The Road to Cordoba

(Mark Peterson - Redux - )

"Over at the Buena Chimes, man?"

"How'd you know?"

"Everybody knows they drink there. You got the shakes, man? Thomaso got the cure -- pop the glove compartment."

I pressed the button, and the glove compartment flopped open. A monogrammed silver flask rested on a ratty-looking street map. Beneath the map, I could see the waffled, gray handle of a small-caliber gun. I closed the glove compartment, and we passed the flask between us in silence.

"What are we drinking?" I asked. It had an oily licorice taste with the kick of grain alcohol.

"We're drinking to a night that's going to be a legend, my man. The kind of night that changes your life." He took a swig for emphasis, then passed the flask to me. "To our lucky night. Hey, I'm spreading the luck -- your luck 'cause I picked you up, mine 'cause I got picked up."

"Huh?" I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that, and held off on taking my swig.

"Check this out." He fished into his shirt pocket, handed me a folded scrap of paper and flicked on the overhead interior light. The paper unfolded into a lipsticked impression of a kiss, a phone number inscribed in what looked like eyebrow pencil, and the words Call me tonight. Tonight was underlined.

"You ever seen a woman so hot you didn't want to stare but couldn't take your eyes off her? I don't mean some bimbo at a single's bar. I'm in the Seasons, and I see this blonde in a tight green dress. She's drinking with this guy and don't look happy. He leans over and whispers something in her ear, and whatever he said, it's like, you know, an eye-roller. She turns away from him, and as she's rolling her eyes to no one in particular she catches me staring. She got these beautiful eyes. And I roll my eyes, too, and just for a sec she smiles, then goes back to her drink. Doesn't look at me again, but five minutes later, she gets up to go to the Ladies, and when she does I see that green dress has a plunging back. Sexiest dress I ever seen. She walks right by my table, and on her way back she drops the note."

He reached for the flask, took a hit, and flicked out the interior light. Blowing snow reflected opaque in the headlights; it was hard to see ahead. He flicked the headlights off. "Better without them," he said. "Ain't no oncoming traffic to worry about." We'd driven blocks, ignoring all the traffic signals on Broadway to keep our momentum, and hadn't seen another car. We were approaching Sheridan Road. I'd finally warmed up, though my feet were still numb. He took another swallow -- he was drinking two to my one -- and passed the flask. It was noticeably lighter.

"You believe in love at first sight, man. Romantic crap, right? That's what I always thought, but now I don't know. Or it's more like I do know. I know what's going to happen like it already happened. This snowstorm, the whole city shut down, you know, like destiny, man, destiny in a green dress."

" Verde que te quiero verde," I said.

"Say what?"

"Lines from a poem."

"My mind keeps going over how she rolled her eyes, and suddenly we're staring at each other -- and boom, across a crowded room." He rolled his bulgy brown eyes to demonstrate. "What's that old song -- my Pops used to sing it with an Italian accent: Some-a enchanted evening, you will meet a stranger . . ."

"What you going to do?" I asked.

"What am I going to do? I'm going call her! She's waiting. She wants me. It's a sin if a woman wants you and you don't go. I know we'll kiss, but not how she kisses. I know she's probably home by now waiting for the call, but I won't know till she picks up that phone what her voice sounds like. I want to hear her voice. Just one little scrap of paper, and a lifetime of questions. You can't tell anything from her handwriting. Let me see that."

"I gave it back to you," I said.

"No, man, you didn't give it back."

"Yes I did. I handed it back when you turned the overhead light out, right before you flicked the headlights out. I handed it back to you blocks ago."

"You didn't, man. You never gave it to me."

"Check your pockets."

He checked his shirt pocket and the pockets of his topcoat. "I wouldn't have put it in my topcoat, man, you still got it. Empty your jacket pockets, man."

I did as he asked. There wasn't anything but white petals from one of the roses Lise must slipped in a pocket. She did things like that.

"What you trying to pull, my friend? This is how you repay me for saving your ass from the cold? If you think that babe is going to jump on any dude who calls her up, you're crazy. You ain't ready for a woman like that."

"I didn't take it, man."

He braked hard, and the car swerved and came to a stop in the middle of the street. He flicked the overhead light on. "Get up, man, maybe you're sitting on it." I rose in my seat, and so did he. It wasn't on the seats. "Check the floor." We looked on the smeary floor mats and felt under the seats. "Check the bottom of your shoes."

"It's got to be here," I said.

"I'm going to ask you polite one more time: You going to give me that phone number?"

"I gave it to you. Why would I take it? I got my own girl. I'm wearing her scarf."

"I thought you said you were drinking with the Bears. Listen carefully, man. Last time -- a simple yes or no."

His bulgy eyes stared hard into my face. I said nothing. He unscrewed the flask and drained it. "Excuse me, man, I want to put this back." He reached past me, popped the glove compartment, and I was out of the car, running in its headlights up Sheridan, then bounding drifts, zigzagging along the sidewalk, hoping I'd be a harder target to hit. I could hear the tires whining behind me. He'd probably tried to give it gas and run me down, and now the car was stuck. I could hear it grinding from a block away and stopped momentarily to glance back. He was trying to rock it from reverse back to drive, but just digging it in deeper. Feeling light on my frozen feet, despite the drifts I jogged four more blocks up Sheridan Road, checking at each corner to make sure he wasn't following me. The snow fell more slowly and the wind had let up some, but I could barely see his headlights five blocks back when I turned onto my street.

IN MY SMALL APARTMENT, I kicked off my loafers, stripped off my frozen socks, and, not bothering to remove my jacket, sat in the dark on my one stuffed chair, watching snow gently float in the aura of the streetlight visible from my third-story window. The surge of lightness I'd felt running down Sheridan had left me shaky. Zero at the bone. Finally, I felt recovered enough to switch the lamp on and slip off my jacket. I'd promised to call Lise. She'd be asleep with the phone under the pillow beside her, so that its ring wouldn't wake anyone else. What time is it, she'd ask in a groggy voice, and I'd say almost 3, and she'd say she worried about me getting home, and I'd tell her Cordoba was easy next to tonight. I'd thank her for the loan of her scarf. I'd have frozen without it.

It wasn't until I unwound it from my neck that I noticed the scrap of paper caught in the chenille. I unfolded the note, and there was the phone number.

I sat in the stuffed chair, my feet wedged under the cushion, dialed, and when the phone began to ring, I flicked the lamp off again and watched the snow. It rang several times, which didn't surprise me; I didn't expect anyone to answer. I was about to hang up when someone lifted the receiver but said nothing, as if waiting for me to speak.

"I hope it's not too late to call," I said.

"That all depends," a woman's voice answered.

"On what?"

"On what you have in mind."

"Nothing. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have called."

"Then why did you?"

"I just wanted to hear your voice."

Stuart Dybek is a MacArthur grant recipient and distinguished writer in residence at Northwestern University whose latest book is I Sailed With Magellan. He can be reached at 20071@washpost.com, and will be fielding questions and comments about this article Monday at noon at washingtonpost.com/liveonline.