He inhaled the aroma of the leather upholstery, listened to the engine purr, and gauged the responsiveness of the manual transmission. The memory of his grandfather Eugène was so palpable, it wouldn’t have surprised him if he had looked in the rearview mirror and seen him sitting in the backseat, his nose sticking out the open window, his mustache in the breeze. The scenery rolled past, and warm air and sun streamed in through the open sunroof. “This is happiness, Virgile! But don’t forget your maintenance. I think the springs need a bit of grease.” “I’ll have Stofa take care of it when we pick up your convertible. By the way, you could ask him to service your own car. I think it’s been awhile.” “Excellent idea, my boy. I trust you’ll make that happen.” “He’ll do a good job, as always.” Benjamin tapped the horn lightly as he drove by a cyclist.
