November 03, 2003
Catfood and milk
He went to the local shop for milk and catfood. The new sign read "supermarket" but was the same Greissler it had been for a hundred years, typical of any Austrian village: a mom-and-pop market selling everything from mousetraps to lottery tickets, booze and cigarettes, meat and bread.
As was customary in Austria he gave a generic greeting when he entered the store, a "Guten Tag" or "Grüß Gott" and as usual no one greeted him back. It was not clear to him whether this rudeness was due to a hearing problem on the part of staff and other customers, or them being generally unfriendly to everyone, or because he was a relative newcomer to the village, or simply a foreigner. He assumed the latter, but didn't especially care. He liked living in the country, especially now that he had a child, and assumed that rural village ignorance was part of the price one paid to live there.
He walked past the mirrored displays of wrinkled oranges and bright green bananas to the pet food rack. Then, his shopping bag stocked with cans of cat food Alan went over to the dairy case and began looking at the various milk cartons, searching for the freshest ones. Crouched down low reaching into the back of the cooler, he became aware that someone was standing close by. He looked up and saw an old man, hardly larger than a boy but stooped with age, wearing a suit he must have purchased thirty years before, and heavy shoes.
"They're terrible crooks," the man said. "Selling the old milk like that. I've ruined more coffee that way."
Pendelton took two cartons from the very back of the cooler, placed them in his shopping bag and stood up, his head a little light for a few seconds from standing up so quickly. "The big stores are just as bad," he said noncommittally.
"Do you think so? I assumed it was because small shops such as this one don't get the prices a big supermarket surely does, so they have the choice between cutting corners and going out of business."
The old man had the brightest blue eyes Alan had seen in years. "My name is Weiss," he said.
Alan shook his hand and introduced himself. He noticed the old cashier watching him suspiciously as he spoke to Weiss. He wondered if Weiss was as much an outsider as he himself was.
"Can I help you load that into your car?" he asked, pointing to the case of mineral water in the old man's cart.
"You're very kind," Weiss said. "I'll take you up on that."
The two men paid for their groceries and Alan pushed everything out in Weiss's cart. "Where's your car?" he asked.
"It's just a bicycle, but it's enough for me," Weiss said. He'd hitched a small trailer to an old black bicycle and Alan loaded it up for him. Weiss thanked him and pushed the bike, walking alongside Alan as he headed home. The clouds were clearing and it was suddenly a beautiful morning.
They walked for a while. Alan said nothing. He supposed there was something more Weiss meant to say, but nothing was forthcoming. Beneath the horse chestnut tree, Alan crouched down and gathered up some chestnuts.
"My daughter likes to collect these," he explained.
"How old is she?"
"Two," he said. "Or nearly so."
"You're a musician, aren't you?" Weiss then said. "A violinist."
Alan assumed that, being new in town, village gossip about him was still rather lively, and he said something to that effect.
"I suppose so," Weiss said, "but they wouldn't have talked to me. I'm a bit of an anomaly, so they keep their distance. You surely know how that is."
Alan said he did. "So how did you know?"
"I can tell from the way you move, is all. The posture, the attitude."
"Interesting. So are you a musician?"
"Not really. Just observant." He leaned over and picked up a chestnut. Then he stood up and tossed it to Alan. "Here, for your daughter."
Alan caught it. He stood there, worrying the nut in his pocket as he watched the old man climb on his bicycle and ride off, standing up in the pedals until he'd reached a comfortable speed.
