Adam and Evelyn (7 page)

Adam was awakened by a bony hand on his shoulder. “I’m waiting for my wife, Evelyn Schumann,” he said.

He heard the waiter pass on Evelyn’s name, but the pale blond behind the counter shook her head. Adam walked over to her and asked about Michael. “Michael, Michael,” he repeated. Finally the blond turned the big book on the counter around toward him and
pointed to an entry where “1 + 2” had been crossed out with red diagonal lines.

“They’ve left,” the waiter said. “You’ll have to look elsewhere.”

Adam stared at him. The waiter said nothing and finally shrugged.

“Hm, yes, I guess I’ll have to look elsewhere then,” Adam said and took his departure with a firm handshake.

ABOUT TWENTY KILOMETERS
before Brno, Adam stopped for gas at the rest area Devět křížů. He then found a parking space not far from the cafeteria. He made for the men’s toilet, his bag slung over his shoulder and containing his shaving gear, camera, and a fresh shirt. The washroom seemed designed for people like him, there was soap and a shelf mounted below the mirror. The water stayed cold, though. He carefully began to shave. He almost cut himself when a hefty man who was shaking water from his hands bumped his elbow. Their eyes met briefly in the mirror. The man, his forearm tattooed with a busty mermaid, grumbled something that Adam took for an apology. He washed his armpits, put on his fresh shirt, tied the old one around his hips.

As he entered the restaurant sultry with kitchen steam, he started to sweat. Cigarette smoke hung above people’s heads, it smelled of beer. Adam reached for a tray. Although it was wet, he laid his utensils on it and waited for the line to edge forward. Standing amid occupied tables, a family rotated helplessly in a circle, overloaded trays in hand. The babble of voices was repeatedly broken by bursts of laughter, as if this were some sort of party. Adam ordered pork and dumplings, took the last two rolls with salami decorated with a blob of mayonnaise, a slice of cream cake, and a bottle of green soda. He pulled back an
empty seat he found at a window table and asked, “Možno?” When no one replied, he sat down. Holding his tray on his lap, he pushed a few glasses to one side and arranged his plates one by one on the table. The soda was obnoxiously sweet.

“Could you give me a lift?” A young woman with short hair and bright brown eyes was looking at him. “It’s pretty urgent.” She set a blue backpack in a frame down beside him.

“And where to?”

“Prague?”

“I’m driving in the other direction.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Two tables away a bull of a man in a beige fake leather vest shouted something to her. He held up a handbag. She walked over to him. As she reached for it, he pulled the handbag away, but on the second try she snatched it out of his hand. He bellowed a laugh.

“Can you give me that lift?”

Adam nodded.

“Thanks,” she said and simply stood there.

It was embarrassing just to go on eating. “You want some?” he asked, holding up the plate with the salami.

“Love it,” she said and stuffed a salami roll into her mouth. Adam also offered her the green soda and slid a little to one side of his chair.

“Aren’t you going to finish the dumplings?”

She sat down, sharing his chair, and began to eat. In relation to her athletic body, her head seemed small to him.

Suddenly the man in the vest was standing next to them. He spoke loudly, his index finger bouncing up and down, as if explaining something. Adam could feel the young woman press against him, even though she went on eating and pretended to hear and see nothing. When the man finally shut up, Adam had the sense that a hush had fallen over the whole room. He laid his right arm across the back of the chair. The vest guy asked a question, repeated it. While Adam was
still hesitating whether he should lay his arm around her shoulder, the man beside them laughed, pulled out his wallet, slapped a bill down beside the empty plate, and walked back to his seat.

“Thank god,” she whispered, pocketing the money.

Adam carried her heavy backpack to the car and stowed it on the backseat.

“Thanks. I’m Katja.” They shook hands.

“Adam,” he said, holding the passenger door open and waiting as she sat down, after first banging her hiking boots together to get rid of the worst of the mud from the soles.

“Ah,” Katja cried when she saw the turtle. “There are three of us on this trip.”

As people watched from the rest-stop windows, Adam started the engine and had no trouble putting it into reverse.

“Thanks again so much,” Katja said.

“What was with the lumberjack?”

“They’d given me a ride.” She coughed. “The usual misunderstanding.”

“And where are you coming from?”

“Somewhere up ahead,” Katja said, pointing out through the windshield.

“And where are you headed?”

“Don’t know yet,” Katja said, coughed, turned as best she could to one side, crammed her handbag up against the door to cushion her head, and closed her eyes.

Adam would have enjoyed a conversation with her. All the same he was happy no longer to be alone. If only for that he was willing to put up with the odor of unwashed clothes that she gave off.

“ARE YOU CHILLY?”
He reached for her left hand. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

She cleared her throat, smiled, but then turned her head aside when he tried to feel her forehead.

“Where are we?”

“Not all that far from Bratislava. I needed to take a little break.” He tilted his head toward the toilets next to them.

“Me too,” Katja said and leaned toward him to look in the rearview mirror. “Oh god, ghastly!”

“You should change your clothes.”

“Do I stink?” Katja lifted her left arm and took a whiff.

“Your clothes are all clammy. Has it been raining all that much here?”

Katja shook her head.

“I’ll give you a couple of my things. How did you manage to get so wet?”

“Oh, just a stupid joke, everything fell in the water. Maybe we could wash my stuff out around here somewhere?”

“And 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 the turtle.

“Elfi,” Katja said and knelt down beside him. “Elfi’s a lovely name.”

The four tables at the food kiosk were jammed. It seemed to Adam that the level of conversation died down when he showed up. They were all speaking German, even when ordering at the counter. Sausages and rye bread were all they had left. Adam bought a jar of mustard too, ordered a large beer, and ate standing.

“You sure kept your girl waitin’. Where you been hidin’ all this time?” Standing in front of him was a man in his midthirties, a faded red-and-white cap on his head.

“Take your time eatin’. Wouldn’t they let you across?”

Emerson Fittipaldi—Adam was able to decode the phantom letters on the hat. “Had some stuff to do,” he said and swallowed the bite. He noticed that other people were listening by now.

“Hot wheels,” someone behind him said.

“And what are you two gonna do now?”

“We’ll see. We’re on vacation.”

His interrogator grinned. Adam toasted them all, put the glass to his lips, drank and drank, staring at the green splotch that began to emerge at the bottom of the glass, drank some more, could hear comments being made around him, finished it off, and set it down as carefully as if it were full.

“Now that was a thirsty man,” the guy with the Fittipaldi cap said.

Adam wiped his mouth with the paper napkin and folded it up on the cardboard tray. “Well then, so long.”

The counter girl pressed the two-koruny deposit into his open palm.

“Don’t you want another?”

“Nope, thanks, end up peeing too much. See you,” Adam said, picking up his jar of mustard and trying to walk no faster than usual.

When he entered the cabin Katja was lying with her face to the wall, a blanket pulled up to her ears. The new box with the turtle had been set between the heads of the beds.

“You’re going to cut and run,” he said.

Katja didn’t stir.

“Doesn’t matter. I can understand your not wanting to spill the beans all at once. But what’s up with those folks? What did you tell them?”

He pulled off his pants and lay down on the empty bed.

“Adam,” she whispered. “I don’t have a penny left.”

“I can lend you some money.”

“I don’t have anything left, not one thing. I can’t pay you back. When you leave for Hungary in the morning, will you take me with you?”

“Yes, sure—”

“In the trunk, I mean. I won’t get across otherwise.”

Adam was silent. He looked at her hand dangling motionless from the edge of the bed.

“Which means those people out there aren’t allowed to cross into Hungary either? And you’re all waiting here? What are you waiting for?”

“You can ask me for a favor too,” Katja said. “I’ve already tried it once, by way of the Danube. There were three of us.”

“And the other two?”

“No idea. They disappeared, were just gone.”

Adam slowly stretched out his hand, but even when he touched her, Katja didn’t roll over toward him.

“DO YOU REALLY
want to try it?” Katja asked when Adam opened his eyes. Lying there staring at him, one hand under her cheek, she looked like a child. He rolled over to hide his erection. He had slept almost nine hours. The turtle was nibbling at breadcrumbs.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Why can’t you get into Hungary?”

“I never applied. Nobody I know ever got a visa, except for one person. And they came and took it away from her the next day. Sitting at home, the doorbell rings, and poof! it’s gone, no reason given.”

“How about where there’s no official crossing?”

“That’s called the Danube.”

“How about where there’s woods or fields, isn’t that the longer section?”

“It’s difficult there because it’s guarded better, fences everywhere, nobody knows the territory. Why do you think they’re all here? But they’re all scared shitless of the Danube.”

“And if they nab us?”