by Renata Adler
It began at the airline ticket counter. No, it began with another lorry driver, three days earlier, at midday, in a small town, on the road from Shannon. No, with the fact that we were brought up to be honest, or the fact that my parents fled. Well, wherever it began, the ambassador, a great and kind man, in his youth a poet and a war hero, now a banker and owner of vast farms in Iowa, had offered me his house, a castle really, empty now but for its little staff, on the Irish coast at Cihrbradàn. In his absence, the house, the grounds, the staff, especially, were forlorn. Talk to them, he said, as he spoke of Celia, Paddy, Pat, and Kathleen. They are lonely and a friendly people. Celia, the cook, missed having guests at table, and preparing picnics for them. Paddy missed shooting parties. Ask Paddy where to shoot, if shooting was what I wanted. Otherwise, ask him where to go for walks. Talk to them. Stay all of November if I liked. The offer was not only kind; it seemed providential. I am a reader of horoscopes in tabloids. Even at the best of times, I look for portents. Within hours, I had set out, standby, on a crowded flight to London. All night over the Atlantic, beside me, a coughing man, evidently feverish. In the morning, at Heathrow, the shady business at the airline ticket counter. But, when I got to Shannon, and had crossed the tarmac in the rain to a dim hangar marked Baggage Claim, I thought, Well, at least, at last I have done something. I have come this far. I found a booth, and a pale operator, who put me through to Cihrbradàn. I asked Paddy for directions; he said, just follow the signs, it is all quite clearly marked. I passed down a long corridor, through customs, and entered the airport itself. The stalls for the car-rental agencies were lined up in a row. It was like a Levantine bazaar, a bazaar in Baghdad, Cairo, or Damascus. The men in the stalls were shouting, hawking, gesticulating, hissing at me, psst, psst, as though I were a cat, or (but this is another story) a woman who has inadvertently wandered, in Manhattan, into the wrong room of the Century Club. For some reason, I was apparently the only likely customer. The other passengers had already left, or were walking with a clearer sense of destination. I stood, hesitant, at some distance from the stalls. The wheedling and hectoring so surprised me that I headed toward the exit, and the taxi stand. I reconsidered. I approached the youngest man in the row of stalls, a frail dark-haired fellow of about eighteen. How much would it cost, I asked, to rent his smallest car for about a week. He named a sum. I paused. He cut the price by nine dollars a day. I said all right. But then he both miscomputed the amount and drew up the sum in Irish pounds instead of dollars. When I mentioned it, he tore up the form and began again, with an air of exasperation and absent-mindedness, as though he had never done anything so practical as to rent a car before. There’s no charge for mileage, he said. He crossed out Mileage, and wrote in Fuel: $35, and added a line: Misc. Tax: $19. Finally, he asked whether I would like insurance. I wavered. My sense of the transaction somehow gave me no confidence in the quality, or even the fact of this insurance. I said, No, thank you, I am insured. Why, so are we, he said. This is just for the initial liability, eight hundred dollars. I would normally take this kind of insurance without question, but there was something makeshift about even the piece of paper, which he now held out to me as if it were a raffle ticket; and, in fact, I was insured, as a driver, for major accidents. So I signed the waiver of insurance, and the contract for the rental of the car.
Talk to them, the ambassador had said, they are a friendly people. Well, the hell they are. An occasional creature of great poetry and beauty; the others, suspicious, crafty, greedy, stubborn, incurious, stupid, devious, violent, and cruel. And, of course, that is what the history of the country is. Point, set, and match, as the American professor’s wife said, at dinner, at the Waltons’, on the night I concluded that I had to leave the country. On the night I drove and drove, and became ever more certain that I had missed my turnoff, in which case I was bound, not for Dublin at all, but for Tuam and for Shannon; or perhaps worse, lost entirely. So that I would drive, through this alternating sleet and mauve and breathless clarity till daylight, calling attention to myself at daylight, when what I needed was to catch the first flight of the morning out of Dublin. A flight on which I had no reservation, but on which I had been told, in response to an anonymous call the night before, there were still seats. Then, when I had stopped and turned around, there were those headlights coming toward me, the first car I had seen in more than twenty minutes; and I thought, Could the police have alerted one another, in every little town along the way, ever since I set out from the castle, dropping my key in the intense dark at Cihrbradàn, and could this be another of their agents, sent to follow me out of the station at Castlebar? Not so paranoid a thought as that, for many reasons; not least, because the police in this country must be accustomed to following nightriders of all descriptions, Protestants, Catholics, gunrunners, suppliers, enemies, members, betrayers of the IRA. And then, of course, I was following my teamster. But what grounds to trust him, after all? In extenuation; but why raise so defensively this matter of extenuation, since, so far, I have done nothing; I have only come this far.
“My dear,” the English publisher said, “we were in their dining room, looking out on their balcony, and the skyline of Beirut. With each course, the talk became more gruesome. ‘Tell them, Mina,’ the brother would say, ‘in what condition they left your fiancé, that night, on your doorstep. And about the note they enclosed, in the small box, with his hand.’ ‘Ah, but I will tell also,’ the girl would answer, ‘in what manner, and how quickly, we exacted our revenge,’ Mind you, we were eating. I looked at them, and I thought, This is la crème. La crème de la crème de la Phalange.”
The airport, I notice, is absolutely silent. A carnival silence, of crooks, muggers, embezzlers, terrorists, thugs, burglars, traitors, swindlers, rapists, but here I am on shaky ground. This is the age of crime, but it is not yet at this moment that I begin to be in the shade or the shadow of the wrong. I pick up my bags. The frail dark-haired man, key in hand, and carrying an umbrella, accompanies me out into the rain, and across the parking lot, to a small yellow car, with a slightly dented door. It is true that he is talking amiably, about the weather, about the route, but I am still carrying my bags. Finally, he opens the car door for me, says, Safe journey then, and walks away. Well, the car’s radio doesn’t work, nor does the heater; and I misunderstand, it turns out, the windshield wiper, which flaps (as I drive, I count) only once every thirteen seconds. Bidden or unbidden; that is, whether the switch is on or off. The road signs, virtually indistinguishable in this weather from the color of the sky, often do not mention even the largest towns. Galway, for instance, is sometimes mentioned, sometimes not. The car-rental man, like Paddy, said to follow the signs for Westport. But there are no signs for Westport. I do not look at the map of Ireland, which lies folded on the seat beside me, because, in the intervals between those desultory, spastic, and somehow each time startling flaps of the windshield wiper, the windows are completely misted over. For some reason, I am also disinclined to stop. The car-rental man also said that the distance from Shannon to Cihrbradàn was about thirty miles, but I’ve already driven more than sixty. I begin to persuade myself that what the car registers is kilometers. I have heard and read so much, through the years, about Galway, however. I know there will be, there is sooner or later bound to be a large, clear sign for Galway. Finally, I pull over to a large gas station, and wait beside the fuel pumps. Nobody stirs. I walk through the rain toward the office. A pudgy young man, with sandy hair and freckled lips, is standing just inside the door. I say, Could you tell me, please, am I still on the right road, and how far is it, to Galway? He stares off into the distance. I stand there in the rain. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he says, with unmistakable satisfaction: I’ve no idea. He watches as I get back in my car, and set off, on the same road, in the same direction. I try the radio and the heater again. Nothing. A silence and a chill. Of the three forward speeds on the floorshift, I now notice, one is only intermittent; on even the smallest hills it does no
t always hold. I wish I had thought to ask him which was the nearest town. I have just about decided that I am in fact off course, so far off, and so long ago, that the man had looked, not sullenly pleased, but just bewildered, never having heard perhaps of Galway. Within half a mile of that gas station, there is a large sign: Galway 6. Well, maybe he didn’t like me, or understand my accent. Maybe he’s never traveled as far as six miles from where we stood, and the sign is so familiar to him he forgot. Maybe he has a mother, or an older sister, who likes to look at him blankly and say, in that tone of voice: I’ve no idea. Whatever it is, the rain stops, and the road is right. Still bemused, but taking heart, I drive.
I enter a small town; and, as I round a curve, on the cobbled road, I hear and slightly feel a sort of crack, or smack, on my side of the car. I think I’ve grazed a truck, a very large truck, parked half on the sidewalk, half in the road, along that curve. I get out and, to my great relief, I find that I have only hit his bumper. Or rather, his front bumper, being high off the curb, has hooked under my left front fender, just above the hubcap, tearing that fender in a straight line, from the rim behind the tire to the door hinge, a distance of about a foot. The fender, oddly, is not bent, only cut in that straight, tidy line. The edge of the truck’s bumper, on the other hand, heavy steel covered in thick rubber, is bent very slightly forward. That is all. A young man walks across the street. I say, I’ve hit your truck. He says, I guess you have. When he sees what has happened, he is at first as relieved as I am. He says, Fortunately, there’s no harm, fortunately; and starts to bend his bumper back. Then he sees the rental agency’s sticker on the rear window of my car. His eyes narrow, and he says, Is that a rental car? I say it is. He says, very slowly, Rental cars have insurance, and asks to see my insurance form. I say I haven’t one, just the rental agreement, and start to look for it in my purse. Still trusting, I say, I guess I ought to see your driver’s license then, we ought to exchange them. He says, There’s no need. It’s nothing. Fortunately there’s no harm, fortunately. He looks at my car, says, I just don’t want them coming after me. I find the rental agreement. He takes it, says, I’ll just be a minute, show this to the agent, for his advice. Then, he walks rapidly away.
Time passes. I don’t know where he has gone. By agent, for some reason, I think he meant a news agent, and from his allusion to advice, I assume the news agent is some sort of worldly friend. More time. He does not return. I park my car in a better spot, further from the curve. The town, it occurs to me, is absolutely still. I look for the news dealer, find him, ask where the truck driver might have gone. The man is oddly evasive at first, seems to know nothing about the truck, the driver, or the events, for that matter, which have just taken place, in that stillness, on a curve just a few yards from his door. He waits. Suddenly, he says, Perhaps he’s gone to the police station. I ask where that is. And though the street is the only one in town, and though it has on each side at most ten small buildings, either he, and the other people in his shop, and two people I subsequently ask are incapable of giving directions, or I am too rattled and obtuse to follow them, but I cannot find the police station. More time. I walk more slowly. I notice a doorway over which there is a small blue porcelain medallion, lettered, perhaps in Gaelic. The windows are dark. The door is locked; it has no handle; and when I knock there’s no reply. Twenty more minutes. I’ve walked the length of the town, several times, returning always to the truck. I wonder how I’m going to manage without my rental agreement, but I give up. I start to walk, again, toward my car, when the truck driver comes out of I don’t know which door. Where have you been? I ask, in an almost apologetic voice. He says, I’ve been to the agent, for his advice, it’s all taken care of, there’s no harm done. Although, for some reason, I still don’t altogether distrust him, I say, You know, I’ll need that rental agreement back. He’s been walking toward his truck. He says, It’s all right, I believe the agent has it. And his eyes shift briefly, involuntarily, toward the doorway under the medallion. The door is now slightly open. I walk toward it. The driver turns to follow me, runs. We enter almost at the same moment.
At the right of the room, which is small and almost completely dark, sits a policeman, writing, by the light of a small lamp, in a huge, lined ledger, at a wooden desk. The back of the room is dark, with, darker still, in outline, what appear to be three chairs. At no moment so far, not at the airport, not when I thought I was lost, not even when I heard the slap of bumper and fender, or in the long wait since, have I felt the slightest rush of adrenaline. Now, for some reason, I’m a little out of breath. The policeman says, It’s all right, ma’am, it’s taken care of. I say, almost accustomed now to not understanding and feeling somehow remiss, Well, officer, how do you mean? He is wearing his helmet, and writing in his ledger. He says, We’ve already rung the rental agency, and they have said they’ll pay. I say, No, don’t you see, I didn’t sign for their insurance. Under the agreement, I’m the one who has to pay. The policeman continues writing, says, It’s all right, ma’am, I’ve spoken to them, and I’m nearly finished. I say, Well, in that case, don’t you see, officer, I’ll need your name, and the driver’s, and a copy of your report. It’s all right, ma’am, the policeman says, I’ve nearly finished it. I say, But you haven’t seen my car or even the truck. He does not reply. I say, Surely you’re going to come and see the truck. As though this were a new thought to him, he gets up reluctantly from behind the desk. His helmet has been on the whole time. And I am still, or again, deluded, perhaps because they both seem so slow and unintelligent, with a kind of idiot trust. At the door, the driver, perhaps by now embarrassed, says, The damage of course is nothing. I just didn’t want them coming after me about your car. In this matter of the commas. In this matter of the paragraphs. In this matter of the scandal at the tennis courts. Not right here, I think, not now.
We walk to the truck. When the policeman finally sees, after I’ve pointed it out to him, that the bumper is bent, he starts to press his own foot against it, pauses, steps back, says to the driver, I guess you’ll want to bend that back. The driver, sensing perhaps a loss of allegiance, looks at us both and says, very slowly, I’ll want to get an estimate. The policeman, as though recollecting himself, says, He’ll want to get an estimate. I say, Look, since I’m responsible, why don’t we go together for an estimate, and I’ll just pay. Silence. The driver says, Oh, I can’t go now. I ask when he might be able to go. He looks away and says he can’t say at the moment. Beginning at last to get an intimation, I say, Why don’t you simply tell me your own estimate of the damages, and perhaps I could pay it to you now. He hesitates, seems to calculate, says, No, I’m afraid I couldn’t do that. The policeman has been standing there, looking off into the distance. I ask, either of them really, what I ought to do. I ask whether I oughtn’t to see the truck driver’s license. No reply. I look toward the policeman. He asks me when I’ll be going back to the United States. I say, Friday, or Saturday. He says to the driver, Why don’t you give the lady your phone number, and she can call you Friday afternoon. I say, That’s fine, but you know, I really ought to have his license number. The policeman says, I’ll just write his phone number down for you; asks the driver; writes it down at his dictation. They walk away, as though the matter were at an end. I say, Officer, I think I’ll need that rental agreement, if you’ve finished with it. He says, I returned it to you, I believe. I say, Maybe we left it at the station; and start walking toward the door. I have been standing, as it happens, further from the truck and nearer the station, than either of them. The rental agreement is lying beside the ledger, on the desk. I take it. There is a moment of tension. Then the policeman says, He will have that estimate for you Friday afternoon. The driver smiles. We walk back to the road. As we part, the driver climbs into his cab, smiles again, and says, oddly, You have my word.
Quanta, Amy said, on the train, in that blizzard, in answer to my question. Hello, this is Medea. Wasn’t always. Well, he asked for me, you inquired after me, at t
he conference in the Motel on the Mountain. The motel has since become, what does it matter what it has since become. I don’t think they hold conferences there. It is where we began.
Driving onward, I simply do not understand it. What word. Why no exchange of license numbers. There was an undertone, certainly of complicity, but what could possibly have been the underlying calculation? It did not seem, after all, so very cagey to have given me his phone number; better, in some ways, I would have thought, to ask for mine. It was fobbed off, I suppose, in lieu of the driver’s license, and of the policeman’s actual report. But to what end? I still tend to mistake their apparent lack of intelligence or competence for guilelessness. The policeman never even looked at my car; and if they were planning, for instance, to say that I’d hit and run, why write out the phone number in the officer’s own hand? But I do know this: that I ought not to be in the hands of the driver, and the rental agency, and the estimator, for what I’ll have to pay. At one point, the driver had said, You know, the damage could be as much as twenty or forty or eighty pounds. I said, surely not as much as that. The policeman said, with a little laugh, You don’t know our Irish repairmen. They may have to replace the entire bumper with a new one. And even then, the driver had rejected my offer to pay, whatever it cost, right then and there. I don’t know what to do. I would normally call the rental agency, but if the officer has really already called them, that seems redundant; and why was I not called in, why did he not call them in my presence, or look at my car? I have an odd feeling that somehow they do plan to say I’ve hit and run. But that can’t be right. Not when I have that phone number in his handwriting. I know I now need to find an honorable repairman, who will not look at the rental sticker, and proceed to think, as the driver thought, of the agency’s insurance. The car, after all, is not due back at the agency for a week. Maybe somebody at the castle will know a repairman. Or maybe Captain Walton, whom the ambassador had mentioned as a special friend and neighbor. I have a small intimation now of danger, and of being, within seconds, entirely at the mercy of unfamiliar people. And I think, Thank goodness it was nothing serious; from one minute to the next everything is changed.