Free Pitch Dark by RENATA ADLER

parking lot, to a small yellow car, with a slightly dented door. It is true that he is talking amiably, about the weather, about the route, but I am still carrying my bags. Finally, he opens the car door for me, says, Safe journey then, and walks away. Well, the car’s radio doesn’t work, nor does the heater; and I misunderstand, it turns out, the windshield wiper, which flaps (as I drive, I count) only once every thirteen seconds. Bidden or unbidden; that is, whether the switch is on or off. The road signs, virtually indistinguishable in this weather from the color of the sky, often do not mention even the largest towns. Galway, for instance, is sometimes mentioned, sometimes not. The car-rental man, like Paddy, said to follow the signs for Westport. But there are no signs for Westport. I do not look at the map of Ireland, which lies folded on the seat beside me, because, in the intervals between those desultory, spastic, and somehow each time startling flaps of the windshield wiper, the windows are completely misted over. For some reason, I am also disinclined to stop. The car-rental man also said that the distance from Shannon to Cihrbradàn was about thirty miles, but I’ve already driven more than sixty. I begin to persuade myself that what the car registers is kilometers. I have heard and read so much, through the years, about Galway, however. I know there will be, there is sooner or later bound to be a large, clear sign for Galway. Finally, I pull over to a large gas station, and wait beside the fuel pumps. Nobody stirs. I walk through the rain toward the office. A pudgy young man, with sandy hair and freckled lips, is standing just inside the door. I say, Could you tell me, please, am I still on the right road, and how far is it, to Galway? He stares off into the distance. I stand there in the rain. Then, looking me straight in the eyes, he says, with unmistakable satisfaction: I’ve no idea. He watches as I get back in my car, and set off, on the same road, in the same direction. I try the radio and the heater again. Nothing. A silence and a chill. Of the three forward speeds on the floorshift, I now notice, one is only intermittent; on even the smallest hills it does not always hold. I wish I had thought to ask him which was the nearest town. I have just about decided that I am in fact off course, so far off, and so long ago, that the man had looked, not sullenly pleased, but just bewildered, never having heard perhaps of Galway. Within half a mile of that gas station, there is a large sign: Galway 6. Well, maybe he didn’t like me, or understand my accent. Maybe he’s never traveled as far as six miles from where we stood, and the sign is so familiar to him he forgot. Maybe he has a mother, or an older sister, who likes to look at him blankly and say, in that tone of voice: I’ve no idea. Whatever it is, the rain stops, and the road is right. Still bemused, but taking heart, I drive.
    I enter a small town; and, as I round a curve, on the cobbled road, I hear and slightly feel a sort of crack, or smack, on my side of the car. I think I’ve grazed a truck, a very large truck, parked half on the sidewalk, half in the road, along that curve. I get out and, to my great relief, I find that I have only hit his bumper. Or rather, his front bumper, being high off the curb, has hooked under my left front fender, just above the hubcap, tearing that fender in a straight line, from the rim behind the tire to the door hinge, a distance of about a foot. The fender, oddly, is not bent, only cut in that straight, tidy line. The edge of the truck’s bumper, on the other hand, heavy steel covered in thick rubber, is bent very slightly forward. That is all. A young man walks across the street. I say, I’ve hit your truck. He says, I guess you have. When he sees what has happened, he is at first as relieved as I am. He says, Fortunately, there’s no harm, fortunately; and starts to bend his bumper back. Then he sees the