His wife had passed on. I’d met her had but barely known her. Back then, thirty years ago, which might have been a long time and might not have been, when I penetrated the host-tourist barrier, to the degree that I did, I slowly began to understand that I was dealing with mountain people whose families had lived in these villages for a thousand years, give or take a few centuries. That is not to say they were backward, just that time was more viscous here, thick and slow moving. He was the gendarme. She was the frau. I expressed my sympathies. There was now a Polish woman who cleaned and cooked and had a room at the back.

Franz had a big, broad, wooden table. Sausages, cheese, and bread were already laid out. The Polish woman brought out more as we ate. There was bier and schnapps and whatever other alcohol anyone wanted.

Franz asked after my wife. I told him that she too had passed on.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “she was a lovely woman.”

“The best,” I said. “Or better than that.” It was sort of comic and got some smiles, but inside it was sadder than sad.

“How?” he asked.

“Cancer,” I said.

He nodded sympathetically. “That can be…”

“Long and painful,” I admitted.

“Ja.”

“The daughter? I remember you pulling her on the wooden sled.”

“Yeah, and it always tipped over. It got so she cried the minute she saw it. An indictment of Austrian design.”

He laughed. Then asked if I saw her much. I said she was well, living in France, but we were not close. Any other children, he asked. A son, I said.

“Ah,” he said, with male chauvinist pleasure. But then looked at me. I could hardly speak, but sometimes things need to be said. “He…he was a great kid…smart…idealistic…after college…he was going to go to med school…but first he went off to volunteer for Medecins Sans Frontiers…in Africa…one of those…things got violent.”

Franz sighed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s OK.”

He pushed a big glass of beer toward me. A flagon. To wash down the sorrow.

The Polish woman served a goulash, which was rich and hearty. Franz said, “After we took over the Laundromat, we found out how much money you were making, cash money.”

I said, “You like cash money, don’t you?”

“But you didn’t tell me how much.”

“I never cheated you. Not a groschen. I paid a fixed amount, minus documented costs, as agreed. If I had reported all that cash, there would have been taxes, then the costs would have been higher, and you would have had less.”