Javier Montes - The Hotel Life

“No. A proper lady? Been a while since we laid eyes on anyone like that around here …”

All of a sudden, his eyes shifted to my face, and I was forced to drop mine. Only then did he redirect his attention to the damp wallpaper frieze.

“We used to.”

The affirmation was made with such conviction that I suddenly became aware, as I looked at the relics around me, of a certain erstwhile prosperity (“glorious past” might be an overstatement), traces of that décor typical of the discreet hotel to which you could, forty years ago, have brought a proper lady without jeopardizing her good name or looking like a cheapskate.

I got the feeling that the flaking lacquered folding screen, now demoted to the back wall, was forever lost in reminiscence of those bygone days, as were the sliding door and, beyond it, the corner of the small parlor with its doilies crocheted many years ago by who knew what doughty matron.

She’s not staying here, but I went down to the street feeling confident that she’d like the place.

I’ve had two cups of coffee already, nothing to eat and I have no appetite. It’s pelting down outside, but it doesn’t seem to even begin to melt the dirty snow on the sidewalk. The café really was just around the corner (like everything here, I find; the city is minuscule, though it seems enormous when you first arrive). Here I am, among tall tables and framed restaurant reviews that don’t include any by my competitor at the paper. I was going to write “neighbor”, but at this point, I fear the term is inaccurate. So is “competitor”, really; I was never much competition for him.

After lunchtime, the place filled up with old ladies of all kinds: alone and in bunches, demure and raucous, soigné and slovenly. It must be a classic for teatime treats. I am presently the only customer who is male and under the age of sixty. The aggregate murmur of their conversations rises and dozes off by turns.

Twenty minutes to go until our appointment. The waiter has taken the cups away and wiped off the tabletop with a flourish of his dishcloth. I thought it would be more presentable for her when she arrives. It seems this time I really am resolved to meet her.

I’ve tried to imagine what will happen. I’ve fortified myself against disappointment and tried to sound out the intensity of the relief I’d feel if she didn’t show up. Maybe she’s found other people to work with; maybe at the last minute she’ll decide she can’t be bothered interviewing a stranger.

Maybe she simply whirls right around when she sees me, without saying a word. Maybe she goes back out through the door the minute she comes in and disappears without even giving me a chance to explain. Really, I wouldn’t be able to explain a thing to her.

Another reason I’m dwelling on all of this — I can’t kid myself here — is to fake the serenity of a man who has abandoned all hope. I, who’ve always despised those who pretend to drop their desires while slyly continuing to keep track of them out of the corner of their eye. It’s an old, cheap trick: affecting resignation in the face of the impossibility of something in order to make it come about faster.

I’ve stirred the coffee grounds. Unreadable, of course. It doesn’t much matter; the future they might predict is very nearly the present. I’ve rolled and unrolled the little sugar packet between my fingers several times. I’ve placed it like a tiny bridge over a drop of water left by the waiter’s cloth. A few minutes past the hour. I’ll count to five, finish writing this sentence, look toward the door, and she’ll be here.

She wasn’t there. But in the entrance, closing his umbrella and glancing around, was the obnoxious man from the Imperial Hotel. The one who had kept out of sight while shutting the bedroom door, the one who was blowing into the eye of the boy seated on the edge of the bathtub, the one who had cast nasty looks at me from the bedroom door. She’d told me his name. On seeing me, the man arched his eyebrows in an expression of feigned surprise, screwed his lips into a twisted smile, and started to walk over to my table. Pedro, that’s right, Pedro — his name is Pedro. How could I have forgotten old Pedro.

While he weaved toward me, I had time to recall the insolent “See you later” I’d tossed him as I left the hotel room. I even had time to improvise a similar mood. No secret oath of sincerity bound me to this man; I was under no obligation to tell him the truth, or even to make an effort to define it. I decided frantically: I would pretend I was there by chance, nothing to do with any appointment or phone call.

Good old Pedro would tell her all about it later, of course. I had time to picture that, as well. So much the better. Maybe she’d be tickled by the whole thing if she heard about it from a third party. It might put her on my side, it could establish a sort of mediated complicity between the two of us, in opposition to old Pedro.

“Hi.”

He sat down at the table without asking. I nodded and tried to stop myself from looking sulky, like a child expecting to be told off. I didn’t want to adopt the attitude he would have been expecting of me: that of someone who admits they’re at fault. And so I grudgingly replied.

“Hello.”

The man gazed at the ceiling and blew out a sigh before saying anything further. He looked tired.

“Look. She asked me to come here and tell you to stop acting like a fool. Tell him it’s not like him at all, she said. Her words, verbatim.”

The first thing to strike me was that “verbatim” too trivial not to be double edged. I couldn’t stop myself blurting out a “She did?” that rather ruined my pretense of imperturbability.

“She did. She’s got a damn good ear for voices. Even on the phone.”

The waiter arrived, and old Pedro ordered a coffee and glanced inquiringly at me. I met his look with my own brows arched, mirroring his expression purely as a reflex.

“What will you have?”

He seemed nice, and genuinely tired. Not like someone about to say “Watch your back, sonny,” or “Next time I’ll break your legs,” or whatever it is people whose job it is to keep snitches, peeping Toms, and weirdos in their place say. I wasn’t sure whether this deference was something to be thankful for or an elaborately offensive way of rubbing salt in the wound.

The wound of having been found out by her. The certainty of deserving nothing better than old Pedro’s weary benevolence.

“Nothing, thank you.”

The waiter moved off. A new and still more exquisite wave of humiliation washed over me. She hadn’t deigned to unmask me over the phone. She’d sent this guy instead.

“Even on the phone. Especially on the phone, in fact. She sees right through them, it’s amazing. Practice, of course. Part of the job. You wouldn’t believe some of the losers …”

He seemed oblivious to the fact that I myself featured among those she had seen right through. That I was one of those “losers” he evoked with such uncomprehending compassion. Perhaps he wasn’t meaning to be cruel. That’s the impression I had then, and I still think so now.

I looked at him, feeling unable to say anything. And in fact, there was nothing really to say.

“So you’d do best to let it drop. That’s what she says, that you’d do best to let it drop.”

I couldn’t marshal a single thought. Like on every one of the very few previous occasions when something awful has happened to me, a part of me couldn’t help but be aware, at the same time, of the sheen of imbecility that these sorts of situations always have. So this was how it all turned out. Here was the denouement I had spent all these months not daring to anticipate. I was about to cover my face with my hands. A gesture that’s just another old trick: to make everything go away, to be the one who disappears.