Margaret Atwood - The Robber Bride

Then it came to her during the ferry ride to the mainland that there was one person who would be sure to know what room Zenia was staying in. Roz’s son Larry would know, because Charis had seen the two of them go into the hotel together.

“This is the part I didn’t want to tell you,” says Charis to Roz. “That day at the Toxique? I waited in the Kafay Nwar, across the street. I saw them come out. I followed them. Zenia and Larry.”

“You followed them?” says Roz, as if somebody else has followed them too, and she knows who.

“I just wanted to ask her about Billy,” says Charis. Roz pats her hand. “Of course you did!” she says. “I saw them kissing, on the street,” says Charis, apologetically. “It’s okay, baby,” says Roz. “Don’t worry about me:”

“Charis!” says Tony, with admiration. “You’re a lot more cunning than I thought!” The idea of Charis tiptoeing around behind Zenia’s back fills her with pleasure, because it’s so unlikely. Whoever else Zenia might have suspected of shadowing her, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been Charis.

When Charis arrived at the store that morning, and after Shanita had gone out to pick up some small change from the bank, she called Roz’s house. If anyone answered at all it would be Larry, because by this time the twins would be at school and Roz would be at work. She was right, it was Larry.

“Hello, Larry, it’s Aunt Charis.” she said. She felt stupid calling herself Aunt Charis, but it was a custom Roz had begun when the kids were little and it had never been abandoned.

“Oh, hi, Aunt Charis,” said Larry. He sounded half asleep. “Mom’s at work:”

“Well, but it was you I wanted to talk to,” said Charis. “I’m looking for Zenia. You know, Zenia, maybe you remember her, from when you were little:’ (How little had Larry been? she wonders. Not that little. How much had Roz ever told him, about Zenia? She hopes not much.) “We were all at university together. I’m supposed to meet her at the Arnold Garden Hotel, but I’ve lost the room number.” This was a big lie; she felt guilty about it, and at the same time resentful towards Zenia for putting her in such a position. That was the thing about Zenia: she dragged you down to her own level.

There was a long pause. “Why ask me?” Larry said finally, guardedly.

“Oh,” said Charis, playing up her usual vagueness, “she knows what a bad memory I have! She knows I’m not the best organizer. She said if I lost it, to call you. She said you’d know. I’m sorry if I woke you up,” she added.

“That was pretty dumb of her,” said Larry. “I’m not her answering service. Why don’t you just phone the hotel?” This was strangely rude, for Larry. As a rule he was more polite.

“I would have,” said Charis, “but, you know, her last name isn’t the same as it used to be and I’m afraid I’ve forgotten the new one.” This is a guess—the new last name—but it’s the right guess. Tony once said that Zenia probably had a different name every year. Roz said, No, every month, she probably subscribed to the Name-of-the-Month Club.

“She’s in 1409,” Larry said sulkily.

“Oh, just let me write that down,” said Charis. “Fourteenoh-nine?” She wanted to sound as dithery and forgetful as possible; as much like an aging feather-brained biddy, as least like a threat. She didn’t want Larry phoning Zenia, and warning her.

The significance of the room number does not escape her. Hotels, she knows, never number the thirteenth floor, but it exists anyway. The fourteenth floor is really the thirteenth. Zenia is on the thirteenth floor. But the bad luck of that may be balanced by the good luck of nine, because nine is a Goddess number. But the bad luck will attach itself to Zenia and the good luck to Charis, because Charis is pure in heart—or she’s trying to be—and Zenia is not. Calculating in her head and clothing herself with light, Charis reaches the Arnold Garden Hotel, and walks under the intimidating awning and in through the glittering brass-trimmed glass doors as if there is nothing to it.

She stands in the lobby for a moment, catching her breath, getting her bearings. It’s not a bad lobby. Although there’s a lot of murdered-animal furniture, she’s pleased to see that there’s a sort of vegetation altarpiece as well: dried flowers. And through the plate glass doors at the back there’s a courtyard with a fountain, though the fountain isn’t turned on. She likes to see urban space moving in a more natural direction.

Then all of a sudden she has a discouraging thought. What if Zenia has no soul? There must be people like that around, because there are more humans alive on the earth right now than have ever lived, altogether, since humans began, and if souls are recycled then there must be some people alive today who didn’t get one, sort of like musical chairs. Maybe Zenia is like that: soulless. Just a sort of shell. In this case, how will Charis be able to deal with her?

This idea is paralyzing. In its grip Charis stands stock-still in’ the middle of the lobby. But she can’t turn back now. She closes her eyes and visualizes her altar, with the gloves and the earth and the Bible, calling upon its powers; then she opens them and waits for an omen. In one corner of the lobby there’s a grandfather clock. It’s almost noon. Charis watches until both hands of the clock are aligned, pointing straight up. Then she gets onto the elevator. With every floor she passes, her heart beats harder.

On the fourteenth floor, really the thirteenth, she stands outside

1409. A reddish grey light oozes out through the crack under the door, pushing her backwards with palpable force. She puts her palm against the wood of the door, which vibrates in silent menace. It’s like a train going by at a distance, or a slow explosion far away. Zenia must be in there.

Charis knocks.

After a moment—during which she can feel Zenia’s eye on her, through the glass peephole—Zenia opens the door. She’s wearing one of the hotel bathrobes, and has her hair wrapped in a towel. She must have been taking a shower. Even with the terry-cloth turban on her head she is shorter than Charis remembers. This is a relief

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” she says. “You were?” says Charis. “How did you know?”

“Larry told me you were on your way,” says Zenia. “Come in.” Her voice is flat; her face is weary. Charis is surprised at how old she looks. Maybe it’s because she isn’t wearing any makeup. If Charis didn’t know better by now than to leap to such conclusions, she would think Zenia is ill.

The room is a mess.

“Just a minute,” says Tony. “Go over that part again. You were there at noon and the room was a mess?”

“She was always messy when she lived with me, that time, on the Island,” says Charis. “She never helped with the dishes or anything.”

“But when I was there earlier, everything was really neat,” says Tony. “The bed was made. Everything.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” says Charis. “There were pillows on the floor, the bed was a wreck. Dirty coffee cups, potato chips, clothes lying around. There was broken glass on the coffee table, the rug too. It was like there’d been a party all night.”

“You sure it was the same room?” says Tony. “Maybe she lost her temper and smashed a few glasses:”

“She must have gone back to bed,” says Roz. “After you left.” They all consider that. Charis goes on:

The room is a mess. The flowered drapes are pulled half shut, as if they’ve been closed recently against the light. Zenia steps over the items strewn on the floor, sits down on the sofa, and picks up a cigarette from the dozen or so that are scattered around in the broken glass on the coffee table: “I know I shouldri’t smoke,” she murmurs, as if to herself, “but it hardly matters, now. Sit down, Charis. I’m glad you’ve come.”