do about it: they simply go on driving their second-hand Toyotas, getting their overalls sprayed with paint, and having a sip of brandy every night, to drown the dreariness of it all. No wonder Sava doesn't have a woman by his side. A woman needs excitement, romance, or at least a good time in bed. And any woman throwing a glance in his direction, and seeing him in his dark brown suit, on the other side of the road, pretending to read some community newsletter, would know exactly how much excitement to expect.

"Hey, man, long time no see!" says Panait, grabbing The Rat's shoulder. "Takes a big event to see The Rat in such a religious disposition!"