The high school boys were too busy peering down at the monokinied college girls sunbathing along the river to notice the smart but unfashionable fifty-something lady crossing the bridge. They didn't notice, that is, until she stopped about ten meters away and pulled something thick and long from her Moroccan leather bag and with an unceremonious flick tossed it into the Tisza.
"Check it out," one of them commented. "That old hen just dropped her dildo into the river! Musta hit menopause!"
They of course had not heard the conversation between Mari and her mother just before Mari left to catch the 10:47 to Újszeged (otherwise she'd have to take the 1:47, which wouldn't leave her enough time, and there are so few trains - they're forgetting about the villages these days). Mari tried to explain that it was against regulations for visitors to bring food, but Julia insisted that she take the salami, because who knows what they might be feeding him and whatever happened he's still her grandson, even if he's too much like his grandfather (but at least he never hurt anyone, at least not like that).
Mari took the salami.
"He was very grateful," she lied when she returned that evening on the 6:47. "He's really quite well."
She would regularly try to sort out what she had done wrong, but could never manage anything more than a vague sense that it was everything.
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