Mercedes Test Drive

At nine in the morning, when I found myself still in deep sleep, Milena came. She apologized profusely, that it was so early, but she simply had to, because she was so unnerved. Her husband, Mr. B, left yesterday suddenly to his brother, who was attacked and bitten up by some dogs. 

Most likely Mr. B’s brother would have to test for rabies, and so Mr. B would have to sit there for three or four days. Milena and I ate breakfast, because mainly on account of Bronco, who liked to eat a lot and well, I had at my house a decent store of great product. 

Everything was very tasty for Milena. She told me later that since yesterday morning she hadn’t eaten anything, she was so nervous. She had wanted to come to me in the evening, but saw that no light was on. I told her not to worry and not to be nervous, because I prepared for her for today a very rich program. 

Before three she would participate in a trial of speed, then, around seven, I invited her to the best restaurant in town, and then, if we can, we’ll go to a super concert. She was excited and very intrigued. I, once, only for a moment, left to the Mercedes that wasn’t mine and checked the oil level—it was normal. 

Before three we left the house. Milena was very surprised when I opened before her the doors to the car. After a moment we were on the road. 

On the way I ordered above all to fill the tank with the most expensive gasoline. In a direction southwest from town began a normal two-lane highway, then and for a long time still the only one in the country, built even by Hitler. 

We were headed there. In this time really nowhere was there a speed limit. Other than sometimes on so-called turns of death, and every place boasted having one, rarely were there signs for a speed limit, which no one really abided by anyway, and in a good vein those turns were taken at maximum speed anyway. 

It was another matter that cars, mostly on account of a very bad technological state and weak power, exploited to the limits of possibility during the last war, often incredibly lagged on. On the roads went mostly models from the thirties, and even the twenties, cars produced post-war were rarely met. 

Of the new models, awakening fear, sometimes passed the favored automobile of Marseillan gangsters, the Citreon BL-11, in which drove around the secret police, sometimes some strange post-war model BMW, made probably in East Germany, in which drove around party apparatchiks. 

The militia, in addition to horse carts, bicycles, and motorcycles, made use of Soviet and American makes of demobilized Jeeps, ministry and the government used Chevrolets, first the Fleetmaster, and then the Deluxe. 

Sometimes you could meet some Fiat of post-war production, a Skode or even Land Rover, in which drove administrators. Statistically it was unknown how many people there were for each automobile, definitely not three, but closer to several dozen or even several thousand, however all the statistics, for propaganda-political reasons or at the behest of directives from Moscow, were simply methodically and purposefully falsified. 

For now in the country the most popular carriage was the horse cart. Just as I had predicted, the highway was almost completely empty when it came to automobiles, filled instead with peasant vehicles, which not only moved slowly, but also were not able to abide by any kind of rules of the road. 

I drove very quickly, but I turned on accidentally the uncovered additional horn that made a loud noise like an emergency siren, so that from a great distance everybody knew that I was coming. 

The carriages, in great haste escaping to the side, cleared the road for me. Often for a split second I saw the frightened drivers, who associated such speed exclusively with the speed of the anti-Christ, making the sign of the cross. 

Most likely, which because of my speed I could not ascertain visually, many of them did this three times, because in the context of the famous, finished not long ago WISŁA action, compulsorily and without any discussion settled in these parts many repatriates of Greek Catholic conviction, and even Orthodox from the southeastern region of this large country. 

I dreamt of a trial of speed, which however in these conditions I was in no way able to conduct. I knew well that my, or our, death would not be any romantic-exotic crash of the not mine Mercedes with for example an Isotta-Fraschini, a Packard or a Rolls-Royce, but a crash with a normal, driven by a troglodyte peasant, horse cart or death in a skid on account of the thick layer of horse dung throughout the entire paved road. 

After some twenty some kilometers I noticed that the return road was almost empty. On our side the people were probably returning from some bazaar, indulgence or the devil knows what else. 

When at the nearest reverse I executed a so-called u-turn, we decided that here the situation looked pretty good. The Mercedes, in contrast to most of the cars then, which were three-geared, had four gears. 

Very easily I reached the appropriate speed, and with the help of the black handle, located on a rather long steel rod protruding from the floor, turned on the fourth gear. The automobile sped ever faster, and we, looking ahead of us, took in this speed. 

When for a second I looked away from the completely empty road and glanced at the speedometer, it read 165 kilometers an hour. I thought that almost everyone after such a discovery would try to slow down. 

The engine, somewhat wailing, worked straight, and I felt that I had still a large reserve of power. When I pressed more on the gas pedal, I read on the speedometer 170, and in a moment 175 kilometers an hour. Never to this time in my life had I driven at such a speed. 

Milena was delighted, as a former circus artist, she felt and loved risk. It was approaching four thirty when we were back.