End of the Evening

It approached three at night, when I entered the Mercedes that wasn’t mine, parked in the early evening before going to the hotel. 

It started raining with some snow or hail and it was horribly cold. 

The whole time I wasn’t sure if after eight hours of standing in this temperature and weather I would be able to start the engine. 

Somewhere in my deep sub-conscious I even wanted a little for it not to start, because I could then use the crank, and this ritual, repeatedly observed from early childhood, I always considered as a great attraction. 

I was even arranging already in my head the order of activities, which in such a situation had to be absolutely obeyed. Above all, which I normally never did, I had to apply the hand breaks and throw the car into neutral. 

I always left the car on the gear, no matter which one, but mainly on the one which I had just finished driving. 

Further I had to put in and turn the key, turning on the same ignition, maximally pulling the pincer stroke, taking the crank, getting out of the car, making sure at the same time that the doors don’t by chance lock me out, and to effect keep turning. 

When the engine started up, I had to get into the car and slowly eliminating the stroke, with moderation and sensitivity begin to press on the gas pedal, freeing the hand break—and I could ride. The crank was a power. 

Unfortunately from the first turn of the key the engine started. I parked the car in the garden near the terrace. 

For a very long time I couldn’t fall asleep. 

Every tune and melody, of which today I had plenty, tumbled around in my poor head. I considered also, if Sokal’s wife her penal expedition in the company of the two-meter taxi cab driver she would carry out today, a Saturday, or wait until tomorrow.