Paul Theroux - My Secret History

But there was a new man behind the counter.

“I was looking for Mr. Balinieri.”

“He don’t work here no more.”

And I knew he had been fired by this ignorant procrustean guinea wop, because he didn’t fit.

I brought my copy of Moby Dick so that I would have something to talk about with Mrs. Mamalujian. I had underlined the paragraphs in chapters 64 and 65 that were about eating whale meat, which was what I wanted to have for lunch. I was very nervous.

Coming out of the Boston Public Library I had often looked across the square they called the plaza, and marveled at the grand hotel on the south side, and wondered what the rooms were like. I had never felt that it was forbidden to go in, only that it was better to have a reason, and an inkling that you needed an invitation of some kind. The idea of going into any Boston hotel seemed strange to me. They were for businessmen and honeymooners; for strangers, for people from out-of-town. I had a notion that hotels were for people who did not quite belong: they had nowhere else to go.

It was a mystery to me. I was nineteen years old and had never traveled anywhere; had never stayed overnight in any hotel. That took money and I didn’t have any.

Another reason for my nervousness was I had told Lucy I would call her. But I was hesitant. I didn’t know what time I would be free, and I felt guilty about making her wait.

I thought fondly of her watering her flowerpots. This is my garden , she had said. This is my library .

And I thought it might frighten her if I told her I loved her. It seemed simpler for things to remain as they were — for us to be passionate when we were in bed, and in between times be close friends. I was also afraid myself that she would depend on me, and I imagined every time I turned around I would see her and she would say, What shall we do now?

Was that Irish-looking doorman staring disapprovingly at me? He had white hair and a red face and a graceful way of reaching for the door. When I saw people doing lowly jobs like opening doors and hailing taxis I tried to picture them as presidents or kings by mentally giving them different clothes; and usually it worked. I made that doorman a presidential candidate and then breezed past him.

What Mrs. Mamalujian had called Peacock Alley was a long corridorlike entry way, with oriental carpets the length of it, and mirrors on the sides. Between the mirrors there were ornate chairs.

“There you are,” I heard.

Mrs. Mamalujian was sitting in a big soft chair, her legs crossed, and kicking one up and down.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your clothes on before,” she said.

That made a passing couple smile.

“It’s impossible to tell whether you’re blushing, you have such a good tan.”

She stood up, wobbled a little in her shoes, and gave me a wet kiss.

“Oh, I’ve left lipstick all over you,” she said, and then made a business of wiping it off, which she did with a very fragrant handkerchief. “Shall we go?”

She had made me unsure of myself. It was the confident way she spoke to me, and the fact that she seldom said anything that called for a direct reply. She just uttered odd statements and she seemed to be making them as much to people who might be eavesdropping as to me.

“I’ve seen trees come up faster than that elevator,” she said, and behind us some men chuckled.

She smiled, enveloped in a cloud of strong perfume.

“What’s the book?”

“Moby Dick ,” I said, trying to whisper.

“I’ve always liked that title,” Mrs. Mamalujian said.

One of the men cleared his throat.

“You look good in clothes, Andre. You should wear them more often.”

Someone snorted behind me.

“What floor is it on?” I asked, when we got into the elevator, just to have something to say.

“Six,” she said, and poked the button with one of her bulging rings.

When we were outside the door I asked, “Is this a restaurant?”

She just laughed and jangled the key and fumbled with the lock. It was not that she was unmechanical, but rather that she was too vain to wear her glasses. At last the key turned and she pushed the door open.

“Do you like it?”

I stepped inside and looked around.

“Is it a living room?”

There was no bed. I saw a sofa and some wing chairs, and a table with a new copy of Look on it (Kennedy on the cover), all of Boston out the window.

“The bedroom’s in here.”

It was my first hotel room. I did not have to be told it was a suite. I was impressed — by the luxury, the silence, the coolness on this hot summer day.

Mrs. Mamalujian said, “Sometimes when I’m feeling really awful I check into a hotel. This one or the Ritz-Carleton, or the Parker House. And after a few days I feel much better, and then I check out. Do you ever do that?”

“I don’t usually feel awful.”

“It’s wonderful to be young,” she said. “Sit down and have a drink.”

She handed me a menu with a list of drinks on it. I wanted a beer but there was something wrong with drinking a beer in this suite at the Copley Plaza. I looked down the list: Pink Lady. Sidecar. Grasshopper. Manhattan. Tom Collins .

“I’ll have a cocktail,” I said, stalling.

“Which one?”

“A Grasshopper.”

“That’s exciting,” she said. “I’m having a dull old gin and tonic. But tonic’s healthy, you know.”

As I was wondering where the drinks would come from, Mrs. Mamalujian lifted the phone and said, “Room Service? This is six-oh-eight. We want three Grasshoppers and three gins and tonic.” She hung up and said, “I can’t wait to see what a Grasshopper is.”

I had no idea what it was. I said, “Is the restaurant on this floor?”

I was sitting deep in the sofa, and Mrs. Mamalujian smoked in a wing chair across the room. She was swinging one leg over the other with her shoe dangling.

“Room Service,” she said, blowing smoke. “Hungry?”

“A little,” I said, to be polite. I was very hungry and I knew the drink — whatever it was — would make me hungrier.

She said, “I wish I were hungry. I love the idea of food, but the sight of it affects me, and when I start eating I lose my appetite.”

The drinks came — three for Mrs. Mamalujian, three for me. After she signed the bill, the bald man in the tight vest said, “Very good, Madam,” and left the room walking backwards.

“What would you like to eat?”

“Whale steak,” I said.

She looked at me strangely and said, “Are they on the menu?”

“They must be,” I said. We looked. I was very surprised that they weren’t.

She dialed Room Service again and said, “Do you have whale steaks? No? Well, what do you have?”

To simplify matters I said I’d have a hamburger. She ordered crab salad. She smiled at me and said, “Grasshoppers. Whale steaks. Moby Dick .” She winked. “You’ve got a sense of humor.”

A Grasshopper was a minty green drink in a wineglass, mingled with alcoholic chocolate and topped with a layer of thick cream. It was sweet sticky goo, and the liquor in it made my eyes water.

“Is that drink all right? It looks like creme de menthe to me. I don’t know how you do it. You’re so thin!”

“I always drink these,” I said. Did that sound debonair? I didn’t think so.

She had already started her second gin and tonic. “It’s good if you have malaria,” she said. “By the way, they miss you at the club. It hasn’t been the same since you left. That idiot Mattanza still walks around in his stupid bathing suit, thinking he’s so wonderful.”

“I’m still pissed off about that job.”