Losing My Cool (54)

With Rita taking over the conversation, all bells and whistles and jewelry dangling from every extremity, I retreat to finish packing and tidying up my room. I don’t leave a mess for those who clean up after me. I always remember the proletariat. From inside my room, I hear laughter and Rita’s broken English asking how much to pay. The driver murmurs something, and then a metal door slams shut, the engine starts, and the van drives away. 

Rita pokes her head in to say she’ll bring the car to the front door to spare Vera the walk with the luggage. “Then we can look for a place to have coffee near the hotel,” she suggests.

“Great idea,” I say. 

She deserves credit for thinking of all the details. And I need to appear more cooperative after leaving her and Vera at that stuffy bar last night. Skipping breakfast in Porto could pass as laziness, but leaving after they’d ordered dinner might have felt like a provocation. No need for more drama. I think we’ve had enough of it. My challenge is to end this trip on a positive note, keep grudges buried, and deal with them later on firmer ground. 

I finish tidying up the room: the sink is clean, the trash is in the bin, and the towels are on the rack. I roll my carry-on outside to wait for Rita. Vera joins me with her luggage on the pavement, ready to conquer the day or at least the first two hours. If we’d been staying in the same house, she would have walked with me earlier. But today I was selfish, and I took advantage of the situation to walk by myself. 

“How was your room? Did you sleep well?” I ask to quell my somewhat guilty conscience. It’s the polite thing to do. Engage in meaningless small talk. “It was fine,” she recites her usual generic response. Good. I just want to make sure the atmosphere is congenial, with no hard feelings about last night. 

When Rita pulls up in front of us, I help Vera lift her carry-on into the trunk and then load mine. 

“I’m going to stop at the hotel first,” Rita says, heading up the stone stairs to collect her stuff and lock up. 

That’s right. We’re following the honor system here. Not skipping town without paying for the rooms, even if it might tempt some people. 

While we wait for Rita, I decide to go back in and make a final sweep. “I’m going to step in and check that I didn’t leave my phone charger,” I say to Vera. 

“Ah,” she shrugs without looking at me. “Then leave it. If you forgot, you forgot.” 

Jesus Christ! What do you even mean, “If you forgot, you forgot?” I’m still here. I just need to step inside for a minute. People always do this when they check out. It’s not a sign of a mental disorder. Chargers are the most forgettable objects. You want me to leave it behind just because you don’t think I should check? Will you buy me one if I leave it here? You’re driving me insane. I could strangle you. I’ve been patient, respectful, helpful, friendly, and this is what I get? Damn it! 

Of course, none of this comes out of my mouth. Instead, I say, “It will only take a minute,” like the grown-up I pretend to be, and take a deep breath to slow down my heart. 

I check the outlets, under the bed, and under the blanket. Nothing. I lock the door and return to the car’s backseat. Still fuming. Because Vera already occupies the front. Peaceful, unaware of the storm she’s caused.