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The more I bartered with them, the better I came to know their dialectic. First they counted on the stupidity of their adversary, and then, when there was no other way out, they themselves simply played stupid. If all this didn't help, they pretended to be poor, or, if challenged, they left the shop in a hurry, gave offers which, if you accepted them, they immediately tried to buy something else for the same price, and then, if again attacked, gave ground and pretended not to know exactly what you were talking about. Whenever you tried to attack one of these apostles, your hand closed on a jelly-like slime which divided up and poured through your fingers, but in the next moment collected again. But if you really struck one of these ladies so telling a blow that, observed by the audience, she couldn't help but agree to the price, and if you believed that this had taken you at least one step forward, your amazement was great the next day. The woman had not the slightest recollection of the day before, she rattled off her same poor offers as though nothing at all had happened, and, if indignantly challenged, affected amazement; she couldn't remember a thing, except that she had provided an appropriate price the previous day.
Sometimes I stood there thunderstruck. I didn't know what to be more amazed at: the agility of their tongues or their virtuosity at lying. Gradually I began to hate them.
