In July (#3)

I wake up after a few hours of sleep to realize: though that I’ve been dreaming about the girl waiting for me in Paris, a good part of the journey is still ahead of me. The bus is loaded; the air is heavy from my fellow travelers breath. The driver must have turned off the air conditioning to spare a few gallons of gas he can sell at some hidden little petrol station on his way back to Budapest. The guy, sitting next to me, is heading to Scotland to work as a professional hiker. He is smiling in his dream; I guess he’s already there, among those snow-capped peaks, wandering the valleys of the British upland.

I put the earphones of the iPod into my ears, turn on the music and look out of the window. There’s a giant glowing saucer next to the highway; it seems like floating above the ground. The Allainz Arena. I open up a can of Becks and lay back in my seat, listening to the latest Kraftwerk LP. I guess that’s the appropriate way to celebrate the fact that I’ve crossed the border of Germany. (…)

The general touched the scar above his heart. He was thinking about Heidi, the beautiful and recalcitrant surgeon of that Berlin hospital where he was convalescing, after his commando ran into the trap of the Red Skunks Brigade. It’s been a set-up – most of his people died in the lead-storm of the shoot-out that broke out between them and the members of the terrorist cell. D.I. himself – though he’s been among the lucky survivors – has been shot too. “Thank God, Heidi was so well-educated – he thought with a wide smile on his face. – In every form of healthcare.” (…)