William Boyd - Stars and bars

He knocked on her door. No answer. Duane’s room was quiet. Henderson knocked again and pushed the door open. The room was empty. Propped on the pillow was an envelope addressed to him. He tore it open.

Dear Henderson,

I have decided not to go back home. Duane and I are going to be married. Don’t worry. We love each other. I will tell Mom.

I thought it would be best if I wasn’t here when you left. See you tomorrow. Have a nice time in Atlanta.

Bryant

P.S. Duane says he is going to get you a complete new set of tyres.

Henderson watched his hand shake, the paper crackling in his fingers. He felt a sudden terrible fear at the wrath of Melissa, like some wretched vassal’s of a warlord. He tugged at his lower lip, tested some teeth for looseness. He swallowed. Calm down, he told himself, this is a fantasy, pure fantasy, it can’t happen. She’s a minor; she’s only fourteen . She can’t marry a man old enough to be her father. Who was this invisible Duane? What sort of evil perverted slob was he? And what a fool he had been to allow them so much time in each other’s company. Two teenagers listening to records…He put his hand on his heart. It was beating ferociously. He turned the letter over and wrote: “I will talk to you when I get back. On no account tell your mother anything. H.”

This new problem added itself to the others jostling for prominence in his brain, loud hooligans looking for trouble, trying to make life hell. They were penned up at the moment — just — but they could break out at any time, storm the streets.

In a perplexed trance, with a dumb, cretinous look on his face he walked down the stairs and outside. His car stood on four piles of bricks, tyreless. The bonnet was open. He looked in. Nothing obvious seemed to be missing, but his ignorance of the internal combustion engine was total. Solenoids, carburettors, magnetos could have been sequestered for all he knew.

He felt an immense futility descend upon him and he bowed his head impotently under the strain.

“Hi, there.” He looked up. It was Shanda. Did she keep watch on him, he wondered, irritated. She was like some omnipresent guardian of the front steps.

“Hello.”

“What happened to your car?”

“Duane.”

“That boy. I guess he means well, but…” She left her reservations unspoken. “Boy?” Henderson thought. Why do they refer to a thirty-four year old man as a boy? There was the source of his misconceptions.

“You wanna use the phone? Freeborn’s away.”

“No thanks.” He paused. “What’s Duane like?” he said slowly.

“Duane? Well…” Shanda came closer. Henderson thought he smelt alcohol on her breath. “Myself, I think he’s a little bit, you know, weird .”

“Oh God.” Henderson felt his weakness return, a sort of mild ache in his spine and knees. If a member of the Gage family pronounced someone ‘weird’ then the reality must be truly alarming. But no, he told himself firmly, that problem was shelved until tomorrow; more pressing disasters awaited his attention. He climbed into Beck-man’s pickup.

“You are coming back, aren’t you?” Shanda said with a note of alarm.

“Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.”

“Oh good. Y’all have a good time now, hear?”

♦

From this side of the country, too, Atlanta was visible from many miles off. Like gothic cathedrals in medieval times, a reassuring prominence always on the horizon. The skyscrapers of the downtown district were hazy and indistinct against the soft lucency of the mid-afternoon sky. The more miles he put between himself and Luxora Beach the better he felt. He had even quite enjoyed roaring along the highway in Beckman’s pickup.

When he reached Atlanta he had some problems locating the hotel in the city’s daunting system of one-way streets. He could see it, three or four blocks away, an impressive slab of steel and reflecting glass, but he seemed able only to circle it: no street led directly there — it hovered out of reach, a massive illusion. Eventually he parked the pickup and attempted to make his way there on foot. He saw signs for the ‘Monopark complex’, then ‘Monopark 5000 hotel’. He went through an arch beneath a shopping mall, up a dark ramp of a corridor and pushed through swing doors at the far end.

He found himself in a tall brilliant lobby. Thick wands of sunlight shone through vast overhead windows onto a marble floor. There appeared to be numerous entrances. The one through which he had emerged was clearly not the most significant. Various doormen and bellhops stood around in stylized cavalry uniforms: boots, hats, gold epaulettes, even dinky sabres at their belts. At the rear of the lobby was what appeared to be a dense wood of twenty-foot high trees. In front of this forest was a long reception desk. This Henderson approached with due reverence and awe. The experience was, he thought, akin to appearing at Heaven’s gate with the sin — virtue equation still in balance.

“Dores,” he said to the tanned cavalryman. “D, O, R, E, S. I have a reservation.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said. “Welcome to Monopark 5000.” He tapped out the name on a computer keyboard. There was a whirring and clicking and the machine fed out a piece of plastic with holes punched in it.

“What’s this?” Henderson asked. “A credit card?”

“Your key, sir. Need some help with your case?” The smile never budged.

“No thanks. I can manage.”

“You are in suite 35 J. Follow this path,” he gestured at an opening in the forest wall, “go through the atrium and take the scenic elevator to the thirty-fifth floor. Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000.”

“Right.” Henderson picked up his bag and looked dubiously at the path, which was signposted ‘To the atrium’. He felt like an explorer leaving base camp. “Goodbye,” he said to the man and set off.

He had imagined that the trees were merely a decorative screen but he was wrong. He found himself in a copse, a grove, a veritable spinney of weeping figs, silver birches and stands of bamboo. A soft greenish light filtered down from above, xylophonic music burbled from hidden speakers. Other paths bifurcated from his. ‘Convention reservation’, he saw, ‘To the Indian village’ and ‘Swimming Creek’. These signs were deliberately ‘olde west’: chunks of varnished wood with the message burnt on with a branding iron. The frontier theme was enhanced by the sudden appearance from behind a tree of a waitress in fringed buckskin waistcoat and miniskirt. Henderson gave a shrug of alarm. There were stripes of warpaint on her cheeks and forehead.

“Cocktails, sir?” she asked. “At the Indian village.”

“What? Oh, no. I’m looking for the atrium.”

“Keep right on to the end of this path.” She slipped away into the trees.

He followed her instructions and broke out into a towering atrium some twelve or fourteen stories high. Before him stretched a lake, blocking his way, some thirty yards across, dotted with islands furnished with seats and sprouting plants. Over on the left of the far bank was a cluster of wigwams which on closer inspection turned out to be a large restaurant and bar area. On the balconied far wall, a dozen scenic elevators rose up and down, some of them disappearing into holes in the roof like silent glass scarabs.

Henderson let out a spontaneous gasp of surprise. He had heard of this new breed of American hotel: the hotel as wonderland, as secular cathedral, as theme park — but his imagination had been deficient. Plants grew everywhere, fountains splashed, the light was pale, neutral and shadow-free.

A cowboy wandered over and handed him a wooden paddle.

“Good God, what’s this for?”