Nothing's Lost [antikvár]

Philemon and Baucis BY TIBOR DÉRY The old couple sat peacefully on the narrow garden bench. The autumn sun cast the shadow of the almost barren walnut tree over them. The silence of the usually quiet garden on the outskirts of town was disturbed for a moment by the distant clatter of the express. A lonely yellow leaf fluttered to the ground. The old woman was knitting a grey sock, and the old man sitting by her side would have dozed off, had the flashing of the knitting needles not jolted him repeatedly awake. "Old Timar's gone," he said heavy-eyed. He had meant to tell her earlier in the day, but had forgotten. "What?" asked the old woman, who was a httle hard of hearing. "Old Timar's dead," he repeated, more loudly this time. "What was the matter with him?" she asked. "Committed suicide," he said. The woman continued her knitting. "He was well on in years," she said. "Just two years older than me," the old man added. "What's that?" his wife asked. "He wasn't that old yet," said the old man diplomatically. "Old enough." The sun was comfortably warm. The old man was preoccupied with his thoughts. "He drank," he murmured. "What did you say?" chided his wife. "Why don't you speak up?" "I said, he drank away his pension every month," shouted the old man, leaning towards his wife's ear. "He drank it away, all of it." 7