Tra me e il mio tabaccaio c'è una tacita intesa.
Io so che lui parla perfettamente inglese, e lui sa che il mio nederlandese è un gradino sopra a quello del paffuto e biondo nano bavoso che attende con his mom that I end up puffing my ignoble theater.
He knows, but never an English word was exchanged between us.
He knows, but holds the part, with the patience and tenacity of the child Batavian ing that the dam with the little finger.
And I turn to him for trusting my mini-course conversation Nederland.
I am repeating the request three times, asking me if I want my strippenkaart "grote" or "kleine" (grote, grote, crack avarice!), If I want my tobacco, "groen", and I then repeated three more times the total price, so the revision numbers above 20, which I always forget them. And then I always change the greetings. Hello, hoi, goedemorgen , Goedenavond , dag , Doeg, tot ziens .
Madame Montessori die with envy watching my tobacconist work.
Just in case the wife or mother would intercept the first, is inserted in the sudden play by Ionesco, even if someone else is serving. My tobacconist's very clear the importance of its mandate.
And my tobacconist has high hopes pinned on me. The other day while rovescione by running water, so sudden and typical of these lands, descends from the sky. And my tobacconist, laughing, asking me the equivalent of an English small talk about the weather, lasting at least 30 seconds. I look at my tobacconist, torn between compassion for the honor of the upgrade and the frustration of not understanding a fucking pretty. And, without saying a word, I read in his eyes a smiling father and empathic understanding. "Someday," say his eyes, "one day we will talk about the rain ... the Dutch market has been moved to work resurfaced ... the absurd price of Nuon bills ... and that day will be beautiful ... in the Meanwhile ... "
- Wat kan ik voor je doen?
- Eine
*: And anyway there is no danger that I exchange for German, no.
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