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ÖDÖN VON HORVÁT H
a jump seat. It already had eighty-four thousand kilometers on it, a few dozen breakdowns, and two life-threatening injuries. A geriatric. And yet Kobler found a buyer. He was a cheese-merchant from Rosenheim by the name of Portschinger. A tall and enthusiastic fat man. He had already made a down payment of three hundred Reichsmarks back in mid-August, giving his word that he would come back to pick up the geriatric by mid-September at the latest, at which time he would promptly bring the remaining six hundred Reichsmarks in cash. This is how keen he was to secure this extraordinarily good bargain. And that is why he kept his word. In mid-September he arrived on schedule in Schellingstrasse and reported to Herr Kobler. In his company was his friend Adam Mauerer, whom he had brought along all the way from Rosenheim because, as this Adam had owned a little tax-exempt motorcycle since 1925, he regarded him as an expert. Herr Portschinger had actually only gotten his driver’s license two days before, and as he was by no means a cocky man he now realized that he was still a long way away from fully unlocking the secrets of the engine. After taking a really close look at the convertible the expert was simply ecstatic. “That’s a jump seat!” he screamed. “A wonderful jump seat! An upholstered jump seat! The jump seat par excellence! Buy it, you oaf!” The oaf bought it on the spot as though the remaining six hundred Reichsmarks were a mere trifle. He then took his leave while Kobler inspected the authenticity of the bills. “Well, then, Herr Kobler, if you ever come to Rosenheim, be sure to drop by. My wife would be thrilled. You’ve got to tell her the story later about the prelate, you know, the one