where?”
“A campground. There’s one close by here.”
“Not in Hungary?”
“It’s a beautiful campground, not far from the border, they even have washing machines.”
“I want to make it to Lake Balaton today yet.”
“I’m not feeling so well.”
Adam got out. Pulled a sweater and a pair of pants from the trunk, then some underwear and socks as well.
“Here, try these on,” he said. “It’s really the better way to go.”
Katja got out and disappeared into the restroom. The turtle had slipped and banged against its water dish. The box was already starting to get soggy. Adam spread his map out over the steering wheel.
“Fit pretty good, don’t they?” he then said. The sweater was too short, the top pants button couldn’t be buttoned. Katja pulled a plastic bag from her backpack and stuffed her things into it. She perched herself on the passenger seat in her stocking feet.
“Have you got anything to drink? Some tea or whatever?”
“Just sandwiches.”
“No fruit. An apple?”
He pulled the string bag of provisions from the backseat. “Genuine liverwurst with good baker’s bread, although it’s from Saturday, or some tea wurst?” He handed her the bag.
“And where are we now?”
“Just about here,” Adam gave several taps to the green line of the autobahn.
“And here,” Katja said, her hand first brushing against Adam’s fingertip on the map, but then moving on ahead to a blue tent symbol, “are the washing machines.”
“Nothing but our license plates,” Adam said as they drove onto the campground at Zlatná on the Danube, not far from Komárno.
“Straight ahead and then take a right, that’s where it gets nice,” Katja directed him. But when they tried to turn, two travel trailers were blocking the road.
“Out of luck. What sort of tent do you have?” Adam asked.
“A Fichtelberg, a slightly dated model.”
“That’s what we’ve got too.”
They turned around and found a spot in the middle. Adam began putting up the tent. Katja wandered off to the washroom with her backpack. By the time she returned with a remnant of green plastic clothesline full of knots and a couple of old newspapers, the tent was up.
“Nobody can sleep in there,” Adam said. “Guaranteed to give you rheumatism.”
“We have to extend the side ropes.”
“Won’t help at all.”
Together they gazed at the damp tent.
“I’m going to give something a try,” Adam said and with no further explanation walked to the campground entrance.
When he returned he was carrying a log as thick as his arm, with a key attached. Katja began tearing up a newspaper, crumpling page after page, and stuffing her hiking boots with them. She stretched the green clothesline from the front tent pole to the passenger-side mirror.
“I managed to find a new box for the turtle,” Katja said, “one that it won’t slide around in so much out on the road.”
“The last cabin,” Adam said and gave her the log with the key. “A little present, for rest and recuperation. Paid up for two days.”
“You’re driving on?”
Adam nodded.
“And if I ask you,” Katja said as she stepped closer, “if I ask you, please, please, to wait till tomorrow morning, just one night? We can sleep together in it, they’re built for two.”
“Four in a pinch,” Adam said, “but that’s not the issue.”
“I’m as good as begging you.”
“I’m expected.”
“Please, one night, and you can set out in the morning first thing.”
“But why?”
“Let’s drop the formal pronouns, okay?”
“Fine by me.”
“Let’s have a look at the place,” Katja said and glanced over to a woman having trouble pitching her tent and trying to push a peg deeper into the ground. “Besides, the turtle needs to recuperate too. I just gave it a bath. This’d be a great place for it, it needs to move around a little, take some nice hikes. Does it have a name?”
“Elfi,” Adam said and sat down on the ground next to
“A campground. There’s one close by here.”
“Not in Hungary?”
“It’s a beautiful campground, not far from the border, they even have washing machines.”
“I want to make it to Lake Balaton today yet.”
“I’m not feeling so well.”
Adam got out. Pulled a sweater and a pair of pants from the trunk, then some underwear and socks as well.
“Here, try these on,” he said. “It’s really the better way to go.”
Katja got out and disappeared into the restroom. The turtle had slipped and banged against its water dish. The box was already starting to get soggy. Adam spread his map out over the steering wheel.
“Fit pretty good, don’t they?” he then said. The sweater was too short, the top pants button couldn’t be buttoned. Katja pulled a plastic bag from her backpack and stuffed her things into it. She perched herself on the passenger seat in her stocking feet.
“Have you got anything to drink? Some tea or whatever?”
“Just sandwiches.”
“No fruit. An apple?”
He pulled the string bag of provisions from the backseat. “Genuine liverwurst with good baker’s bread, although it’s from Saturday, or some tea wurst?” He handed her the bag.
“And where are we now?”
“Just about here,” Adam gave several taps to the green line of the autobahn.
“And here,” Katja said, her hand first brushing against Adam’s fingertip on the map, but then moving on ahead to a blue tent symbol, “are the washing machines.”
“Nothing but our license plates,” Adam said as they drove onto the campground at Zlatná on the Danube, not far from Komárno.
“Straight ahead and then take a right, that’s where it gets nice,” Katja directed him. But when they tried to turn, two travel trailers were blocking the road.
“Out of luck. What sort of tent do you have?” Adam asked.
“A Fichtelberg, a slightly dated model.”
“That’s what we’ve got too.”
They turned around and found a spot in the middle. Adam began putting up the tent. Katja wandered off to the washroom with her backpack. By the time she returned with a remnant of green plastic clothesline full of knots and a couple of old newspapers, the tent was up.
“Nobody can sleep in there,” Adam said. “Guaranteed to give you rheumatism.”
“We have to extend the side ropes.”
“Won’t help at all.”
Together they gazed at the damp tent.
“I’m going to give something a try,” Adam said and with no further explanation walked to the campground entrance.
When he returned he was carrying a log as thick as his arm, with a key attached. Katja began tearing up a newspaper, crumpling page after page, and stuffing her hiking boots with them. She stretched the green clothesline from the front tent pole to the passenger-side mirror.
“I managed to find a new box for the turtle,” Katja said, “one that it won’t slide around in so much out on the road.”
“The last cabin,” Adam said and gave her the log with the key. “A little present, for rest and recuperation. Paid up for two days.”
“You’re driving on?”
Adam nodded.
“And if I ask you,” Katja said as she stepped closer, “if I ask you, please, please, to wait till tomorrow morning, just one night? We can sleep together in it, they’re built for two.”
“Four in a pinch,” Adam said, “but that’s not the issue.”
“I’m as good as begging you.”
“I’m expected.”
“Please, one night, and you can set out in the morning first thing.”
“But why?”
“Let’s drop the formal pronouns, okay?”
“Fine by me.”
“Let’s have a look at the place,” Katja said and glanced over to a woman having trouble pitching her tent and trying to push a peg deeper into the ground. “Besides, the turtle needs to recuperate too. I just gave it a bath. This’d be a great place for it, it needs to move around a little, take some nice hikes. Does it have a name?”
“Elfi,” Adam said and sat down on the ground next to
Similar Books
