The Syndrome

They found a Gas ‘N Stuff somewhere near Bridgeville but couldn’t get the pump to accept Duran’s MasterCard. Duran turned to Adrie

He called the 800 number on the back of his credit card, punched in the account number, and hit the voice-mail option that was supposed to inform him of the card’s “available credit.” Instead, a recorded voice told him that his account had been “frozen,” and that he should stay on the line for a “customer service” representative. He did, and was told that his card had been reported stolen. “We’ll have a new one to you in… maybe two or three working days. It’s in the pipeline.”

Duran couldn’t believe it. “Look,” he said, “I have the card, right here. It’s in my hand. I didn’t report it stolen.”

“Someone did.”

“Ask me my mother’s maiden name.”

“That’s not something—”

“You’ve got validating questions. Use them!”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Duran, but once a card is reported stolen, a new one has to be issued.”

“Look. I’ve got like—” He glanced in his wallet. “Two bucks on me. I’m outta town. I’m outta gas. Isn’t there any way—”

“No.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry—there’s nothing we can do. You’ll just have to wait for the new one.”

Returning to the car, Duran pumped $2.28 worth of gas, and explained to Adrie

She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like it. That’s what they do when someone reports a stolen card.”

“Yeah, but—”

“I wonder who did it…”

The way she said it, it almost sounded as if she thought he’d done it himself. And maybe he had.

They got as far as the Beltway before the dashboard beeped a second time, and the fuel light snapped on. Adrie

“What happened to your car, man? You smash it up and then drive through a fire?”

The trunk, dented from the Comfort I

Now she followed Duran around to the passenger side, where his new friends were shaking their heads over the paint job. Which was… puckered.

“Son of a bitch!” Duran muttered.

“You need some bodywork, my friend.” The Latino began to fish through his pockets. “Let me give you my card—I give you a good price.”

“It’s a rental,” Adrie

“For real?” the first guy said, shaking his head. “Oh, man. They going to bleed you.” Both men ran their fingers over the car door, and shook their heads sadly.

Adrie

The Latinos chuckled. “They go

Duran had to work to keep up with Adrie

Wearing a bibbed apron and a faint look of alarm, Mrs. Spears let them in. “Adrie

“I lost my key. Can I get in through the laundry room?”

“Of course,” the landlady replied, with a hopeful look at Duran.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Jeff—this is Mrs. Spears.”

“Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” Duran said.

“We’re in a hurry” Adrie

She’d forgotten how bad it was. The room was a sea of detritus, with Adrie

Muttering to herself, she picked her way past some broken dishware, pots and pans, moving toward a door on the other side of the room. It was stuck, at first, but she put her shoulder into it and squeezed through while Duran remained where he was, gazing around the room, curious about Adrie

Which, despite the mess, had so much more texture than his own. There were romantic posters of long ago places and faraway things (Biarritz and the Orient Express), and a series of Tin Tin covers, matted and framed. Stooping, he picked up a book, and was surprised by its subject: Lonely Planet’s guide to Sri Lanka. He picked up another: Trekking in Turkey. And a third: Mauritius, Reunion, and the Seychelles.

“You travel a lot?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, emerging from the other room. “I never go anywhere.”

Duran pondered that as she stutter stepped through the debris of her living room. “Why not?” he asked.

“No money.” She paused. “Do you see a music box?”

He glanced around, and shook his head.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?” Duran replied.

“Do you travel a lot? Have you been a lot of places?”

He thought about it. “Yeah. I think so.”

“Where?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

She crossed the room to a small desk and, reaching beneath it, extracted an inlaid wooden box that had fallen to the floor. “Plaisir d’Amour” began to play as she opened its cover and removed two credit cards and a passport. “Voila!”

“Are we going somewhere?” he asked.

“It’s the only ID I’ve got,” she told him. “Everything else went up in smoke.”

She surveyed the mess. She’d thought they might spend a couple of hours cleaning it up, but it was hopeless. Overwhelming. It was going to take a week. But she’d have plenty of time to get into it when all this was over, she reminded herself, because she no longer had a job. She unearthed a few wearable items from the heaps, and snagged her Mason Pearson brush from the bathroom.

She led Duran out the back door, avoiding Mrs. Spears. Together, they walked through the alley to Mount Pleasant Avenue, where they bought a gallon of gas at Motores Sabrosa—only to find a pink ticket waiting for them when they got back to the Dodge.

“Another hundred bucks,” Adrie

Duran shook his head. “It’s probably the end of civilization as we know it.”

The operation was scheduled for eight A.M. the following morning, so Duran spent the night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital, leaving Adrie

Arriving on the neurosurgery ward, Duran was turned over to an admissions nurse, who fitted him out with hospital pajamas and a robe. A plastic band was affixed to his wrist, and he was taken to a semiprivate room at the end of the corridor. Nurses bustled in and out, taking his vital signs on what seemed like an hourly basis, while his roommate (a much-intubated man) lay comatose and staring.

In the evening, Shaw stopped by with the neurosurgeon, Nick Allalin, a rabbity man with a pinkish nose, large teeth, and a high-pitched voice.