‘What kind of car was that?’
‘Big and black.’
‘It didn’t stop either, did it?’
‘Well, no.’
In his humming, compassion dwelt. He thawed a little, and became friendlier.
The unruly beast was an off-road vehicle. A kind of jeep. But mostly, an old-timer. The decay had faded its deceased, green colour to yellow-grey. Its tarp was held together by dozens of patches, and memories. Its front fenders were curvy like the red-blonde’s ass in the gym – just bigger. The beak-like hood curled forward in a cone shape. I played with the idea, of how the red-blonde would look leaning on it? Nohow. The hood would be high for her. She could lean just on her forearms.
I could not start the engine after umpteen attempts. I changed place with the Marx. He succeeded first time. Then he explained how I should do it. He exhorted to me that I should connect the battery to the charger at the forester’s cottage to keep enough soufflé in it; otherwise, walking would remain the only option for me.
During our route to the cottage, he explained to me, how I should maintain the car. I realized that if I wanted to establish a long-lasting relationship with this machine, then I had to attend an instant vehicle mechanic course urgently.
The forester’s cottage was a hut on the summit, in the middle of a hardly larger glade. The straight-trunked beeches overshadowed it with love, as if it were a tiny companion among themselves.
