"Who are you?"
It's the second time she's asked me, and I still can't give her an answer.
Right after she woke up she bolted for the bathroom without looking left or right. And she puked. And puked again. Then puked some more. From the way she was gagging and straining, I figured she was trying to puke her whole self into the toilet. I could already see tomorrow's newspaper headlines.
While Ana was in the bathroom, her cell phone started buzzing on the edge of the table and sliding back and forth, but it's not polite to answer someone else's phone, so I ignored it.
But the damn thing refused to be ignored. It kept vibrating until it reached the edge of the table, then fell to the floor with a dry crack. A little piece of it flew off, and from that moment on it stopped vibrating.
Shortly after the phone gave up the ghost, the bathroom door opened. That's when the circus started.
"What do you mean, who am I?" I ask calmly. "Are you serious?"
I look at her, amused. I thought that after last night nothing could surprise me anymore, but clearly I have no idea who I'm dealing with. All I know is I'm dealing with a woman (I've checked that already), and I know her name is Ana Something. That's it.
"But who are you?" she mumbles again. She looks like a monument to confusion.
"Jesus Christ! I'm Tiberiu. That bad a memory, huh?"
She drops into the armchair as if her knees have stopped working. I light a cigarette and shut up. That's the best policy. I'll shut up. I'll let her think it through. Right now she's staring blankly into space, which means she's thinking. It doesn't take long for her to reach a conclusion.
"Get out! Now!"
So she's smart.
If every woman I've ever dealt with had said that to me at the right time, their lives (and mine, yeah!) would've been much better. But being smart afterward is useless.
Rigid as an ancient goddess of indignation, she lifts her hand and points at the door again, then groans and bolts for the bathroom at the speed of light.
I bend down and pick up the phone and the little piece off the floor. I set them gently on the corner of the table. The schnapps bottle is standing like a king in the middle of the table and, damn, it's so empty that just looking at it makes me feel depressed.
So I don't have to see it, I go into the bathroom too. I'm expecting to witness a flood of guts, lungs, and brain chunks all over the toilet seat. It's not that bad. Just puke everywhere.
"So you didn't leave," she says between a mouthful of water and a spit into the toilet.
"Believe me, I'd be thrilled to leave, but I don't have the room key. Some comedian threw it away."
"Threw it where?" she asks, eyes wide.
I point at the puddle of vomit in the toilet bowl.
"There."
Ana grabs her head with both hands, her face as scared as a child seeing the world for the first time. The world of alcohol, of course.
Then she starts rattling off like a machine gun, "You stayed with me all night... here? We slept in the same bed? How did I end up here with you? And, above all, where the hell are we?"
"First we bumped into each other yesterday at the airport. Like a gentleman, I wrecked my back carrying your suitcases. Now we're in the hotel across the street from the airport. We agreed to split the cost of the room. You treated me to a bottle of Viennese schnapps, the same one you've been trying to get rid of for the last hour. The end."
"And where's the part where someone threw the key into the toilet?"
"Oh, right, I forgot. Someone got drunk and threw the key in the toilet."
"I got that part!" she shrieks in a soprano voice. "But who, sir? And more importantly, why?"
"To stop the other person from leaving the room."
"Why stop him?" she whispers, then groans with her eyes closed.
"Because someone was in the mood for sex. What's wrong, Ana? Does your head hurt? If you want, I'll get you an aspirin from your purse. I saw you've got a few in there, right next to the secret pocket where you keep your condoms."
"Dear God," she says, frozen. "You raped me!"
"Of course. I raped you with a condom you handed me yourself. But the correct version is that first you raped me. Only after that did you say you couldn't go on and ask me to rape you back. That's how it was."
"You raped me!"
"I just told you I did," I answer, bored.
"You rap--"
"Will you stop already? You're driving me insane!"
She goes back into the room and throws herself face down on the bed, sobbing harder than a little girl who just found out she's not getting a bike for her birthday.
That catches me off guard. I don't like her crying. It makes me sad. I liked her a lot more last night, when she was devilish and ready for action. Now she's just a limp rag who pukes and moans. And sobs.
No, women should never touch alcohol. They're not built for it.
I pick up the phone and its little piece from the table and put it in her hand.
"Your phone buzzed a bit while you were in the bathroom."
"You broke my phone!" she screams, furious. "It doesn't work."
"Of course it works. Give it here." I split the phone in two and put it back together. I check everything. The battery's in its place. The memory card is in its place. "See? It works," I reassure her. "You can call whoever you want, you just have to press a little harder with your finger on the battery cover. Come on, Ana, cut the crying. Call your sister and see if she's coming and, more importantly, when she's coming. And if she is coming, tell her to stop at reception first and ask for the other key."
"What a mess!" she whispers, grabbing her head. "I don't want her to find me here. Not with you. Not like this."
"You think I want that? I don't exactly want that either. So what do we do? Solutions? Ideas?"
"It's like a pigsty in here. Dear God! We have to clean up first. Come on! Start by flushing the toilet and then clean up the room a bit," she says, stretching out on the bed like a corpse. "Oh, and I forgot: make me a cold compress for my forehead. Not too wet, wring the towel out well. And open the damn window, it stinks of puke in here, it's killing me. And of booze."
"And what else does it stink of, woman?"
"Don't you 'woman' me!" Ana screams, then grabs her head again.
I'm glad her head hurts. I feel an almost sadistic satisfaction. Almost? I'm lying. It's one hundred percent sadistic.
"So you're trying to get me to clean up?" I say, annoyed. "Hello! Anybody home? I'm a man, remember? Who's the male here? Males don't clean. Males hunt, males think, they find solutions. In this room I'm the one wearing the pants, so I'm the one who thinks. Clear, woman? Look, I'll bring you a compress for your head and an aspirin, but I'm not sweeping this shit. Not even if I were dead."
I grab the pills from her purse and bring her a glass of water.
"What's that?" she asks, opening just one eye.
"Here, take this aspirin."
"Are you an idiot?" she yells, shoving me away. "Those aren't aspirin. Did you get them from my purse?"
"Yeah. But there wasn't any label on them. I thought they were aspirin. They look like aspirin."
"They're my pills," she moans. "My shrink... my doctor prescribed them. I'm going through a really bad time. My nerves are shot. This whole vacation thing in Vienna is part of my therapy. The only part that wasn't therapy was running into you."
"And... uh... I don't really know how to put this, so I'll just ask you straight: did your doctor by any chance tell you that nerve pills are supposed to be washed down with schnapps? That's it, right? That's why you don't remember anything. You got high on these 'aspirin' of yours and poured alcohol on top."
I let her moan as much as she wants. I open the window halfway. Cold fresh air flows into the room and I feel a wave of total nausea hit me. It was much better before.
I go to the bathroom, make her a compress, put it on her forehead, then swallow my pride and get to work. In fifteen minutes I'm in the groove. The toilet bowl is shining, the tub is shining, the tiles and the floor are spotless.
At the end I take a sip of water and go back into the room. It's cold. I quickly close the window, then light a cigarette and sit on the bed too.
I try to think, but the little wheels in my head are spinning in no particular direction at all.
"Hey," I ask, "are you asleep?"
"How can anyone sleep with all the racket you made in the bathroom?" she groans.
"Were you serious? About your vacation in Vienna being part of therapy your doctor recommended?"
"What does it matter?" she sighs. "Now I've met you and everything went to hell. I'll have to start therapy sessions again. More money, more fun."
"You've got my sympathy," I say, patting her lightly on the shoulder. "Seriously. I get it. I'm going through a really shitty time too. For weeks I've been thinking of taking off somewhere. I need this kind of therapy too. What would you pick between Dubai and Thailand?"
"I don't think I'm really capable of thinking right now."
"Make an effort. Come on! Want one of those pills?"
"No!"
"Can I take one? It's been a long night. I feel the need to calm down a bit."
"You know what?" she groans. "You can take them all. Seriously, I insist: take them and swallow them all. Wash them down with booze."
I go to the bathroom and take one of the pills with a bit of water. At the doorway I turn back and grab another. Screw it, what harm can a double dose do? It's been an exhausting night. I deserve an extra pill.
Ana is talking to her sister on the phone.
"Yes. No. Yes..."
She covers the phone and whispers to me, asking where we are.
"Tell her you're at the hotel across from the airport and you're in room 87."
"Yes, dear. No, there's nobody, it's the TV. I'm alone. Yeah... You'll find me in room 87."
"Tell her to ask for the other key. Otherwise we're going to starve to death in here. We'll definitely have enough water and sex."
"No, dear, I'm alone!" she growls and shoots me a murderous look. "Didn't you hear me say the TV's on? It's a shitty show! Listen... uh... pick up the key when you come. I misplaced mine somewhere."
And she hangs up.
"Is your sister older or younger?"
"Younger."
"You know... these brain-blasting pills of yours are really good. They calm you down. Give me your doctor's address too. Why did you end up seeing him in the first place? Menopause crisis?"
"That's none of your business, you pig!"
"You're right. Give me another one of those pills. You know what? Never mind, I'll grab one myself."
Ana storms up and snatches the pill box off the table.
"How many did you take?" she asks, suspicious. She counts them, then grabs her head. After a long moment she says, "You asked why I started psychotherapy? This is why, because of idiot men like you. You're just like my darling husband. You know what he did to me?"
"No."
"Picture it! After twenty-one years of marriage he divorced me. First he separated, about a year before that. He moved in with his damn accountant! The bitch is way younger than me. I didn't stand a chance against her."
"And? Did you at least keep the kids?"
"We don't have kids. Just four dogs, and yes, I got all of them."
"So you didn't totally lose out. That's something. Anyway... you still haven't answered my question. What's better? Which way should I go? Dubai or Thailand? Oh, God, your aspirin is amazing. I haven't felt this calm and peaceful in years."
"Wait!" Ana says, flinching. "I think I'm starting to remember some things," she says, staring at the ceiling. "You're right, it's true we had sex. Now I remember. It terrifies me when I remember, but I remember."
"You're exaggerating, seriously. Was it really that bad?"
"It was the lamest, most pathetic, most pitiful sex of my entire life."
"Fine, fine. I'm glad your memory's coming back. No need to thank me."
"You should go to Dubai," she says suddenly. "Yeah, go to Dubai!"
"Why?"
"That's what feels right. That's what I'd choose."
"Just like that? Intuition?"
"Yeah."
We hear voices right outside our door.
"All right then, Ana. We should say our goodbyes now. I have a feeling we won't have time later."
"Goodbye! Good luck in Dubai!"
I hear the key turning in the lock. We both flinch. Our eyes lock on the door. It's suspiciously quiet in the room. I start to tremble.
The door opens slowly.