The Man on the Train is the man of towels, open each pocket and pulls out a towel, small, medium, large, but still blue. It takes away from a pack and (still puffing) tries to throw it in your suitcase, which was full (including towels). He fails and then snorts and starts to bend well. Then he pulls something from his pocket and pulls out something from this one more thing - money, perhaps - and puts them somewhere in my suitcase. Snorts, closing the book alleged, if he puts in his pocket. Close the case, the fall of the keys, snorts, collects them: they were the keys to the lock of the suitcase. Serra suitcase, snorts, the system on boot. He takes the bag, pulls out a tiny black piece of cloth, snorts, takes up the heavy suitcase, put it back on the bench, opens it - I go out and get some 'air.
When rose to Cologne puffing a cardboard coffee and bread in plastic, as well as luggage, he began to eat and drink with the same urgency that you use when you return home with the pee to do: fell down the things you have in your hand, you sit on the toilet with his coat and scarf and you close the door. He drank coffee and capsized sandwiched between a shot and the other a loaf of bread sitting on the edge of the seat adjacent to the one on which I had placed his bare feet, appearing in the privacy of my sadness, forcing me to compose myself, despite its scompostaggine. When he finished refresh snorted and began to disassemble and replace the first described.
Now he has closed his eyes, embracing the backpack that holds on his knees.
goes to Italy.
