The rain on the window distorts the trucks moving across the dark concrete. It shifts their colours into melted patterns that jump and run and fragment the outlines of distant figures. Burly men in heavy coats move about the haze. Dark, heavy coats pulled tight against the weather. Red faces closed against the cold.
Germany is a dark, wet wasteland of diesel fumes and garish commercial vehicles, spattered with the dirt and grime of the autobahn.
The café is crowded and steam rises from wet clothing. People press past each other and a television mutters and cheers in a corner as small red and blue figures chase a ball.
I nurture my coffee though it tasted foul even when it was still warm. The woman behind the counter, hard faced and dour has been looking in my direction for several minutes before Geert returns to the booth opposite me carrying a tray filled with food. He is a large heavily built man in his late forties, with an impressive Slavic moustache and eyes filled with the kind of empathy that only comes with wisdom. In the four hours since I first met him, I have avoided his eyes. This wasn't difficult in the cab of the articulated lorry, but here in the café I realise I am avoiding his eyes for some reason. When I think of it, I find myself trembling slightly. I find it difficult to accept empathy from strangers, but Geert has a strange quality that makes me feel as if he is able to read my mind simply by looking at my face. I wonder idly if a person can read another as easily as I might read a book. I sneak a peek at Geert as he eats wondering if he is aware of the hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I eat mechanically, for my body is hungry even if my mind rejects the notion of food. I glance up at the clock on the wall. It is a mechanical digital clock with numbers that flick noisily into place. It reads 18:44. Outside the darkness is gathering and the trucks are silhouettes bathed in white and orange light. Geert finishes his meal and lights up a cigarette. He offers one but I shake my head. I have no stomach for tobacco.
The truck stop is a large sprawling area with multiple buildings. Geert has parked in what he tells me is his usual spot and has collected the keys to a room at the motel and as we walk back to the car park in the rain he points to a line of dark and dull windows. The motel sits on a hilltop surrounded by looming fir trees and almost appears to be floating above the rain and haze of the trucks below. We step aside as a behemoth rumbles past us, its tires spreading apart a deep pool of turgid rain water and I spy a red sign reflected in the ripples that reads Bodega when I look up. Geert is lighting another cigarette. I decide to get a drink. He says nothing, merely nods and we make our way across the wet grass.
The bar girl in the bodega is blonde and tall. She smiles and puts two beers on the counter as I fumble for money. Around me hundreds of people talk and jostle each other and I begin to relax slightly. The bodega is warm and the air is close and slightly uncomfortable, but I know now that I do not have to move on tonight. I am off the road for now and I can settle down until the morning. A clock on the wall behind the blonde reads 19:33. I take the beers to where Geert is sitting with two other men. I pass him his beer and he introduces me to a Swede and another Dutchman who lives in the same town as Geert. I am introduced as a hitch hiker Geert picked up at the Austrian border, which is entirely true. Neither of Geert friends pays me any attention and I forget their names even as they are spoken.
I sip my beer and listen to their conversation which is mundane, dealing with the realities of driving heavy vehicles in Europe. Gradually I feel my body beginning to loose its cohesion and I slump against the wall. My mind begins to wander. I notice the Swede has an indentation on his finger, as of a ring removed. It becomes apparent why when a young Eastern European prostitute walks by the table and the Swede follows her with his eyes. All three truckers laugh and turn to regard the woman who pauses and looks back for full effect. The Swede grins and lifts his eye brows but the other Dutchman shakes his head. Geert says nothing but is chuckling when the Swede leaves with the prostitute. I watch them as they watch the Swede leave. Geert is laughing and talking but his eyes glance at me and I feel the tension return to my stomach. I make my excuse and go to the bar.
The blonde serves me a Smirnoff ice and three beers and I return to the table with the latter. Geert and the other Dutchman are talking in their own language and they barely acknowledge me as I put beers on the table before them. I settle down again, my mind wandering back to the ride here in the truck cab. Geert hadn't said much, just asked a few questions and let me rattle on about university, girls, why I left home and life in general. I hadn't paid much attention to him at first, happy to talk about myself and both of us staring at the road ahead. I was grateful that some one could be bothered to listen to me at all.
Only after we'd reached the truck stop had I really been confronted with his eyes.
