David Adams Richards, "Wondering"

I was in Spain with my wife and son. It was 1994, and I had gone to there to work on a book. We lived in a small villa outside of Denia, a town midway between Alicante and Valencia  , and took the bus into town 3 or 4 times a week. We shopped at the fish markets and in the grocery stores, carrying our goods in small baskets, and refilled wine bottles from wine barrels in the bars.

I used a portable typewriter in those days, we had no cell phone, and no television in the villa. I waited during the day for the arrival of British Newspapers, always 2 days old to keep up on the news of the world. 

As far as my finances went what I had was in my wallet, in something called  traveller's cheques. Once or twice a week we would go to the bank, and cash enough traveller's cheques to pay for groceries, rent etc. Once we cashed one to rent a car and travel the coast, and for the most part what we did was determined by what we had left in those black folding pouches.

This became a problem when on occasion we ran out of money and the bank was closed. Then we were out of luck until the next day—or if it was Friday out of luck until Monday morning.   

This is what happened on December 21st of that year. I took my son John into Denia to buy him a birthday present—a toy car. He had pointed it out to me beforehand. It cost 2500 pesetas—or 25 dollars Canadian.  

 
That night I did not have enough Spanish money on me.

“We will have to come back tomorrow” I told John, who was going to be 5 years of age, the next day.  

“Oh,” he said. 

“First thing Monday we can come back,” I said as we walked by a bank on the other side of the street.

“Why don”t you use your card?” he said.

“What?”

“Use your card like you do at home.”  

In fact I did have an ATM card on me— 

“Well,” I said, in the very wise tone of an older, worldly gentleman, “ It won”t work here son—this is the middle of Spain—we live in Canada—my card won”t fit.”

He looked at me astonished. “Of course it will,” he said.

“I know it won’t work here,” I said more forcefully. “It will be eaten.”

“I promise you it won’t be,” John said. 

I held him by the hand so I wouldn”t lose him in the Saturday night crowd but he broke loose and ran to the bank. 

“I promise you it won’t be eaten—you can use the machine. I was wondering why you never used it before. You should have asked me.”

“God almighty” I said, “Why I never used it before—I should have asked you—well, I’ll show you why.”

I went over to the ATM machine. 

It would be a hard life lesson. I would prove to him that in this country my card would undoubtedly be eaten alive, swallowed whole.

“Watch,” I said. 

My card went into the slot.

“There,” I said. “How will I ever get it back?”

Just then the screen inquired about my language preference; Spanish, German, or English. 

I decided on English.   

Then it inquired about my PIN number.

“This is where everything will go haywire” I said to John. “Just you wait and see!”

The machine made a noise.

It inquired how much money I would require: 500 pesetas, 1000, or 5000.

“Let”s try 5000,” I said to John.

And out came 5000 pesetas.      

And then it inquired whether I wanted to do any more transactions.

And I, of course, said no, I did not want any more transactions at that time. 

So back came my card, in perfect condition.

“I was wondering why we walked when we didn”t have money for the bus—and I was wondering why we always used those cheques—I mean I was wondering lots of stuff about why you’d walk right by the machine.” John said.

“Well, it is good to wonder,” I said, picking him up and putting him on my shoulder, “It keeps you on your toes.”

David Adams Richards is one of only three writers to earn the Governor General’s Literary Awards for fiction (Nights Below Station Street) and nonfiction (Lines on the Water). His 14 novels include For Those Who Hunt the Wounded Down, Mercy Among the Children, and The Lost Highway. God Is and Facing the Hunter are two of his recent nonfiction books.

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