Javier Montes - The Hotel Life

“So, what’s up, then, man?”

Clearly, he had no problem with ridiculous phrases. I didn’t smile back. I was in a bad mood from being jolted awake. Asking him to come up began to seem like a stupid idea.

“How do you like the city?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He’d picked up on my distaste with the whole situation. If we carried on in this direction, it would be a slippery slope to ludicrousness. He jumped to his feet and adopted a serious, business-like expression and tone.

“Ok, you were saying you might be interested in a boy.”

I played for time.

“Yes, but not just anyone.”

The smile was back.

“’Course not, man, I don’t know just anyone.”

I tried to throw him off a bit.

“Actually, I’m thinking you’ll do.”

He had seen it coming and taken precautions: before I’d opened my mouth, he was already looking out the window. He didn’t turn around when I said it. He started to laugh. It was hard to tell if there was any discomfort in that laugh.

Then he plumped back down on the bed, smiling.

“Oh yeah? What for?”

Now he was trying to make me feel uncomfortable. And I did feel uncomfortable. I did my best to reproduce his feline smile while taking a couple of steps across the room.

“Not for what you’re thinking.”

“And what d’you think I’m thinking?”

An exchange of this type — ambiguous and crass and liable to be drawn out indefinitely — suited him better than it did me.

“You think I want to pay to fuck you.”

He looked at me, offended. Genuinely offended, but more by this violation of the tacit rules of the conversation, I’d say, than by the suggestion itself. He fixed his gaze on the bedspread and traced the outline of the floral pattern with his finger.

“And it’s not for that?”

“No.”

He stood up gravely, and put out his hand.

“Ok. Alright then, no problem, man. It’s all good. I gotta go.”

He didn’t quite pull it off. Too brusque, too theatrical. Almost childish. We both noticed. He flushed, recognizing his slip as clearly as I did. But I knew — we both knew — that it wouldn’t take him long to recover his footing. So I smiled and sat down on the rumpled bed.

“Wait. Sit down. I would pay you, though.”

The boy’s face did not relent, remaining hard and impenetrable. It could well be that that’s his true face.

“I’d pay you, but not for sex. Sit down.”

He complied. Not at all because he was essentially docile, and still less out of curiosity. Few people do anything out of mere curiosity at his age. Some learn curiosity over the years, but I doubt this kid will be one of them; he’s more likely to grow old and die without ever knowing what it is. I rather envied him for that.

“I’ll pay you if you help me find somebody. If you call her on the phone.”

I paused before continuing. I had to choose my words with care. And then I didn’t want to. Or didn’t know how. All of a sudden, I was overwhelmed with tiredness, and with an almost sensual pleasure at the thought of giving in to it. Next thing I knew, I was spilling everything to this kid I didn’t even know. The whole story, and I told it badly, too — not choosing my words at all, tripping over myself, skipping episodes, getting sidetracked. All out of order, in bursts, carried away by my own incontinence and how inappropriate the whole thing was.

The boy didn’t interrupt, and I don’t know how much attention he was paying; I avoided looking at him. It had been ages since I’d talked so much to anyone. I have now become conscious of something I only half noticed a while ago: it was a reenactment of what happened that first night in my room at the Imperial. One person talking too much and another listening to more than he needs to hear. Maybe she felt as much distaste for me that night as I had recently felt, deep down, for this kid. And yet perhaps she needed me as much as I did him. Perhaps, too, he felt that my confidences had abolished all possibility of trust between us. Perhaps he learned that night that certain outpourings will transform two passing acquaintances into irreversible strangers. Almost into adversaries, if not into enemies.

“That’s where you come in. You could call her — she doesn’t know you — you make an appointment and you tell me where. That’s it. After that we’ll see.”

I corrected myself.

“I’ll see, I mean. You wouldn’t need to go.”

I would go myself. Perhaps she’d be there, at long last. Or good old Pedro, of course. If I was careful, I would be able to shadow him to the place where she’s hiding, or where I keep making myself believe she’s hiding. The plan is as laborious and absurd as its own logic dictates. On the other hand, in its own strange way, it does have its rewards. Just like old Pedro said, and indeed just like everything lately.

The boy surveyed me, half smiling. He wasn’t completely beyond discomfiture after all.

“Alright.”

He stared down at the bedspread again, still smiling. We were silent. I had no more to say, and I waited for him to look up. When he did so, he had recovered his earlier smile, the one from the beginning. He was barricaded behind it as safely as he had been behind the reception desk.

“So how much do I get?”

I remembered what she’d said back at the Imperial. How involving money made things easier. I replied swiftly and without stopping to think — I, who am so hopeless at bargaining. I was surprised at how naturally I found the right response.

“Whatever she offers you.”

He stared for a moment, and then laughed.

“Alright.”

He dug into a pocket and produced his cellphone.

“Ok, give me the number.”

He wasn’t wasting any time, which put me on the back foot again. I have so lost the habit of consequences, it seems, that this fast-motion chain of causes and effects caught me off guard. It had been a long time since anything had ended up happening quite all the way.

“Isn’t it a little late to call?”

The boy didn’t look at his watch.

“No. And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like these guys work late.”

I hesitated. He was right. Barely twenty minutes ago, I had been alone in this room and requested action and some company. And now I had the chance to find out how much I really wanted those things.

“So how about it.”

It wasn’t a question. I took out my own phone and read the number to him. The boy dialed and began speaking in a serious tone when the call was answered; his whole performance was surprisingly good. He didn’t look at me while he was on the line; there were no winks of complicity or stifled giggles. Like me, but better, he affected shyness while answering questions that appeared to be the same as the ones I’d been asked. Before wrapping things up, though, he asked about the money. I feared this could ruin the deal; she might hang up on him or try to brush the question off. But they quickly reached an agreement and said goodbye after another minute. In the end, the whole conversation hadn’t lasted more than three.

The boy fiddled with his phone for a moment, staring at the screen without saying a word, deftly raising the dose of what you could call dramatic tension. When he looked up, he was wearing a smile again.

“Piece of cake. Like you heard.”

We both knew I hadn’t.

“No, I didn’t hear. What did she say?”

The smile expanded as he told me the amount she had offered. Perhaps I should have haggled. This is a kid, I imagine, who respects people who respect money. And the sum was pretty high. I got out my wallet, counted some bills, and handed them over. The boy took them without looking.

“Bit short, isn’t it?”