At this point in the trip, I should have figured out that pretty much everything was going to go wrong. But I wasn’t prepared for what happened to us at the Mallorca ferry dock.
When we got there, we saw a lot of sunburned people with vacation backpacks sitting on the benches and floors of the ferry building. Suki conferred with the ticket agent, and then asked me for a hundred and twenty euros. I handed it over and she took me aside and explained that, because the royal family was at their vacation residence in Mallorca, there was tightened security and they were only letting one ferry in and out a day. That meant we had to wait for the eight o’clock boat.
“You mean, the Spanish royal family?”
“Yeah.” She giggled. “You weren’t hoping for Prince William, were you? Just kidding.”
I’m not sure what that meant, but I rolled my eyes at her.
“Um, but listen. This is probably fine. They say the trip takes about eight hours, so we’ll probably get into Barcelona early tomorrow morning and we should still be able to make it on the boat before it leaves.”
“Fine,” I said. I had no watch, so I could only guess, from the height of the sun, that it was about ten o’clock, leaving us about ten hours. “What are we going to do until then?”
Suki released one of those pealing little laughs that I could so do without, and she said, “Oh, I don’t know, enjoy a gorgeous day in one of the most sought-after vacation spots in the world? Jonathan, come on.”
So, for a morning and afternoon, we were proper tourists. We ambled through the twisted streets, reading old signs that described the history of ancient squares and looking up at crooked buildings with precarious-looking wrought-iron balconies. We saw a few little cathedrals, and one really big one, with soaring ceilings and an apse the size of my apartment in New York, and lots of very graphic paintings of horrible things that happened around the time of Christ. For those of you who haven’t been, Spain is a very, very Catholic country.
At some point, I told Suki that I had about negative ability to do more sightseeing, so we decided to stroll slowly down the main promenade, where all the shops and things were, and maybe try and get a bite to eat before we got on the ferry. I was focusing on the restaurants we were passing, and trying to decide what looked the least romantic so that nobody would insinuate that Suki and I were a couple again. Suki wasn’t as interested in this, and she kept staring moonily at beautiful Spanish people and saying, “Buenas noches, buenas noches.” Then, all of a sudden, she said: “Isn’t that the racist that stole your watch?”
I looked across the street. A lean, painted man disappeared into the crowd of evening strollers. I started running after him, pushing people aside and darting after the quickly receding figure. People all around me were laughing and yelling, “Cuidate!” and “Perdón!” annoyed as I ran by. I wasn’t even sure Suki had followed, until I became aware of flip-flops smacking behind me and a distinctly American voice yelling, “Ladrón! Ladrón!” When the crowd heard that, they started yelling, “Andale! Andale, Americano!”
Soon we were off the main drag and back in the warren of the old town. The streets and the buildings were all made of the same brown stone, and both were narrow and weathered. I would catch a glimpse of the Savage, and then lose him around a corner, catch a glimpse, and lose him again. All of a sudden we were out on the Paseo Maritimo, and the Savage was gone. Suki came up behind me, breathing heavily.
“Where’d he go?”
“That way?”
So we trotted east, trying to keep an eye out but not sure whether we were going the right way. Suki stopped a man who was wearing an official-looking uniform. I looked around for the Savage, and then back at the man. It was a hotel uniform he was wearing, and the man looked very familiar. He was the concierge of the Miramar.
“Señor, Señorita,” he said in a sarcastically hospitable voice. “You must have come back to settle your bill.”
Suddenly I couldn’t breathe, and I imagined that every one of my internal organs was about to fail one by one.
Suki grabbed my hand and started pulling me away, but then the concierge grabbed my collar and pulled us back. He was stronger than he looked, and we went smacking into each other. He ushered us into the hotel—which, we should have noticed, was right behind us—and brought us over to the counter.
“Let me see. Two ‘American-style omelets’ at twenty-two euros each. Two continental breakfasts at eighteen euros each. Two bottles of champagne, at fifty euros each. Three minibottles of cognac, at ten euros each. Two crystal champagne glasses, replacement charge, thirty-five euros each.”
He looked up at me and paused. I held my breath.
“… and there seems to be this other little charge. What could this be? Seven hundred and eighty euro at the hotel boutique?”
I looked at Suki and let out a little whimper. She had been fidgeting with the hem of her Prada sundress, and now I feared that she might rip it.
“That comes to thirteen hundred and eighty euros with tax and service charges, please.”
Suki leaned over to me and whispered, “Maybe we could offer to wash dishes.”
“Our boat’s leaving at eight. And I think that’s really soon.”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the remainder of the fifteen hundred Rob had wired me. After I had counted out eight hundred and forty-six euros, I was left with thirty-four euros. This was not good. I handed over the cash.
“Gracias, señor,” he said sarcastically.
Suki and I looked at each other with panic-stricken faces, and then she grabbed my hand and we ran out of the Miramar and down the dock like our lives depended on it. Which they pretty much did. I ran faster than I probably have ever, because I knew—and Suki must have known, too, because she was running even faster than I was—that this was our last chance.