I looked at Koster; we both knew it would need a miracle before we could offer anything.
And there are no miracles these days. He would go under most likely.
The man talked and talked like a man in a high fever.
The sale was over and we were now alone in the yard.
He gave us some tips about starting it in winter.
Again and again he kept going to the car. At last he was silent.
"Now come, Albert," said the woman.
We shook hands with him, and they went.
We waited until they were out of sight, and then started the car.
As we passed down the street we saw a little old woman with a parrot-cage in her arms warding off a group of children.
Koster pulled up.
"Like a lift?" he asked her.
"In these days?
I've no money to go gadding about in taxis!"
"You don't need any," said Otto. "To-day's my birthday and I am driving for fun."
She held on to her cage suspiciously.
"But it will cost something afterwards?"
He reassured her and at last she got in.
"What did you buy the parrot for, Mother?" said I as she was getting out.
"For the nights," said she. "Do you think the food is very expensive?"
"No," said I; "but why for nights?"
"He can talk, you see," she replied, looking at me with clear aged eyes. "Now there will always be someone there who will talk."
"Ach, so," said I.
The baker came during the afternoon to collect his Ford.
He looked grey and sour.
I was alone in the yard.
"Do you like the colour?" I asked.
"So so," said he and looked at it dubiously.
"The upholstery looks well."
"Certainly. . . ."
He still hung around, apparently unable to make up his mind to go. I expected him to try to screw something out of us—a jack, an ash-tray or some such.
But it proved otherwise.
He shuffled about for some time, examining this thing and that thing; then he looked at me with his bloodshot eyes and said:
"And just think— only a few weeks ago she was sitting there, alive and happy. . . ."
I was surprised to find him suddenly so sentimental, and guessed that the flashy little Jane he had with him last time was already beginning to get on his nerves.
"She was a good wife," he went on; "a jewel, I might say.
She never wanted a thing.
Ten years she wore the same coat.
Blouses and so on she made all herself.
And the housework—no maid."
Aha, thought I, the new one doesn't, that's obvious.
He told me how economical his wife had been.
It was extraordinary how deeply the memory of money saved affected this skittles addict.
She did not even let herself be photographed—cost too much.
He had only one picture of the wedding group, and a few snaps.
That gave me an idea.
"You ought to get somebody to paint a real slap-up portrait of her," said I. "Then you'd have something for always.
Photographs fade in time.
There's a painter up here who does that sort of thing."
I explained to him Ferdinand Grau's activities.