Short Story: "Abroad"

Here's a short story I wrote a few months ago. Any critique would be appreciated...


-Lee




Abroad



I first met Simon and Gid while staying at a youth hostel in the Lavapiés section of Madrid. The hostel was run by an expatriate French Canadian who had converted an old apartment building on a busy corner of the Calle del Olivar into four floors of dormitories. Each room was filled wall to wall, and floor to ceiling, by narrow bunk beds. The fifth and sixth floor were unfinished space, the floors exposed crossbeams, and young backpackers worked there a few hours a day hammering and plastering to pay for their keep. It was the cheapest hostel in Madrid, I remember it cost something like four American dollars a day, but many of the travelers who stayed there were still nearly penniless, even if they seemed mostly happy.
Fortunately I had a little money saved up from my stay in Paris, so I didn't have to find work as soon as I arrived. For the first week I walked around Madrid, down the Calle de Atocha from my hostel, leaving behind the immigrant neighborhood with its cracked plaster facades, its African and Arabic barkers, its smells of roasted goat and lamb, through the Plaza Mayor and into the heart of the city- with its cobbled streets, Hapsburg palaces, and rows of nightclubs and cafes.
I hadn't traveled from Paris with anyone, and I didn't have enough money to go to clubs to meet people, so at night, I gravitated back to the hostel, especially its common room on the first floor. It was a small room, only large enough for a dining room table, a few lounge chairs, and a television. The owner of the hostel went home around seven every evening, and the rest of the night was left to us. People watched television, played cards, ate, and at about ten, the alcohol came out. Cheap beer and wine from the corner store, we'd drink until four or five in the morning. At some point someone would inevitably bring out a guitar or a small stereo. No one complained about the noise, except for the occasional tourist too stubborn to admit they were staying in the wrong sort of place, and those people were sent upstairs with laughter and a few insults, in slurred accents they probably didn't understand.
My first few weeks at the hostel were eventful, as they usually were in a new city. I made a dozen fast friends, and developed an infatuation for a young psychiatry student from Oslo. In short order she rejected my advances. She said our connection was intellectual, not sexual, and that was that. However, my loneliness was soon eased by an Italian girl a few years younger than me. I wasn't interested in her at first, but she made all the advances. She made it seem good at first. She became my girlfriend in the city, until a week later I saw her kissing someone else in front of the hostel.
Two months passed and the novelty of staying in the hostel began to fade. Inevitable departures took many a friend, and trading my life story with every new arrival grew tiresome. I realized that most people who stayed longer than a few months left the hostel and found cheaper apartments in the neighborhood. I'd already run through the money I'd saved in Paris and had been forced to take a part-time job unloading boxes in a warehouse. I wasn't yet thinking of what country to go to next, but I needed to stop wasting money at the hostel, even if there was no cheaper in town.
I was introduced to a Frenchwoman who was about to vacate her apartment across the street. She was very happy to pass the place on to me. She was a painter, so we had plenty to talk about that afternoon besides her tiny, rundown space. I thought of myself as a photographer, even if I couldn't afford professional-grade equipment, or sometimes film. But about my ambition to be a photographer, mostly I felt I was exaggerating back then. I rarely took photographs worth keeping, and definitely very few worth trying to sell. Eventually I did become a professional photographer after I returned home to California, even if I still earn most of my income teaching classes at the local community college.
I was walking down the hallway, with its skylights piercing the roof five stories above the street and letting a grayish light settle in with the other disused objects sitting in the hall: old furniture, stained mattresses, forgotten paint cans. The door next to the Frenchwoman's apartment swung open. "Margaritte, is that you?"
I looked at the young man in the doorway. He was bare-chested, with the tattoo of a broken heart inked on his chest. His hair was trimmed short, and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
"Ehh, mate," the man said, "Wrong person I suppose. You Margaritte's friend?" He stuck out his hand. He had a strong grip, which surprised me since his arms were thin and bony. I was able to place his accent after a minute.
I told him, "I'm moving into Margaritte's place in a week or so. I'm Matt."
"Simon. Pleased. You American, mate?"
"Yes. Are you Scottish?"
"Aye. That's well done. Not many Yanks can recognize the accent."
"I was there about a year ago."
"That's brilliant," Simon became excited and his face lit up boyishly. I began to like him. "Why don't you come into our flat, have a smoke?"
I can't say I ever considered leaving. It wasn't just politeness or curiosity that made me stay, not just an hour or two, but all afternoon and most of the night. I was virtually friendless in Madrid and eager to know people. It turned out that Simon and his roommate Gid, who was still at work, had been traveling together for the last four years. During this long story of where Simon had been, a girl sat on the bed next to him, barely speaking. She was pretty. Impressively so, given that Simon didn't seem to care about her one bit, even if she looked at him longingly and stroked his arm whenever he got up to get a beer.
After a few hours, Gid came in, said hello to Simon's girl and then sat on the sofa. He had close-cropped blonde hair and a frank, open expression. However, I got the impression he wasn't as garrulous as Simon. When addressed, he usually just grunted and sipped his beer. He didn't seem surprised to find me in his apartment, or particularly interested in who I might be.
Around eight, Simon's girl got up and left. Gid seemed to reviving a little. He and Simon started talking about mutual friends back in Edinburgh, and eventually Gid included me in their conversation. He asked the usual questions: where I'd come from, what I knew about Madrid so far, what I was planning to do when I left. I gave the usual line about being photographer, and I felt sure he saw through the whole thing, but he didn't say anything to ruin my story.
"I'm thinking about opening a restaurant in Poland." Gid said. He was very earnest. It seemed he was warming to me. "I was there last year. You can take the money you made somewhere else and open up a business there. It's possible."
Simon chuckled. He stretched out even further on the sofa, his long body offering no resistance to the hard end of the sofa, so that he looked perfectly molded to the furniture's frame.
Gid asked him testily, "What do you want then?"
"Ehhh, Gid, my mate all these years," Simon said, "You don't know what I want?"
"No, I don't."
"I just want to live and die. That's all there is, we might as well admit it."
Gid sucked air through his teeth. "Do what you want then, mate."
Simon chuckled and closed his eyes. Gid continued to talk about his plans. They seemed a little half-formed, especially when compared with the fervor with which he spoke of them. In truth, the discussion started to bore me and set me on edge at the same time. I had nothing to offer about my future plans other than the vague occupation I'd already mentioned. I wasn't heading to Poland, or any other country, to open up a business, or to try to become a citizen, or do anything else that might have specific steps to it. I was running away. Not from anything dramatic. I'd finished high school, spent a year in college, and then dropped out. I'd worked in town, doing too many low-paying, menial jobs, until I was sick of it. I'd decided I never wanted to work again, at least not in a place that bored me to death.
At some point during Gid's discourse, Simon had pulled himself upright again. I wanted to bring Simon back into the conversation. His nihilistic bent appealed to me, even though I suspected his cynicism was largely put on for effect.
"Who was that girl you were with?" I asked. "She wasn't bad-looking."
"Ehhh, that bird?" Simon pushed the wire rims up from the tip of his nose. "She's not bad. But I don't fancy to be with birds right now. She forced herself on me. If I wanted a bird, she'd just bring me trouble." He pointed to the tattoo on his chest.
The phone rang suddenly and Gid picked it up. He mostly grunted his assent to the person on the other end of the line. When he put the receiver down, he said to Simon, "That was Keith, the English bloke I told you about. He's coming over."
Gid gave us a quick rundown on Keith before he arrived. Keith had started working with Gid a few weeks ago, and Gid had learned that he was staying in an apartment in Chueca where he was paying way too much money. Gid had told him about the hostel across the street, and Keith had apparently taken his suggestion. Only a few hours earlier, Keith had packed up all his possessions and checked into the hostel.
Half an hour later, Keith came up to the apartment. He was a tall, barrel-chested man, but with small eyes and hands. His plaid shirt was freshly laundered. However his hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions like a thatched roof. He was wary; he looked at every corner of the apartment when he entered. He was probably ten years older than the rest of us. He seemed to be, at the youngest, thirty-five, possibly even forty.
"So you decided to move," Gid said.
"Not that it was easy," Keith said. He had come into the apartment with a beer in his hand, and he now opened it and sat down heavily on the end of the bed. "That man over there is a bloody complainer, such nonsense."
Simon sat up straighter. I think he could sense a rant coming on, which he thought might prove humorous. "Go on," he urged.
"He said I couldn't keep all my gear with me," Keith said. "I'm going to have to throw out half my clothes, my radio, my telly."
"But you're going to South America soon anyway," Gid interjected, "You wouldn't be able take all that with you anyway."
"Yes, but I didn't want to just leave it in the street."
"Bring it over here," Simon said. "We'll take it."
"Too late," Keith said, "I saw some señor, hombre, or whatever the ****, outside the hostel. He gave me two thousand pesetas for it."
"Only two thousand?" I asked. I found it hard to believe anyone would part with their possessions for that amount. My daily budget, which was restrictively low, was still a thousand pesetas.
"I hate Spain," Keith said, "Bloody rip-off artists everywhere."
Gid walked over to the refrigerator and brought us a fresh round of beers. No matter what else I thought about Gid in the end, I have to admit he always generous with his beer. "Well, at least you're not paying a fortune for that apartment anymore."
"Yes, and the quicker I can build up my money to go to South America, the better. I already have a hundred and fifty thousand pesetas."
I was about to say that South America wasn't likely to be any better if he hated Spaniards, but I let it drop. I was impressed that this man, who seemed utterly disorganized, had already saved up that much money. All of us were supposed to be putting money away toward the next leg of our trip, but so far, I hadn't saved a thing. It was true that I wasn't planning to leave Madrid anytime soon, but money worries always hung over my head- even if they were still in the distance.
I quickly understood why Gid and Simon weren't surprised that virtual strangers such as Keith and I had shown up in their apartment out of the blue. Different backpackers drifted into Simon and Gid's apartment over the next few months. It had become like the common room at the hostel, a place for strangers to drink beer and stay up late. However, I was the most frequent visitor. I was aware that I was in a group that had fallen together out of convenience and that accepted almost anyone, but at the same time, I felt I had a genuine bond of friendship with Simon, and that seemed to balance out my own nagging suspicion that I was going to their apartment because I had nowhere else to go, and that Simon and Gid knew it.
The three of us, and occasionally Keith also, would hear about a taverna or tapas bar and we'd eagerly plan our visit for a day or two. However, none of us had money, so mostly we stayed at Simon and Gid's, feeling cut off from what was going on in the city, and growing dangerously addicted to heroin and cocaine.
I had done cocaine before, but it was Simon and Gid who first introduced me to heroin. I'd scrape the white powder into a line and inhale through it a straw, not much differently than I did cocaine. No syringes were proffered or used. Simon and Gid ingested much more heroin than I did. Honestly, I can't say I didn't like heroin, but I hated being around Simon and Gid when I was laying off it, when I'd come over to their apartment and find them collapsed on their sofa watching Spanish television. There's nothing more boring than being around a heroin user when you're not using yourself, except maybe spending all night running around town looking for a connection.
Our regular dealer was José, but when he wasn't around, which was often, it was any number of people. We'd take chances, going up to a building on a tip, meeting with strangers. And usually they'd make us wait, or send us somewhere else, or take our money and run. If we found drugs, we forked over about three or four hours wages a piece. I was using too much, and I looked at what Simon and Gid were using and was a little disgusted in them and myself.
Keith didn't do drugs at all. In fact, he could sometimes be self-righteous about it, but then we'd remind him that he drank, and drank a lot. The alcohol made him clumsy. He'd stumble about in the hallway on his way back from the bathroom, unable to pull the door open again. And he was complaining constantly. He hated Spain. As Gid put it, "Keith's always complaining about how Spain is doing all these things to him, but he needs to see it's partly his fault. Any country can tear you down, and Spain's not that bad."
If it was partly Keith's fault, it was still easy to see he was getting worse. One day we heard someone trip over the broken chair in the hall and then loudly kick it down the stairs. It was late, we were high on heroin, and we had no idea who was outside. Then Keith pounded on the door. His knock, thankfully, was instantly recognizable.
Gid went to the door and asked, "What the hell are you doing?" Keith swung in as if he were tethered to the doorknob. His big body seemed to undulate as he regained his balance and then he stood inside the doorway, looming over Simon and I on the sofa. Pieces of errant flesh disfigured his face. I had to look twice. At first I thought I was imagining them, but it turned the growths were really there. They were beads of flesh, four or five in a half-circle beneath one eye, but most pronounced were the stack of polyps projecting from the base of his nose, two large beads and two smaller ones, stacked like a rock cairn, jutting outward and crossing the corner of his eye.
"Why are you so quiet? I could fuckin cross my fingers in this room and you sods would hear it," Keith said. He walked unsteadily to the center of the room. His clinched fists were planted just beneath his ribcage. He didn't just look drunk to me, he looked like he'd come across the street to share a problem, somehow expecting there to be a swirl of activity in the apartment into which his awkwardness and agitation could naturally meld, but instead he'd found a quiet lethargy that threw him off guard.
"We're just relaxing," Gid said.
"Aye, Gid's correct, he is," Simon said. He didn't move an inch upward on the couch. He'd snorted heroin an hour before. It occurred to me that if it had been cocaine instead of heroin, Keith would have gotten as much conversation as he wanted, and then probably much more he didn't.
Keith looked at each of us in turn, as if soliciting a sympathetic ear. Simon stared at him quizzically, but then shut his eyes. Gid went to the refrigerator and got a beer. He had one for Keith, but Keith didn't even notice it was being held out to him.
"Matt," Keith said. Perhaps he'd noticed that I'd been observing him the most carefully. "You know that bloody landlord over at the hostel, don't you? He's a fuckin bastard, isn't he?"
"I don't know. He was always okay to me," I said.
"Not to me he wasn't," Keith said, "Kicked me out this afternoon."
We were all questions then.
Keith answered Gid first. "I was behind. You know I haven't gotten many hours lately at the shop." He and Keith worked together doing deliveries for a furniture store. I remembered now that Gid had told me that the owner had been complaining that Keith was often late and surly with the customers.
Keith sat down heavily on one of single beds against the wall. "I almost have enough money saved up for South America. I just need to work for a few more weeks."
Gid looked sheepish. He walked back toward the kitchen scratching the back of his neck. "I guess you can try to talk to the owner," Gid said. "You just can't be late anymore."
"I know," Keith said, "Just a few more weeks. That's all I need."
"He can stay with Keiko," Simon said, "Her friend moved out last week. Keiko asked me if I knew anyone who'd room with her."
"I don't know if I want to live with a woman," Keith said. He was both gruff and a little shy, and infinitely more conservative than any of us. I'd seen Keiko many times in Simon and Gid's apartment. She was a pale, willowy girl from Tokyo who was traveling the world after graduating college. It wouldn't be at all unusual for Keith to move in with her. Men and women traveling Europe on the cheap and looking for private rooms often fell into temporary, usually sexless, cohabitation.
Keith still looked undecided. I tried to reason with him. It was hard, not only because Keith was so obstinate, but because I was faced also with Gid and Simon's heavy silence. After a few minutes, however, Simon realized what was happening, and he sat up and began to help me to convince Keith. Simon was always good that way. Beyond his surface nihilism, he was an intelligent person, and utterly unjudgmental of others. In those days, I was grateful for that.
Simon and I made progress in convincing Keith, so eventually we all grew quiet again, listlessly watching a Spanish game show full of gratuitous nudity. Keith kept drinking Gid's beer, and at some point in the night, he stumbled out to the bathroom and vomited. When he came back into the apartment, he half-stumbled across the room and fell headlong into Gid's bed.
Gid quickly dragged Keith from the bed. "That's my bed, don't get your ******* puke all over it." Simon and I both tried to calm Gid down. Simon propped himself up on one elbow. I started to stand up.
Keith sat on the floor, his head lolling back and forth. "I'm sorry, Gid. I'm a stupid sod."
Gid grunted. "It's okay, mate."
Then Simon laughed. "Aye, Keith. We're all silly bastards. Except Matt. That's why he's a good mate." Simon reached over and grabbed my arm. Then he closed his eyes and was again dead to the world.
Keith stayed in Simon and Gid's apartment that night. Around three o'clock the next afternoon, I heard a series of loud bumps in the hallway, and opened the door and saw Keith dragging his backpack up the stairs. I said hello to him and offered my help. He seemed touched, almost absurdly so. He looked at me with his hands hanging at his sides, his backpack leaning haphazardly against his shins as if it were a burden he was happy to forget. "Thank you," he said, "You're not a bad bloke, Matt."
Then he gestured to the door at the end of the hall, which belonged to Keiko. My offer to help after all had been a friendly gesture; he was almost to her apartment anyway. He picked up his bag and carried it the rest of the distance to the door, and I watched him stand there for a minute. He looked nervous, like a salesman about to make his first pitch. Then he knocked. I heard Keiko yelling from the other side, "Whaaaaa? Keith?" Then I closed my door and left them alone.
Some days later- it may have been four or five days, it may have been a couple of weeks, I can't remember- I was in Simon and Gid's apartment when Keiko came in. Her face was crumpled up like she was upset.
"What's wrong?" Gid asked.
Keiko held her hands to her face and sat down. "Your friend. He mess bed. He yell. I leave, he yell so much."
"When was this, just now?" I asked.
She didn't answer me. I felt a little slighted, despite the obvious discomfiture she was feeling.
"Did he hurt you?" Simon asked. Keiko shook her head no. She seemed unable to speak, or at least, was through trying to tell her story. She just sat on the sofa with her head in her hands.
I announced to the group, "I'm going to their room."
"Aye, check it out," Simon said, "We'll stay with Keiko."
I went to the apartment and opened the door. It smelled like a toilet. From what I could gather, this had all happened in the middle of the night while Keith was asleep. I could see Keiko had pulled his mattress from the bunk bed and stood it up against the wall to dry. I closed the door and started to walk back down to Simon and Gid's apartment.
Keiko looked much calmer, but she was facing toward the wall, as if slightly dazed. There was a wisp of smoke from the ashtray and then I understood. The windows were open wide, and most of the smell of hashish was gone.
"Ehhhhh, Matt, me mate." Simon struggled to an upright position. "Join our post-breakup. Such strife." Simon lifted his eyes to the ceiling and wagged his chin philosophically. Then he repeated himself: "Such strife." I thought he was about to laugh.
"How is she?" I asked.
Gid answered me. "She's doing much better."
Keiko was still staring toward the wall. It was then I realized that I couldn't recall her ever addressing a word to me directly. Not that she was an outgoing person by nature, but when she did speak, it was always to Gid or Simon, even though I was often in the same room. I realized in her eyes, I must have been an unnecessary and temporary appendage to the boys she knew.
Before I'd even seated myself, the tranquil scene fell apart before my eyes. Keith, without knocking first, let himself in. He looked drunk. Keiko flew up and ran toward the far wall. "No way," she said, "Stay out."
Gid and Simon both rushed over to her and put their arms around her. There was a confused jumble of voices: Gid and Simon telling her it was okay; me, I think, telling Keith to come back later. Keiko kept saying make him go, keep him away.
At first, Keith looked frozen. No doubt he'd anticipated us being alone. Keiko was straining against the cordon of Gid and Simon's arms, still screaming at him to leave. Finally, Keith started backing toward the door, but he didn't leave. He stood there and shouted back at Keiko, "I'm sorry, you stupid fuckin bird. I'm sorry."
Keith finally stumbled out the door, and eventually we were able to calm Keiko down again. After a while, I left to make dinner for myself. When I returned to Gid and Simon's apartment, Keiko was gone and Keith was there instead. As I expected, his backpack was leaning in the corner.
"He's going to stay here until he gets his ticket to South America," Gid said to me by way of explanation. I looked over at Keith. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, distractedly stroking the red nubs under his eye.
"That jappy bird, fuckin all her fault if she can't stand a man helping her pay her rent," Keith said. Even if I thought his defiance was belied by the look of shame on his face, I didn't want to stay around to see what his next mood might be. His body had the look of a coiled threat: his skin was raw and mean, his shoulders lowered as if he was ready to lunge outward, his large body compressed into too small a space by the world and the heaviness of his own personality. But then he would look up and you would see again that he was entirely harmless, his eyes confused and almost childlike, waiting only for comfort. He would retreat to his old cage by the end of the night, I felt sure of that, but I was less sure of what he would do in the meantime.
I went back to my room, but I fought back the urge several times to return to Gid and Simon's apartment. For some reason, it was a very lonely night. I had a few beers by myself, stared down at a book I wasn't really paying attention to, and almost called an ex-girlfriend back in the States just to have somebody to talk to. I felt trapped, not by my dingy room, but by my simple need to be with other people, no matter what the circumstances.
When I came home from work the next day, not a minute after I'd closed my door, I heard Gid and Simon's swing open and smash against the plaster in the hall. There were heavy footsteps in the hallway that sounded like Keith's. I held the door open for him.
"Matt- please mate- tell me you've seen the envelope I've been keeping my money in," Keith said.
"What?"
"You know my money I've been saving up for South America?"
"Of course I do. Don't tell me it's gone."
"I think it's that Japanese bird."
"Is she home? Did you check?"
"No, but she must have it."
"Okay, but let's go over to the Scottish guys' apartment. Maybe it's there somewhere."
"It's not, mate."
"Let's check anyway," I said. I brushed past him and stepped into the hall, and he followed behind me, despite his objections. I could hear Simon raising his voice to Gid inside their apartment. It was all desperation, everywhere. There must have been over two thousand dollars in that envelope.
When we walked in, Gid was lifting a cushion from a sofa. Simon was standing behind him, craning his neck to see into the crevices of the fabric. "Don't move on so quick," Simon said to Gid after Gid had walked over to look under the bed. It seemed they were already looking in all the desperate places where nothing is ever found.
Simon poked around in the holes in the sofa fabric that went down to the springs. Gid said to him, "Look around all you want. The money still isn't here."
"Keiko has it," Keith said.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "Where did you see it last?"
We all sat down and tried to decide where Keith had lost his money. He last saw the envelope inside his backpack, but he claimed Keiko made him pack up too quickly for him to check if it was still there. But as we questioned him further, he became less sure that he'd ever opened the envelope while he was staying at Keiko's.
"I've got a mate over at the hostel holding some of my gear for me," Keith said.
"You should go check over there," I said. For some reason, Simon chuckled, and Keith glanced at him curiously.
"Aye, Matt's right," Simon said, in a mock serious voice. "It never hurts to check."
"I'm going over to the hostel," Keith said, "But watch for that Japanese bird."
After Keith left, Simon said to Gid, "Keith's a strange man, but he's my friend. I think he's my friend. Not like you're my friend of course. Which is why I gave you a little chance by letting him leave before I said something."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Gid said.
Simon said, "You don't know what I'm talking about. That's a laugh." Simon was becoming excited, his voice was high-pitched and he kept trying to keep his eyeglasses from sliding to the end of his nose. Then he surprised me by getting up and standing in front of Gid, all the while pointing toward Keith's backpack, which was now lying empty on the floor next to a pile of clothes and other gear. "I suppose that was all just a laugh too," he said, "Is that the truth, mate?"
Gid looked at me. I'm not a good judge of character, but neither was Gid good at concealing his guilt. But then his mood appeared to change, and he shook his head at me in disgust.
"This American-" Gid began.
Simon laughed and nodded sarcastically. "Send Matt away. He's the only good friend we've made in Madrid. Send him away."
"Gid, give the money back," I said, "No one's going to say anything."
"I didn't take any money."
Simon spread his arms and said in a high-pitched voice, "Aye, and that's why I came in yesterday afternoon and half of Keith's clothes were sitting out on the floor."
"I was looking for his cigarettes."
Simon spun around in one quick merry revolution, like some schoolyard game. His hand was clutched to his tattoo and he was laughing. Soon both Simon and I were pounding Gid with questions. Gid didn't construct even a vaguely plausible alibi, but he was stubborn. I was afraid Keith would come back before we got him to admit the theft.
Then Gid said to Simon, "I didn't take the money, but if I did, I'd use it to open my business. What would Keith do? Waste it all in South America and then blame someone else because he was having a terrible time? Even you'd use the money better. Even if you wasted it all on drugs, you'd still use it better."
I could hear Keith coming up the stairs. The reined-in violence I'd seen in Keith kept me from telling him the truth while the situation was so chaotic. I passed him in the doorway without a word, even though I wanted nothing more than to see Gid's lie undone.
The next day I wanted to talk to Simon alone and find out what our plan of attack would be. He followed me back to my room under the pretense of borrowing CDs.
"It's disgusting," I said.
"Aye," Simon agreed.
"What are we going to do?"
"Gid never admitted it to me last night," Simon said, "So I can't do anything now."
"But isn't Gid your best friend? You can talk to him."
"Aye, I will. But is it worth it?"
"What are you talking about?"
"This world- something or somebody always comes around and takes what you have. Even you and me, one day we'll just die. Sit down or lay down- and die. Everything will be taken from us, so what's the use of getting angry at these little things."
"That's just ridiculous, bullshit nihilism," I said.
"I know," Simon said, "I'm terrible that way, completely terrible. I pretend I don't care about anything." This is how Simon was when you criticized him. He'd cave in, go limp, but all the while, he'd give you the impression he wasn't really listening to you.
"So what are you going to do?" I asked.
"Nothing. It's despicable, I know. But one day I'll be in some town, in some bloody country, and I'll pay. I know it. Something bad will happen to me and nobody will be there to help me."
"Gid won't be there," I said. "Not after showing us who he really is."
"Aye, maybe you're right," Simon said, "But I'm a horrible judge of character. He'd always seemed a good mate to me. We've always helped each other out."
Simon kept talking, telling me how good a friend I was too, and how much he wished we could find Keith's money. While we talked, I saw beads of sweat sprouting along his hairline, and noticed how he was grinding his teeth. He seemed really high, but I can't say why I thought that. I'd probably seen him more drugged out on other days- he was still coherent at least- but somehow, from my perspective, the effects of cocaine and heroin were more apparent in him than ever before. He and Gid had made a private deal to split the money, and Simon was already celebrating. I was certain of that.
That was the last time I would speak to Simon. As he left my apartment, the look of his face was one of ridiculous condescension. Maybe he really thought I didn't know what he'd done, or maybe it was just the drugs affecting him. But a few days later, I passed him in the hall without returning his greeting. His expression then was one of such abject sadness and shame that I almost turned around.
A few days later, Simon and Gid suddenly left. I heard from a backpacker that Gid had said he was going to Poland, Simon to Holland. Apparently, it was the first time in years the two had gone their separate ways. Keith kept looking for his money. He never openly blamed Gid and Simon, despite their sudden disappearance. Instead, he hounded Keiko until she threatened to call the police.
One night, weeks later, Keith showed up at my door. He had a six-pack of beer, which was an informal way of inviting himself in. It was a sign of his incessant cautiousness; even if he'd been empty-handed, I would have been glad to invite him in. We sat and talked about our plans. He'd moved to a hostel in another neighborhood, and was continuing to try to work in Madrid and build back his savings. He'd be in South America by June, he predicted. As for my own plans, I told him I wasn't sure if I'd go to Australia, Thailand, or maybe back home to California. California was my choice in the end. Neither of us mentioned Simon or Gid. For me it was intentional. I'm sure it was for Keith too.
After Keith left that night, I couldn't find him again. I tried looking for him at the hostel where he'd moved, only to be told he'd left. No one remembered why. It was only months later, when I'd saved enough money to fly to California, that I ran into a mutual friend who'd just come back from Morocco. Keith, he'd heard, had had an embarrassing run in with a policeman. The policeman had shaken Keith awake where he'd passed out on the stoop of a taverna. In a fit of confusion, he'd tried to fight back, but the policeman had merely laughed and kicked him a few times in the ribs. Keith had never even gotten to his feet. The policeman let Keith go, which was fortunate for him. There were no other details, except that a few days later Keith had gone to the British Embassy and applied for an emergency repatriation. Now he was back home in England.
I soon returned to California. Keith, as well as Simon and Gid, had my parents' address there and could have contacted me. However, I didn't expect any of them to write, until one day my parents forwarded a letter from Europe to my new apartment. It was Keith. He was working in a plastics factory in East Anglia. Gid had sent him a small amount of money from Poland, without ever admitting his theft. I think Keith, however, knew the truth.
Neither Keith nor Gid had heard from Simon in Holland, if Simon was still there. By this time nearly a year had passed since Simon had left Madrid, so he could have been anywhere. Gid had even used his contacts with Simon's family and friends to try to track him down, but they hadn't heard from him either. In fact, they were just as confused and worried as Gid.
After a couple of years, Keith and I fell out of touch. The last word I'd received from him was that Simon was still missing. Gid had expanded his restaurant, but shortly afterward, he'd taken several months off from his growing business to travel to Amsterdam, trying to track Simon down. Around the same time, Keith had received an anonymous gift of money in the mail- double the amount that had been stolen from him. I wanted to believe the money had come from Simon, but Keith told me that the handwriting on the envelope was definitely Gid's.
I thought then of contacting Gid. It seemed ridiculous to be cold toward him now, especially when he was suffering far more than either of us over Simon's disappearance. I sent him a short note, and he replied, saying he was sorry about everything that had happened in Madrid. He was determined to find Simon, and he felt guilty, as if his actions had been responsible for Simon's disappearance. Even I hadn't placed that much blame on Gid's shoulders. He promised to write me as soon as he heard anything about Simon, no matter how much time had passed.
My address in California has changed several times, and the restaurant in Poland no longer exists. Still, I wonder if those are the only reasons I've never heard from Gid.