Short story

As I was cleaning up my USB stick, I found the manuscript and a collection of notes for a short story I started writing two years ago (but never really finished). Perhaps some parts are good material to be recycled as blog posts. This one, for example:

The next moment, I find myself sitting on a suburban train, in between five old men, speaking fast, I suppose in Hungarian. The wastelands, the shopping mall, the appartment buildings pass by in reverse as how I saw them from the bus window one hour ago. This is a trip of de-tours. Only de-tours, I imagine now. I always wanted to visit Budapest. But today I don’t care.

In the railway station, we follow the signs with the suitcase. We enter a large hall and step towards a small hole in the middle of the wall. A brown dirty paper with prices and Hungarian words is attached to the wooden frame of the glass window. “Luggage deposit?” I let Erica do the talking. “Nicht verstehen. Sprechen Deutch?” Erica desperately looks my side. Ok, that makes me head of communication. I put my backpack on the counter and point to the second backpack on the ground. The man in the window lays a piece of paper on the desk, takes a pen from the pocket in his shirt and writes, in large, clear digits:

2 x 400 = 800

That does not look like the price indicated on the paper above his head. I point at both papers. I read the disapproval from his face. “Old price.” Old price. To those words I have no reply (particularily not to someone who claims not to speak English, only German). With the prospect of ordering a coffee and overlooking one of Budapest’s squares soon, I pay and hope the man enjoys the tip.