Бруно Травен - Aslan Norval

Half an hour later, Aslan gave the waiter a nod to bring the bill. She placed a hundred-dollar bill on the table in such a way that the waiter would think the money was Beckford’s.

“I can pay the bill myself,” said Beckford, reaching for his billfold.

“I know that, but I invited you and you are my guest.”

He put his billfold back and when the waiter brought the change he left an elegant tip on the little plate and pushed the rest into his own pocket as the waiter looked on. Aslan did not care. It was all her own money anyway.

Aslan took the elevator up to her room and by phone ordered a second half bottle of the wine they had served at dinner. She intended to treat herself to a nice and quiet evening in her room.

“One glass, ma’am, or two?” asked the room service waiter on the phone.

“One glass.”

Having accompanied Aslan to the elevator, Beckford went to the bar so that the whiskeys he had previously consumed would not get lonely in his stomach. He also hoped to pick up a lonely hotel guest, whose husband was perhaps too busy paying attention to some other beach babe that evening. You can always pick someone up in a hotel bar. All you need is money and patience.

In her nightgown and bathrobe, Aslan closed the door of her bedroom and pushed the little table with the open bottle of wine and the glass closer to the divan in the living room. She filled her glass, took up a novel, and blissfully stretched out on the divan.

It was too early to go to sleep. She could not have gone to sleep, as excited as she was alone in her room thinking about the details of Beckford’s report. She would never have expected that her seemingly innocent plan could cause such an upheaval in the country.

She drank some wine, opened the book she intended to read, glanced at the first page, and closed the book again. She began to daydream: For her, the canal or the railway, whichever it would turn out to be, was an enterprise like the construction of a large ship, a skyscraper, or a mighty dam. And now her undertaking had shaken a whole nation and was provoking the most conflicting political and economic opinions.

Thinking about all this almost made her afraid of herself. “Why the devil,” she asked herself, “did I have to have this crazy idea, which most people would consider a pipe dream? Why did I have to come up with a project that most people would consider impossible? I could have led a calm life instead of getting all tangled up in national and international politics. I’m sure now the British will make a fuss about this project running counter to their own interests, and the U.S. government will deny our permits in order to stay in good standing with them. We’re basically still a British colony. We can’t step on England’s toes under any circumstances, because the Antichrist, the sworn enemy of all true culture and civilization, lurks in the East.”

While Aslan was daydreaming, there was a knock on the door. It could not have been the room service waiter checking in again; he would have called. There was another knock.

“Who is it?” asked Aslan, without getting up from the divan.

“It’s me, Beckford, ma’am.”

“What do you want, Beckford? I hope you know how late it is.”

“Yes, it’s ten thirty. But I have a terribly important message for you, ma’am.”

Aslan could tell from his voice that he had imbibed more whiskey than was good for his equilibrium. But she could be wrong. She did not know him well enough to know for sure.

“I’m sure you can tell me tomorrow at breakfast.”

“It really is urgent, ma’am, and should not wait till the morning.”

Her curiosity was piqued. She opened the door, not so much to hear the important message, but so they wouldn’t have to keep talking through the closed door. She feared Beckford would draw the unwanted attention of other hotel guests.

As soon as Aslan had cracked open the door, Beckford shoved past her into the room. Only then did Aslan wonder why Beckford had not called instead of coming to her room directly. And she asked herself why she had not told him that he should have called instead.

Now it was too late. Beckford was in her room and alone with her. She could, of course, call reception and ask for hotel security, but that would only make the situation worse. The hotel management would wonder why she had let the man into her room in the first place and would misunderstand. The reality was that she was alone with Beckford in her room late at night, and that she was standing in front of him wearing nothing but a flimsy nightgown.

She’d guessed correctly: He wasn’t entirely wasted, but he definitely wasn’t sober, either. The amount of whiskey he had consumed had clearly left an impact. His decision-making was impaired, but Aslan felt that he knew what he was doing. He did not even attempt to feign drunkenness. The events of this late evening would have gone very differently had he succeeded in meeting an easy woman at the bar, some neglected housewife.

On the hotel terrace earlier that afternoon, Aslan had let herself slip a little under the influence of the mild air and the lulling roar of the waves. She remembered her assessment of Beckford’s body as she sat down on the divan, pulling her bathrobe tightly around her body. She thought of asking him what the important message was, but the words died on her lips. She felt a lump in her throat apparently caused by her growing arousal.

Indecisive about what he should do next, Beckford felt insecure like a sixteen-year-old alone with a prostitute for the first time in his life. He needed to do something, he thought in his befuddled brain. He looked at Aslan and stepped closer to her. His knees touched hers as he stood in front of her. He pressed his knees harder into her body. Then his hand found its way under her nightgown. As if she meant to refuse him, she turned her body a little, but this movement allowed his hand to explore her breasts. With her left hand, she tried to remove his from her body, but the feebleness of her gesture implied that she could properly defend herself if she were serious about doing so.

She let it happen without enjoying it, without any satisfaction. She found that it did nothing to cool her arousal. After, skillfully, she turned away from him and, lying on her side, kicked him with all her might. He would never have guessed that she was so strong. The kick sent the sturdy sergeant all the way to the door, where he stumbled and fell.

“That’s the door, Mr. Beckford. Good night.”

He left the room without answering and without even turning around.

Aslan stood and closed the door behind him. Out in the hall, Beckford tried to collect himself. The only thing he could think was, Good Lord, that woman can kick! She would make it far in the Marine Corps.

The following day, at three in the afternoon, he called her and asked whether she would not like to invite him for tea in her rooms.

Aslan answered: “Okay, four thirty,” and hung up without another word.

When Beckford arrived in Aslan’s living room at four thirty on the dot, the waiter had already served tea and disappeared. Several different tiny toasted sandwiches and a crystal flask of cognac accompanied the tea.

Beckford tried to hide his insecurity at being alone with Aslan again by being intentionally brusque. He gave up after a few minutes because he felt he was making a fool of himself. Aslan paid him no attention. She knew he was only attempting to regain a sense of his masculinity. Aslan acted as though she had no recollection of what had passed between them the night before.

Maybe she was too drunk to remember what happened, he thought.

Aslan acted as she always did toward him: as his superior, his employer, on whom he depended financially. Aslan poured the tea and when she offered him the tray with the sandwiches, she said, as if she did not care very much: “What was it that was so important that you wanted to tell me last night?”