"He probably didn't hear me," I thought I threw on the shirt and sweater, pulled on my jeans and boots, stuffed the suit and shirt from yesterday on top of the case and closed it up. I opened the door to the compartment to let Giordano back in while I brushed my hair, then grabbed my two cases, ready to go. "Hey, Giordano!" I called out. "Where did you put your bag?" I didn't see his leather grip anywhere. I looked under the seat. No. His jacket wasn't there, either. "Maybe he took it out into the corridor to get it out of the way," I thought. So I looked out there. There was no one there, and no grip. "Probably had to get off the train to let the others off," I thought, grabbing my cases, making sure I had everything.
"Oh, shit!" I thought, "I have to give Jon a tip." I reached for my wallet and fished it out of my jeans. I couldn't remember how much cash I had after last night. Dinner had been pretty expensive, as I recalled. Might have to cash a traveler's cheque today. My wallet was empty. Not a single thousand lire note, no US Dollars of the two hundred I had stashed in the back, no credit cards. "Giordano!" I yelled out at the top of my voice, rage, hurt, anger all combined into one primordial cry, one bellow. "He left, sir," said Jon from the doorway.
"I have still your passport." This huge cold fist grabbed my insides, and I sat on the seat, taking the passport case numbly from Jon. I opened it and took out a couple of twenty dollar bills and gave them to Jon, not thinking.
"He left me," I said. Tears were starting to form. "I only just found him, and he left me."
"You don't know him?" Jon said, standing there looking down on me. "You had him in your compartment and don't know him?"
"I . . . I thought he was . . . special." I started to tear up, I couldn't help it. "He just used me. He took my money, both my credit cards, my travelers cheques . . . my heart, and he left meeee." I sobbed, once, then choked back the rest. Fuck if I was going to let this guy see me break down like a goldarned girl! "He robbed you?" I wouldn't look at him. "Yes." I said quietly. "It's not the money."
"He hurt you?" Jon said softly. I looked up into eyes dark as coal, full of compassion. "Yeah." I said. "Bad."
"Do you want to file a complaint?"
or "Would that do any good?" I said listlessly. No. It would never bring back the lost emotions, ever erase the treachery. "No. Such things are . . . not unusual, and they never catch the . . . people who hurt others that way."
"No," I said. "Come," he said simply. We walked together down the short platform, to the office where Jon checked out. "Where are you staying?" he asked me. "Nothing's booked," I said. "I thought I'd just find a quiet little hotel and stay overnight, then go on to London later."
"Want me to help?" I looked at him. There was an honest look to him. But then, I'd just shown how bad my judgement was about that particular quality. "Yes. Very much." First, we went to an American Express office. Just by the station, and my travelers cheques and credit card were replaced. On the spot. They cashed a check for me.
Notified the Visa people. Did it all. The annual fee is worth every penny. While all this was happening, Jon was on the phone, and when we left the Amex office at ten, he told me I had a room for one to four nights, and we walked to the hotel, only a few blocks from the train station, on the Herengracht. We had coffee and rolls there, while my room was prepared, and I was so happy for the company and the help, I can not tell you. Jon left at noon, to go home to his parents and get some sleep, and I spent the next three days getting to know Amsterdam through Jon's eyes. The Rijksmuseeum, the canals, the churches, the Vermeers, the shops, the restaurants . . . I loved Amsterdam dearly, and Jon has become a true friend, someone whose voice is always familiar, always welcome.
He's Dutch, of course, with spanish blood from the times when the Spanish occupied much of Belgium and Holland. He has come to Dallas to see me, let me show him a little of America from my perspective, and I have been to visit him once as well, staying with him and his parents. We have grown surprisingly close despite the distance, and I cherish his friendship. We talk on the phone at least once a week. He graduates from Leiden in May, and will come stay with me in Turtle Creek for a while, just until he goes to work in Amsterdam for KLM in July. I'm still a little in love with Giordano. Still alone. Still dreaming. Still hurting. It's been four years now, and the memory of what happened on the Amsterdam Express is as fresh as if it had been yesterday. Only Jon calls me Jeremiah.
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