Читать книгу On The Couch - Fleur Britten - Страница 13

Max was expecting a Spanish couple—our replacements—to arrive at 8am from St Petersburg. Ollie had suggested we wake at 7am to prepare for them, but given our own delayed arrival, I overruled it. At 8.30, the doorbell rang.

‘Hola! Buenos dias!’ they trilled.

Max, the expert logistician, deftly organised us like human elements in a sliding-tile game, and then began the breakfast ritual. The girl immediately offered to do the washing-up. I was so slow on this sharing and helping thing.

‘Do you always like to have surfers, Max?’ I asked, when the amantes weren’t listening. I was shocked by his turnover.

‘I need a rest,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes Natalie don’t like zem.’

‘Are there ever surfers that you don’t like?’

‘No, no!’ he heehawed like a donkey, before adding, ‘Zere vos a Sviss couple cycling viz all zare kit.’

That was as rude as he could bring himself to be about them.

It was checkout time for us—we had a train to catch aboard the world’s longest railway. While packing up, it occurred to me thatMax must now have something of a collection of objets oubliés.

‘Ah yes!’ he said, convulsing with laughter. ‘It’s like a muzeum khere. I khave towels, I khave trousers, I khave tooz-brushes…’

‘Actually,’ I added, ‘I can’t find my top.’

‘Too late! It’s in the muzeum, khuh khuh khuh!’