his eyes with the palms of his hands.
âIs there fog on the plain, or am I just seeing things?â he asked.
âIt really is foggy,â said Max.
Bill sighed with relief. I must stop worrying about that, he thought. Ever since they had left the town, it had seemed as if his sight was veiled once again by a wispy shroud. But the shroud was covering the plain, not his retina. It cheered him up, and he began to whistle.
âBeautiful, isnât it?â he said after a while. âIt feels as if today is the real beginning of our adventure.â
Max nodded gaily.
Above the half-dismantled and rain-sodden haystacks, black birds were wheeling, their wings seeming weighed down by the enormous raindrops.
âThe farther away the inn is from here, the better for us," Bill said. âWeâll be able to get on with the work in peace. Otherwise weâll have half our time taken up by small-town society calls."
âI bet theyâll come out all this way to get hold of us.â
âYou think so? Then weâll just have to be absolute bores.â
âEasy to say," Max replied. âBut I think we have to do the opposite and be extremely accommodating. They could give us a load of trouble.â
âMaybe if we told them more about the work weâre planning to do, theyâd leave us in peace," said Bill. âAfter all, itâs in their national interest.â
âDo you think they give a damn?â
âHow should I know? Maybe youâre right. Looking at a country from afar, you imagine that every inhabitant is eager to slave away for it, but when you get nearer⦠Actually, I guess itâs the same with us. Hey, look, more haystacks.â
âIâve never seen such haystacks â they look like ragged beggars,â said Max.
âMaybe because theyâve been in use. It
is
the end of winterâ¦. What were we saying?â
âAbout local societyâ¦â
âOh, right! If we get involved with those people, thatâs the end of our work. I think I even heard them talking about a ballâ¦.â
âReally?â
Max burst out laughing. They joked about being invited to a provincial ball, then Max teased his friend about the governorâs wife.
âI thought I saw her making eyes at you.â
âYou think so?â Bill rocked with laughter,
âBuffalo Inn ⦠Buffalo Inn," Bill chanted, to the rhythm of the carriageâs creaking wheels. A proper medieval name for an inn. The longer the journey continued., the safer they felt from the dangers of bridge games and dances. The ruts and potholes on the road, which bounced the carriage about, offered supplementary protection against provincial cardplayers.
The inn stood by the roadside. Even before the carriage had come to a halt, they noticed the roof of flat stones, then a blackish balcony with a wooden balustrade, and finally the main door, which the wind blew back and forth on its hinges.
A tall boy with a jutting chin and wet, chilblained hands hobbled out on wooden clogs, whose clacking made it seem that he was moving faster than he really was.
Then a man came out to greet them. âI am the innkeeper,â he said. âMy name is Shtjefen. And this is my lad, Martin," he added, pointing to the boy. âI am happy for my inn to house such unusual guests.â
His eyes looked sincerely glad, even if his mustache drooped at the tips as if mortified by some unknown offense.
âInn of the Bone of the Buffalo,â Bill spelled out from the sheet-metal sign nailed onto one of the swinging doors. âThatâs a very old name, isnât it?â
âIndeed it is,â the innkeeper replied. âItâs been handed down from generation to generation. They say itâs been in existence for nearly a thousand years.â
Max whistled in admiration and cast his eyes over the soot-blackened beams above their heads.
They ascended the