Love Is Pink!

“Have you lost your marbles?” David yelled.

“There was a sign.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Right. You were too busy insulting me.”

“I was insulting you? I thought you didn’t want to speak any French because it’s beneath you and German is a superior language.”

“How can one language be better than another?” I said, infuriated. “That’s complete nonsense. I’d never say something like that!”

“Then why don’t you speak any French?”

I bent forward and strained to find another sign that would point the way to the service station. “I don’t speak French because I can’t,” I said quietly. David acted as though he hadn’t heard me.

“There’s another billboard with a car on it!” Emma said.

This time the black arrow under “Garage Automobile” pointed to an entrance ramp. David braked abruptly and turned in perhaps a bit too fast. We made it about two meters, then experienced such a loud bang that I thought that our car had split in two. An ear-piercing screech bored into my eardrum as the muffler dragged across the cobblestone pavement.

David stepped hard on the brakes. The engine died with an explosion.

The Citro?n edged forward a bit, and then stopped moving altogether.

The car silenced, and I became aware of another sound—unexpected but familiar. The last time I’d heard it was at the Wagner Festival in Bayreuth. Valentin and I had treated ourselves to a seven-hour opera extravaganza, interrupted by two intermissions with champagne and exotic finger foods—and, consequently, a very urgent trip to the restroom. Some small sacrifices were worth the culture that one was able to enjoy there.

And here, in this courtyard, I again encountered that king of composers, that master of sounds who represents the apex of musical evolution. In short: Richard Wagner.

“Ride of the Valkyries” surged triumphantly from several speakers. Compared to that, our banging engine sounded more like a lame champagne cork.

We stepped out of the Citro?n and beheld three car hoists—two of which held cars—countless tools, and a plethora of replacement parts. At the front of the courtyard was a mechanic in blue overalls, his back to us. His gray hair reached his shoulders. He’d stretched out his arms and was holding monkey wrenches in both hands. He was the conductor, the wrenches his batons.

His movements were short, precise, and frighteningly professional. With the swelling of the crescendo he became increasingly enveloped in a state of creative ecstasy. The monkey wrenches swished through the air, and his short, fat body hopped with every movement he made.

The music stopped. Frenetic applause could be heard from the recording. The man lowered the wrenches and bowed deeply.

“Bravo!” called Emma. “Bravo! Bravo!” She clapped frantically with her small hands.

I shot David a questioning, concerned look, which he acknowledged with a shrug.

The mechanic turned around, swept aside his gray mane, and granted us a friendly smile. “Merci,” he said. That French word I knew.

David relaxed. He approached the man, and the two immediately began speaking very quickly in French, making their discussion incomprehensible to me.

The mechanic grasped one of the monkey wrenches and went over to the Citro?n with David. He knelt down and inspected the damage while they continued their detailed discussion. After a bit, the maestro got up and nodded to me. David came to my side.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked. “Can he fix it?”

“This car has been discontinued for decades. So, of course, it’s almost impossible to find replacement parts for it.”

“Does that mean that our trip ends here?”

“No, luckily. This mechanic possesses many varied talents and the ability to weld.” David grinned. “He’s going to figure a way to fix the muffler. It’ll hold until we get home.”

“That’s fantastic.”

David cleared his throat. “There’s only one little problem.”

“What?”

“The whole thing will cost us. Two hundred and fifty euros, to be precise. He can’t do it for less. I’ve already tried to bargain with him.”

“Two hundred and fifty euros? That’s peanuts! I’m sure he’ll be working on that muffler for a long time.”

“That’s true, but—”

“But what?”

David scratched his head and then looked to the side. “I’ve only got about four hundred euros cash on me.”

“You have what?”

“You heard right. Four hundred.”

I didn’t understand what David was trying to tell me. “So, that’s OK. You have enough to pay him. Just withdraw the rest for whatever else we need on the way.”

David cleared his throat again. He looked down at his feet and seemed to be squirming.

The real problem finally dawned on me: David was broke.