Strangers: A Novel(88)

“The taxi will be here in five minutes,” Joanna says, sliding her phone back into her pocket. “It’s probably best if we get a hotel room in Munich, what do you think?”

“Yes. There’s this hotel at the Isartor I stayed at once. It’s OK and it’s fairly big.”

“OK. The Isartor it is, then.”

“Oh, and—Jo?”

Her arms are crossed in front of her chest; it’s obvious she’s feeling cold. “Yes?”

“Take the battery out of your phone. I don’t think your father’s going to find anyone who’ll be able to pinpoint your phone that quickly, but let’s not take any risks.”

She hesitates for a moment, then takes the smartphone out of her pocket again and pulls the battery out of its casing.

“Good idea.”

We walk around the gas station, and wait beside it in the shadows of a recess. After about ten minutes, the taxi pulls up.

We get in; I tell the driver our destination. Then we sit in the back in silence. Shaken up, yet at the same time totally dejected by the events of the past hour. The past few days were bad, but as far as hopelessness goes, they don’t even come close to how I’m feeling right now. Just in the moment we thought we were finally safe, we were thrown right back into peril.

Toneless darkness rolls past my window, punctuated only by the light of a streetlamp or a lone house here and there.

As we drive onto the expressway toward Munich, I put my hand onto Joanna’s forearm. “Now will you tell me why you decided to stay?” I’m speaking so softly she can only just understand what I’m saying. She nods toward the driver and shakes her head. “Not now.”

Half an hour later, Joanna pays the driver sixty-three euros for the journey. “I’m running low on cash,” she says, once we’ve gotten out and I’ve slammed the taxi door shut. “I didn’t bring that much with me. My father told me over the phone that he’s going to have all my cards canceled as well. Normally he makes good on his threats fairly quickly, but I should still be able to pay for the hotel with my MasterCard if we’re lucky.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I don’t know what means are at your father’s disposal, but it might be possible for him to find out where we are if you use your card.”

“You’re right; I hadn’t even thought of that. And just to give you an idea, my dad has all the means a person could possibly have at their disposal, and then some.”

The image I have of Joanna’s father is becoming clearer and clearer. And with every additional detail I find out, the more I get the feeling I wouldn’t like to meet him.

“I can take care of it,” I say. “I don’t think Gabor can trace my card.”

I feel around for my wallet. It’s not where it should be. “Damn it.” I pat down the few remaining places in my clothes where it could be. Nothing. Just what we needed. It’s hopeless.

“My wallet’s gone. Either it’s still in the taxi, or I lost it before that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes I’m sure. I mean, it’s not here. Or I could have dropped it while we were running away.”

“OK, hang on.” Joanna approaches the first friendly-looking person walking by and speaks to him. The man smiles and hands his phone to her, and she types in a number. Two minutes later we’ve ruled out the possibility of my wallet being in the taxi.

I feel a crippling sense of resignation. It drains my energy, tries to lure me into sinking to the ground right where I’m standing, into no longer doing a single thing.

“And there was me thinking things couldn’t possibly get any worse.” Joanna is wearing a thoughtful expression on her face. “All right then, so let’s go in and pay for a room before Dad cancels my cards. We’ll just have to hope he doesn’t pick up on the transaction.”

She seems to be adjusting to the shitty situation we’re in much better than I am. And she’s still here, even though she could be sipping champagne in her father’s fancy Learjet by now.

She stayed. Because of me. So I pull myself together and enter the spacious, modernly furnished hotel lobby at her side.

The young man standing behind a reception desk made of light brown wood smiles and gives us a friendly greeting. Various types of rooms are still available, he tells us, and we opt for a standard one. He shoots a quick glance beside and behind us, probably to check for luggage, of which we have none.

He asks us to leave credit card details, so Joanna takes out her MasterCard and puts it on the counter. My pulse quickens. This must be how a crook trying to pay for something with a stolen credit card feels.

The hotel employee swipes the plastic through the slot on the card machine and presses a button. The seconds ebb away at an agonizingly slow speed while the man, his expression unchanging, stares at the small screen. This is taking way too long. He’s going to shake his head in a second, tell us there’s a problem with the card. With the streak of bad luck we’ve been having, I’d even be surprised if he didn’t. I wonder if it will show him that the card’s been canceled. And if … “Thank you,” says the man, handing the MasterCard back to Joanna. “Your card hasn’t been charged yet; that will be done when you check out. And here’s your room card.”