The Art of Getting What You Want

Anecdotes Concerning Two Men, Each of 'Whom Was a Genius in His Own Way

FERENC MOLNÁR

I WAS sitting in a large, tapestried armchair, in the shop of a forger of antiques, waiting for my turn, when I became the witness of a dreadful bargain. The object in question was a baroque table which stood as if terrified between the merchant and his client. The table had crooked golden legs and a yellow marble plate on the top. The two men bent over the table and yelled at each other The shopkeeper seemed to love his table—whenever he spoke of it he caressed its smooth marble top gently. The customer treated it contemptuously, he hit the table several times and once, when he announced that the gilt was not genuine, he even kicked its legs, although very discreetly. Had a very simple man, let us say, a Polynesian aborigine, seen this he would have thought that it was the prospective buyer who wanted to get rid of the hated table and the shopkeeper the one who admired it with a love bordering almost on Fetishism. The bargaining then degenerated into a demoniac haggling. The merchant was very pale now, cold and cuttingly sarcastic, the prospective buyer loud, eloquent and slightly personal. He said insulting things of the doglegged table, which, humiliated, seemed to creep nearer to its master. As if it had felt that its life in the new owner's house would not be any too rosy. The customer became redder, more excited and louder, the merchant paler, cooler and quieter. I was firmly convinced that cold calmness would ultimately conquer feverish excitement. But, to my greatest surprise, the opposite happened. The temperamental client remained victorious. The shopkeeper asked $1600 for the table, in the first two rounds he went down to $i4oo, and although he was able to hold his own in the third round, he gave way in the fourth and surrendered the table for one thousand and seventy-five. Now the customer became suddenly genial and kind, he burst into laughter and even embraced the fatigued, silent merchant. But, when he left, he stopped in the doorway and threw a gloomy, hostile glance at me; he knew I did not like his brutal victory.

AFTER he had left, the shopkeeper, exhausted, sat down.

"Confess," I told him, consolingly, "that you've still made money on the deal. You didn't pay more than five hundred for the table yourself."

The merchant wiped his glasses and listlessly answered:

"I paid a hundred and fifty. He is a very brutal and stubborn man, but he doesn't know how to drive a bargain."

"How can you say that?" I cried. "Why, this man is a veritable genius in bargaining."

"He? No, no. The genius was old Sch., the man who was my teacher."

And he told me the following anecdote: "Old Sch. was a usurer in a small provincial town, the garrison of a Hussar regiment. He lent money to the officers of the regiment and attended to their various businesses.

They considered him an honest man. The officers not only liked him, they trusted him. So much so that when one of them was transferred to another garrison, no matter where Fate had thrown him, he remained, for years thereafter, a faithful client of Old Sch. They called him Shylock for brevity's sake only, for he had a very long name. And it happened that one of the young officers transferred to a faraway place one day got into serious financial trouble. He had a beautiful, valuable old ring, a family heirloom, and he decided to sell it. Old Sch., of course, was picked to transact the deal. The matter was pressing. The officer took the ring, put it into an old red leather case, wrapped it and sent it to Old Sch. by mail. The following categorical letter accompanied the heirloom:

" 'Enclosed I am sending you my old family ring. If you can give $1500 for it, keep it. If you can't, return it at once. I can't let you have it for a penny less. There's no bargaining.'

"Two days later, he received a telegram. Old Sch. tried to strike a bargain:

" 'Ring not worth 1500 give 1000 at most.'

"The officer replied: 'Ring 1500 no bargaining'.

"The next day, another telegram arrived. Old Sch. continued his haggling:

" 'Will give 1200 not a penny more.'

"The officer replied: 'Ring i5oo no bargaining please return ring immediately.'

"A FEW days passed by and then the officer received a small package by mail. Sender: Old Sch. Contents: the ring. He opened the package. There was the little, old red leather case in it, tied and sealed. And there was a letter accompanying it. It read:

"'My dear Lieutenant! I assure you, as an expert, that your ring isn't worth $1500. You won't get that price anywhere in the world. I can give you 1400 for it at the utmost, and only because I sympathise with you. If you are ready to sell it for this sum, don't even open the case, return it to me as it is, a day later you'll have the money. But if you won't sell it for 1400, keep it as I won't buy it at your price."

"The officer became so bitter when he read this that he decided not to give the ring to Old Sch. any cheaper. He broke the seal, opened the case—but the ring was not in it ! There was, however, a message in its place:

" 'All right, all right, I'll give you 1500 for it.'

"When you go home tonight," the shopkeeper concluded his story, "devote a few minutes to Old Sch. who tried his luck even in the case. And then you'll never again say of a bungler like the one who has just left that he is a genius in bargaining."

I had a colleague once, a young journalist, a generous, open-hearted talented boy, a man full of phantasy and ideas, not only in his profession but in life, too. One day, this young man bought himself an expensive fur coat. Being a poor man, he bought it on small

instalments, but agreed to pay a larger amount as the first payment. On the first of the month, therefore, as soon as he got his salary, he paid down about one-third of his monthly wages and took the coat with him. After dinner, he appeared in his regular cafe, at his regular table, with his new fur coat, which created general excitement among his colleagues. He hugely enjoyed the sensation he caused. When he sat down, he folded the fur coat very carefully, put it on an empty chair next to him, patted and caressed it gently, and ordered a cup of coffee. The cafe was crowded. When the young man gave his order, the head-waiter stepped up to him:

"Please put your coat in the coat-room."

The young man looked at him like a father of whom cruel strangers wanted to rob his only child.

"I won't," he replied. "It'll be stolen."

"It won't be stolen," said the head-waiter severely. "And, anyway, the management is responsible for everything checked in the coat-room."

The youth eyed his coat wildly and answered determinedly:

"I won't let it go. And I am not afraid of thieves. This is my new fur coat and I want to see it constantly."

"That's impossible," answered the headwaiter coldly. "This chair isn't reserved for fur coats but for guests."

"Ah !" cried the young man. "Does that make such a great difference?"

"It does," said the head-waiter. "If a patron sat on this chair, he would order something. Your coat takes a seat from a paying guest."

The young man smiled:

"Very well," he said. "Bring a cup of coffee to my coat."

THE waiter was stunned. He was not prepared for this. And he could not find anything wrong with the order either. So he left and brought two cups of coffee. One for the journalist and one for the fur coat. The journalist turned to his coat:

"Mr. Furcoat," he said with deep affection in his voice, "with how many lumps of sugar do you like your coffee?"

Then he put his ear to its collar as if waiting for an answer and put two lumps of sugar into its coffee. The patrons around the large table laughed. The head-waiter became red in the face and ran angrily to the proprietor. For a few minutes, the two conversed excitedly in one of the corners, then the head-waiter returned to the table.

"If you please, sir," he said to the journalist, "this was a good joke but that's about enough of it. If another patron sat at this table, he might order something else, a bottle of wine, perhaps, or some fine liqueur, something on which the cafe would make more profit than on a cup of coffee."

The guests picked up their ears. In the ensuing silence, the journalist replied:

"I drink only coffee, because I am a poor man. But bring, immediately, a bottle of Pommery brut to Mr. Fur-coat. And two glasses."

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In a few seconds, the bottle of champagne stood on the table in front of the coat. The journalist rose and addressed the guests:

"Mr. Fur-coat is in excellent humour today because he's come into possession of a brilliant and fine master. Mr. Fur-coat will drink champagne tonight and invites you, gentlemen, to drink with him."

The glasses arrived and everybody drank of the champagne. Only Mr. Fur-coat's glass remained untouched. Nor did the journalist drink: he repeated that he was a poor man, he would drink only coffee. Now an unexpected scene occurred. The journalist, noticing that neither the proprietor nor the head-waiter trusted the paying ability of the fur-coat, took all of his money and put it on the table before the fur-coat.

"Mr. Fur-coat wishes to have another bottle of champagne," he said.

They brought him that, too. One of the guests made a toast in honour of the fur-coat. The waiters brought ham and liqueurs. Everybody at the large table drank and ate except the owner of the coat. He was a poor man, he stuck to his coffee. In about an hour, the fur-coat's credit was exhausted. With a dignified gesture, the journalist motioned to the head-waiter:

"The bill!"

They brought him the bill. Mr. Furcoat paid for everything and gave the waiters extravagant tips. The headwaiter turned to the journalist:

"And you had a cup of coffee."

"I'll owe you that, just as I always do. Add it to my bill. I'm a poor man."

And he rose. The head-waiter, pacified by now, leapt politely to the coat and picked it up.

"Stop!" screamed the journalist. "What are you doing? How dare you treat this distinguished guest as if it were a mere garment? Take it respectfully into your hands, call one of your colleagues, and then—don't dare to help me on with the coat but put me into Mr. Fur-coat!"

His instructions were accurately carried out for he would not leave until two waiters lifted him and slowly pushed him into the fur-coat which the head-waiter held out solemnly in the air. Then, amidst the enthusiastic and loud applause of the patrons, the journalist majestically left the cafe.