“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?”
“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.