Tschick stared at him for a long second. Then he laughed—a real laugh, not the sharp, defensive one he usually used. He kicked open the car door and stepped out into the wet grass.
He’d stolen the book from the school library in Berlin because the cover had a cool car on it. Now, three weeks later, he was sitting in the passenger seat of a stolen Lada, somewhere near Lelystad, with a Russian-German juvenile delinquent named Tschick at the wheel. The original plan—to drive to Wallachia—had gone off the rails somewhere around the German-Dutch border. Now they were lost, low on gas, and Tschick had just announced they were going to steal a boat.
"En dan sta je stil. En dan begint het echte verhaal." tschick nederlandse versie pdf 51
"It's a novel," Maik sighed. "By a German author. Translated. It's not a prophecy."
"Tschick," he said.
"Come on, Klingenberg. Let's go see what's around the bend. On foot."
And they walked into the Dutch dusk, the book left open on page 51, the wind carrying the smell of water and freedom. Tschick stared at him for a long second
He closed the book. For the first time that day, he didn't feel like running away. He felt like staying right here, at the bend in the dike, with an idiot in a broken Lada and a stolen library book in Dutch.