We Never Want to Go Back Again

When our steamer passed by the Budapest, I confided to Stefan, " Listen, if it turns out that I'm unable to stay, I will never go back onto that box and come what may. If there is no other way out, then I will shoot myself. I sure suffered enough up there. And all because of that boatsman. Just imagine if I was to return there I would be the perfect prey for him. I could not endure it."

"I'm not going back either!" Stefan replied. After a two hour trip, we arrived at Cattaro. Now it will be decided.

Everything turned out well. We both passed. Like chains dropping from every part of my body, that's how I felt, definitively redeemed. While we were both small-minded and depressed just a short time ago, our hearts now beat with pure joy. It was cause for celebration.

"What do we do now?" I ask Stefan, " we have four hours before our return trip."

"Dumb question!" he says, "We'll go to a place where we can drink a toast to this special day."

"Alright, let's find the first best 'spelunke' and also get something to eat, for I feel terribly hungry." I answered, " And then we will see what else we can do. Maybe there will even be a pretty little doll. I have not been on land for a long time anyway and who knows if we won't drown on the first operation. It will be a shame if we don't jump at this opportunity."

Stefan agreed and it didn't take long for us to find what we were looking for.

The wine was good and the fish, fried in oil, wasn't bad either. Even a beautiful, subservient spirit was at our disposal. What more could we want? Unfortunately, the time elapsed much too quickly and we had to go back to our steamer. On our return trip, Stefan, who had a little too much wine, got to feel quite miserable. He moaned while I laughed at him which made him very angry. But that did not help him and he had to 'pay his tribute'.

"You know Stefan," I said to him, "if you cannot tolerate wine, you will have to drink goat's milk. That is better for sucklings."

For that he wanted to attach a nice name to me but 'Ulrich' wouldn't allow it. Then he got very quiet. Later, I looked after him and he was leaning over the side railing...asleep.

I now had time to devote myself to my own thoughts until we got to Ponto Rosa.

Note: The reference to 'Ulrich' Is probably my grandfathers version of the heaving noises associated with drinking too much wine. Something akin to our phrase, "selling Buicks."