Jenő also drank the coffee with Chantré. Me too. In the morning the unopened bottle was at its end by noon. The reason can be attributed to my second private spirits swigger who came to see me regarding my injury. In theory, Jenő came for patient visiting. In fact, he was using me like a soul trash bin – if it would be possible to talk of the soul in Jenő’s case. He just casually mentioned that at the end of last month, he had left the police – not quite voluntarily, but by mutual agreement and with immediate effect. I had already known that. Now, he wanted to ask advice in connection with a woman. He consistently called her Pussynella. He was not who arrested her, but he had something to do with the case. It seemed, besides the usual jazz desire, she plucked deeper chords within him. He had just not realised it. But I did. In addition, it became apparent he also has soul just like everyone else. The woman was convicted with top speed because of the incidents in Manwareham in May. At first instance she got eight years prison. At second instance, twelve. Until now, Jenő had corresponded with her. If it had not been clear so far that he was emotionally upside down, then it would have been obvious now. Even writing a text message was too strenuous for him. Last Sunday, he went to her. The woman’s lawyer had arranged that for him. Regarding the lawyer it is enough to know that, in the case of his clients, it was not a question of whether they got a life imprisonment or not. The question is always whether his clients are ever released, or if after twenty-five years they might be put on probation. Now, Jenő tried to persuade me to arrange an extraordinary visit for him. I could not promise it to him. I was lame, suspended, and my only contact at the National Prison Service was called – not by chance – Bellatrix.