BY ADAM GNADE
In the bar Jeremy and I sat across from each other at a table by the fireplace. Outside it had begun to rain. It was a slow, gray, listless rain, nothing more than a drizzling mist over the cobblestones and archways and rooftops.
A man rode by the window on a bicycle and looked in at us as he passed. The room was dark. Thick greased glass. Heavy maroon-black wood. Salted pork hanging in hocks above the bar. It was an old place, a strong, solid place that smelled of riding leather and coiled rope and smoked meat.
“So how much?” I said quietly.
Jeremy moved the coins across the boards of the tabletop with a finger, bringing them from one side of the table (uncounted, unsorted) to the other (counted, sorted). The fireplace flashed and made them gold and then fell low again. “Eighteen euro,” he said, frowning.
“To last… “
“To last until we leave.”
“Leave Spain or leave Europe?”
“Europe.”
The waiter, a large, balding, gorilla of a Spaniard, came in from the kitchen and set a tapas dish on the tabletop between us. He grunted something friendly in Spanish and walked away.
Eighteen euro to last a week. Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it, I thought, but I kept it to myself. “Aceitunas,” I said cheerfully, “Olives.” I picked one of the green olives out of the brine and placed it in my mouth but didn’t swallow. I held it in my cheek and let its shape tell me it was a real thing, let the salt and brine and garlic core become a flavor and let the flavor become food. We hadn’t eaten much since Berlin, more than a week now. It was just an olive, but anything was something and I held onto the feeling of it for as long as I could.
“So, eighteen euro… “
“Eighteen,” I said, chewing the olive slow and then swallowing it. Now the something was nothing and it didn’t make much of a difference. “So I guess what we should do is have one more drink, which will get us another dish of… what’s next in the round?”
“The crackers we had with the first drink. Rounds of four. This will be drink five. Back to crackers.”
“Back to crackers. So, the plan is we get another drink, get another free plate of tapas, and then we pay for what we’ve had, save the rest of the money for something tomorrow and then hopefully the airline to Portugal will feed us.”
“Hopefully.” Jeremy’s face darkened. He leaned forward in his seat and pulled his green army parka around him. “I’m sorry I fucked this up so bad,” he muttered. He stared at the coins on the table but his mind was elsewhere.
“You didn’t fuck it up. It was Paris. Paris fucked it up. Anyway, the plan,” I continued, changing the subject, “we’ll have a euro a day to spend in Portugal. Hopefully Manuel will get my call and we can stay with him in Ericeira. If not, we’re kind of… we’d have to stay in Lisbon and sleep in the airport all week and get what we can for the euro a day.” Oscar was right, I told myself, but didn’t say aloud, we’ll be burning our clothes in the street to stay warm and eating Kendal Mint Cake.
“I can’t believe this,” he said, still looking down, idly scratching the tabletop with his thumbnail. “James, I don’t know, I think the gods are against us. I think… this is how my life has been these past few… I think I should become a criminal. There’s good money to be made in crime” (he was joking but there was more desperation than humor behind the joke). “I give up. I give… I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing. There’s nothing I can do,” he leaned back and put his hands up. “James, I’m throwing my cards down. What’s the point even trying? I’m an international fugitive. I’m worse than a terrorist. I might as well hijack the plane back from Portugal and crash it into something. They’re going to… as soon as I get to New York, if I get to New York, I’m done. They’ll get me. If it’s not the landlords and bill collectors it’s the cops. If it’s not the cops it’s… “
“Or,” I said, cutting him off, “or… or we could spend the rest of the money on another bottle of wine, which will give us free rounds of tapas until we’re done drinking and then… and then we worry about money tomorrow. Something will happen. We’ll figure something out.”
Jeremy’s eyes flickered to life and he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and smiled at me. It was a child’s smile. A sweet, sad child suddenly told a good thing.
“I was going to suggest it,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “but I didn’t want to be the one who said it.”
“Well, I said it. What’s ‘One more bottle of red wine’ in Spanish? Un mas botela de vino tinto? Un mas? Or Uno mas? I can never remember.”
“The second I think. No, it’s Un. Un mas.” He was grinning big now and the sadness was gone. He pulled a cigarette out of his pack of Lucky Strikes, tapped its end on the table and put it to his lips. “Jeremy and James! The conquering American GIs!” he announced happily. “The conquering GIs have returned! Damn you, Poseidon. Damn you, Zeus. Damn you, damn you, damn you. Damn all of you. We’re the real gods. How do you say, King Kong ain’t got nothin’ on me in Spanish again? El gran mono negro … something something tienes… tiene nada… something. I don’t remember. Damn you… to all the gods. Je suis acteur célèbre et je suis perdu! Je suis Clooney. Damn you, damn you, damn you. We’re amazing. Damn you. Damn you.” He was boasting again and it felt good to hear him boast.
I got up and walked to the counter and ordered another bottle.
