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Hole in the Wall

Patricia Abbott

This was the kind of trip it was: days, going on weeks, when Martin didn’t speak to anyone other than the odd rail station employee or the desk clerk at a hostel. Once or twice, he had brief conversations with bookshop owners or waiters, but these exchanges never lasted more than a minute or two. Most of the younger tourists in Europe traveled in groups of three or four and if they wanted to kick it up, chose other similarly numbered groups, passing up the single traveler. At home, he could usually rely on an older woman to take an interest and draw him out when he walked into a room.

The idea of a trip surfaced when he lost his job at the agency and was given a generous severance package. His former employer—a fat bastard who should have retired in the Clinton years—couldn’t wait to be rid of him after the incident with the missing car. There was no proof, of course, no actual accusations made, but the episode had further muddied their uneasy relationship. So much the better; Martin had always wanted to see Europe and unexpectedly, he had both the time and money.

At twenty-eight, Martin was older than most of the people at the hostels or on the rail and dressed differently, preferring the look of Jean Paul Belmondo in those sixties gangster movies: tight black pants, fitted shirts, pointed Italian shoes. His hair fell across his forehead and he attended to it often, flicking the comb through it with his eyes closed— an action he had practiced to perfection in the mirror when the idea of this trip took hold.

The first week or two, he made it a point to sit at tables with other people in cafeterias or to pick a seat on the train next to someone his own age. But he found nothing ever came of it. No one ever suggested dinner together later; no one asked, “Where are you staying? Where have you been?” He began to think there was something sinister about him, something more unusual than his clothes or hair. Women seemed slightly more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt if he caught their eye, but no extended conversation was forthcoming. Once or twice, when he grew itchy, he picked up a local girl who spoke a bit of English and took her back to his room. Although the girls were never prostitutes, he was expected to take them out to dinner before or for a drink afterward. He obliged them half-heartedly, but it never went well. Those sorts of girls never spoke more than a few words of English. Usually they resorted to talking to patrons at nearby tables or spent too much time in the ladies’ room. 

Some years earlier, he had taken a writing class where one of the assignments was to observe a stranger for an entire day. He found himself resorting to this ploy as the trip wore on. It alleviated the need for consulting the guidebooks and he liked the feeling he was at least tangentially attached. If he were careful, choosing someone near his own age, someone who seemed well-prepared for the trip, an attractive stranger, things usually went well. He grew to like the unexpected element in it too, usually seeing things he would never have found on his own.

In Sevilla, he followed an academic type around the city for hours. The fellow had mapped out all the flea markets and antique stores in the city and he purchased film memorabilia at several spots. They stopped at a coin exchange, several public gardens, and a few alcazars. They had lunch at a surprisingly good hosteria, separately, of course, but both ordering fish soup and red wine. Once or twice, the man looked at him quizzically but something always distracted him before he fully remembered seeing Martin earlier. Martin imagined the man might be a film historian and wondered if he’d noticed his resemblance to Belmondo in that brief glance.

In Granada, a young couple led him through the Albacin, an area he would never have walked in on his own. The couple—Mary and Garth, (he heard them call each other that)—came from Devon (they told a vendor their names) and he almost started a conversation. They seemed friendly enough. But should they spurn him, he’d have to give them up, spoiling the day. He managed to snap a surreptitious picture of the two. “Mary and Garth.” he pictured labeling the snapshot in some future album. At three o’clock, the two went off to the Alhambra. He was brought up short at the gate when he didn’t have the required timed ticket. He went back to the hostel and napped. When he awoke, it was dark and he traipsed the streets hoping to run into Mary and Garth or another friendly face. Instead he got into a minor skirmish with a Spanish sailor in a bar. Back home, this sort of thing never, or almost never, happened.

The nights were worst. He could tolerate eating dinner by himself—most of the places he was able to afford had many single diners— but the meal was usually over quickly. Too quickly. Funny how waiters assumed if you were eating alone you wanted a fast meal. The idiots actually pointed out dishes on the menu that could be prepared hastily, jabbing their stubby fingers at pictures of dishes he’d never order—often grabbing the menu away before he’d even read it, insisting he place an order when they brought his drink. Sometimes he ordered the meal course by course, holding onto the table as long as possible. Martin never brought a book along. He thought it would make him appear even more pitiful.   

Afterwards, he drank in the little bars near his hostel for hours, nursing whatever beer or wine he could afford. If the place was cheap enough or if he was tired, he often got quite drunk, stumbling home only at closing time. These nights of too much drinking produced little blips in his memory. Once he awoke to find himself in bed with another boy. Both had clothes on, but it was still upsetting and he sneaked away, wondering if he should find a clinic and have himself tested for diseases. Waking up to find a masculine face on the pillow had been like looking into a mirror. He had beat back a desire to kiss the full lips, and then a desire to hold a pillow over the placid face.

Finished with Spain, he took the train to Italy where the prices shot up immediately. Now and then, when it seemed reasonably safe, he ducked out of a restaurant without paying his bill or lifted small items from shops—nothing too expensive, just toothpaste or razor blades or a bottle of wine. On a train between Rome and Florence, he heisted a momentarily deserted backpack as he departed the train. Inside he found fifty euros in a change purse and a number of useful items. He didn’t enjoy taking things; he had only done it in the past when pressed, but he was good at it for some reason. It was probably his demeanor or perhaps his face, which looked untroubled no matter how his heart raced.

In Venice, he had a brief romance. A blonde picked him up on a water bus by dropping a bag on his foot. As he picked it up, she began to speak, not even pretending the dropped bag was an accident. Her name was Magdalena, she told him, and she was Swedish. She was taking a language course in Bologna and wandering around Italy on the long weekends. She wasn’t exactly pretty— her nose was too long, her mouth too small and she bore the remnants of acne—but she had booked a nice room in a two-star hotel in the Dorsoduro district. The room looked out onto a four-star restaurant below. It’s like watching a play, she told him the first night, half-hanging out the window to better listen to the chatter. Looking over her shoulder, he noticed the expensive clothing of the patrons, the carelessly tossed purses, the unattended cash register by the door.

  For three days, they took in the sites of Venice, finding romantic spots to have dinner, listening to free music in an assortment of churches, getting lost at least a dozen times. Magdalena found his inability to navigate a single square amusing. So droll, she said laughing. When she complained about the noise from the restaurant on the third night, Martin, more than a little drunk, filled the wastebasket in the bathroom with cold water and dumped it out the window before she could stop him. The owner came tramping up the steps and after shouting at them, in Italian of course, tossed them out. Martin flagged down a water taxi and took off while Magdalena was arguing over the bill. Three days of nonstop conversation was enough and, as it turned out, she wasn’t really very good in bed.

In Dubrovnik the next week, he got directions from a Greek student at his hostel to a little spot called Buza. The Greek had been there the night before to watch the sun set over the Adriatic. Easy place to pick up women, he promised Martin, fingering his money belt. You don’t even have to buy them a meal because they only serve drinks.

Climbing the Spanish steps later, Martin turned left at the Jesuit Church and crossed the square diagonally, nearly tripping over one, and then another, of the marmalade cats drowsing on the cool stones. Where next, he wondered? The street was deserted. Shuttered windows looked blankly down on him. He was headed toward the sea when he spotted a handmade sign announcing cold drinks. Buza. It meant Hole in the Wall, the Greek had said. It cascades down the hill in a series of terraces. And so it did. He felt slightly vertiginous as he stood in the doorway, or rather the hole in the wall.

The bar was crowded but he regained his footing and quickly spotted a dark-haired woman with very red lips sitting next to a Japanese fellow on the second level terrace. He chose a table on the level below them, nursed a watery local beer, and eavesdropped. They spoke in English, but a bit haltingly, as if it were a second language. The Japanese fellow disappeared after a bit but the woman remained behind. At dusk, he felt something strike his head. When he glanced up, she motioned to the vacated chair next to her. They shared a bottle of red wine—Plavac, she told him—and the sunset. She didn’t talk much though her English was fine when she did. Another hour passed, along with another bottle of wine. Her suggestion that he come see her “very nice room at the Imperial Hotel” seemed like a good one. She paid for the bill as if that question had been settled earlier.

They stumbled along the slick streets amidst a light rain. That much he later recalled perfectly. Once or twice, she grabbed his hand, brushing it against her thigh or her breast. She wore a gingery scent he’d never smelled before and her breath was hot on his neck. When the limb of a tree brushed across his face, he screamed. She muffled her laugh with the back of her hand.

He awoke the next morning to find the woman dead, her throat slashed ear to ear. The blood had already soaked the linen, the mattress cover, and the mattress itself. It had run down her left arm and onto the carpet, a very good Bergamo rug that was ruined. He could smell the blood and wondered why the cloying odor hadn’t awakened him.

Her naked body wasn’t as perfect as it had seemed the night before. There was slackness in her breasts and abdomen. Her pubic hair was extremely scant, making her seem old or ill. And her lips were, quite naturally, drained of that vivid red that first attracted him. The silvery lines etching her belly made him think she had probably had a child once.

He couldn’t say whether they had made love or not. He didn’t know whether she had called for room service or if they had watched Sky News on the flat screen TV on the wall. It seemed probable they had drunk more wine, but from the empty feeling in his stomach, unlikely they had eaten more than the small dish of almonds at Buza. He didn’t know the nationality of the woman or why she was in Croatia. He couldn’t remember the clerk at the front desk downstairs or whether the elevator was self-service. These would all have been useful things to know.

It seemed improbable that he had done this thing, yet not impossible. Two empty wine bottles sat on the windowsill. Had they drunk them too? Once or twice before, he had drunk too much alcohol and done some not very nice things. Lately, small pieces of days had gone missing, he remembered, and he slept either too deeply or not at all; he doubted that he dreamed. He didn’t know what weapon he could have used to do this though. His pocketknife was back in the States. There was nothing in the room to slash a throat. Even her razor was electric.

Perhaps she had killed herself, but where was the weapon? Or maybe the Japanese fellow had a key to her room. Certainly they seemed familiar with each other the night before. Had she let someone into the room after he passed out? Had someone followed them home and broken in while they slept?

But perhaps he had done this. He might have thrown the knife or letter opener or scissors out the window. He might have tossed the weapon into the dirty sheet bin down the hallway. Perhaps. After examining himself in the mirror, he left by the service entrance and took the #6 bus back to his hostel. He removed all of his clothing, finding no trace of blood, but discarding them anyway. Forensic science, being what it was, they might have methods to find blood invisible to the naked eye. He let hot water and strong soap wash over him until he felt purged.

Later, a new Polish guy in the room vacated by the Greek asked him if he wanted to go to a party that night at the university and he agreed, wondering if at last he was acquiring some appeal. He didn’t drink more than a beer or two at the party—American imports this time—and steered clear of women. He took a bus to Sarajevo the next day—Dubrovnik having been spoiled for him.

Copyright(c) 2006 by Patricia Abbott

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