Jon Bilbao - Still the Same Man

“Afternoon,” said the Mexican man, introducing himself as the hotel’s owner, “How can I help you?”

The professor piped up before Joanes could get a word in.

“My wife and I had a setback on the bus that was taking us to Valladolid, and we had to get off halfway through our journey. We were forced to,” he clarified. “Now we’re looking for accommodations for the night. In Los Tigres, they directed us this way. But before I say more, may I have a glass of water?”

The owner of the establishment went over to a table where a group of women were preparing platters of food and returned with two glasses of water.

“I’m sorry, we’re out of ice.”

The professor took the glasses and lifted them up to the light.

“Is it mineral water?”

“I’m sorr y?”

“Is it purified?”

The Mexican man nodded unconvincingly. The professor threw him a disapproving look and went over to his wife, who drank holding the glass with both hands and spilling part of its contents down her chin. The professor stood beside her, stroking her hair. Once she’d finished, the professor offered her the other glass, which she also gulped down. Then the professor whispered something to her, to which she nodded, once again with a pained expression. Finally, the professor went up to the table of food, where he helped himself to more water and drank.

“Do you have any rooms?” Joanes asked the hotel owner.

“You’re in luck. I have one. The last one. Do want to see it?”

“Just one?”

The hotel owner nodded and pointed toward the elderly couple.

“Are they your parents?”

“God no.”

The professor walked back over to them, and Joanes gave him the bad news.

“It wouldn’t be possible, for example, to relocate someone?” the professor proposed. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

“I’ve got people crammed in like sardines,” the hotel owner answered. “Six or seven to a room. I’m not going to move them just to make more room for you.”

“Is there room in any of the other hotels in Los Tigres?” interrupted Joanes.

“There aren’t any other hotels in Los Tigres. Do you want to see the room?”

“We may as well, now that we’re here,” Joanes said.

The owner called over a vacant looking girl who was seasoning the meat for the barbecue.

“My daughter. She’ll show you the room. I have to attend to the food. If you’re happy with what you see, come back down and we can talk.”

The professor told his wife to wait for them a minute, and he and Joanes followed the girl. Inside there was nothing vaguely resembling a reception desk. In fact, there was nothing really resembling a hotel. And this impression was heightened when they stopped in front of a room with no number on the door. The girl opened it and invited them to go in.

It was pretty large, and reasonably clean. The floor was tiled and the walls painted a muted tone of green. By way of furniture there was a bed, and next to that a bedside table with a lamp, then one sole chair set aside in the corner. A print of the Virgin of Guadalupe hung over the bed. The window faced out onto the back of the hotel, where a rusty swing set stood among weeds and garbage.

When Joanes asked if there was any chance of having an additional bed, the girl said that they could hang a hammock and pointed to some meat hooks screwed into the ceiling for that purpose.

“The bathroom is next to the kitchen,” she added.

“Just one for the whole hotel?”

“There are two,” answered the girl, monotone. “A ladies’ room and a men’s room. There are two showers, too.”

Joanes flicked the lamp switch, but it didn’t go on.

“There’s no light,” he said.

“It’s been cut,” said the girl. “For the hurricane.”

“A lready?”

“Yeah, a while ago.”

Joanes let out a sigh and then asked, “How far to Valladolid from here?”

“Fifty miles or so,” said the girl. “Driving it’s around an hour, but if the road’s backed up. .”

“It is.”

“Impossible to say, then. Are you gonna take the room?”

She looked from one to the other, waiting for an answer.

“What do you think?” Joanes asked the professor.

“It has four walls and a door. Just what you wanted.”

“It could be we just have to stay one night. We’ll leave tomorrow, if the weather clears up.”

“Are you here because of the hurricane?” the girl asked.

Joanes nodded.

“A load of people have come because of that. If you don’t take the room now, someone else will,” she said, in her usual lifeless tone, barely opening her mouth.

The professor shot her a less than kindly look.

“I have to discuss it with my wife,” he said, leaving the room.

Shortly after, Joanes joined the elderly couple out by the car. They were bickering under their breath.

“Have you made up your minds?”

“I’m just explaining to my wife that the room isn’t very comfortable.”

“It’s more comfortable than the car. And it’ll seem even more so when the wind picks up. She won’t be any better off in Valladolid sleeping in a hallway or a gym.”

“Listen to the boy,” said the wife. “He’s right.”

“You don’t want to stay?” Joanes asked the professor.

“I don’t like this place. I’d take our chances and keep going.”

And after a pause, he added, “We have one vote in favor of staying and another against, so you decide.”

Joanes thought how with the electricity already cut, charging his phone was no longer a reason to stay. But he was tired and hungry, and he didn’t feel like heading back into that traffic jam for God only knew how long. To say nothing of the hurricane. Without them even noticing, the sky had filled with heavy, gray clouds.

“We’ll bed down here till tomorrow,” he said. “I think that’s best.”

“What about your family?” asked the professor.

“They’ll be fine. I’ll call them and explain what’s happened.”

The professor stared at him.

“So it’s decided,” he said. “Even though, given that we’re dependent on you, the truth is our opinions count for little. We’re in your hands.”

“I’ll talk to the owner,” responded Joanes, refusing to take the bait, and he walked off, leaving the elderly couple to go on exchanging whispers.

“We’ll take it.”

The owner nodded, satisfied, and without taking his eyes off the barbecue. He was putting a lot of care and attention into his work. Despite the fact that there were other men around, not one offered him their help or advice on how best to cook the meat, as one might expect.

“How much is the room?”

The owner gave his price. It was more than the room was worth, but in the current circumstances, reasonable enough.

“How long are you going to stay?”

“A night. Two, at most. Do you want payment now?”

“No, don’t worry. We’ll discuss that tomorrow. There’s a lot of folks here,” he added, waving his meat fork toward the mass. “There’s no way of you slipping away without me knowing about it.”

“Why is it called the English Residence?”

“An English couple lived here before. Archeologists. They came for the ruins and stayed twenty years. This was their house. When they died, it was abandoned. We tore it down and built our own on top.”

“So there are no English people now.”

“Not one.”

“So. . this is a hotel.”

The owner looked at him as if he didn’t understand.

“It’s just it doesn’t say anywhere that it’s a hotel,” Joanes explained.

“It has a lot of rooms, and I rent them out. It’s a hotel.”

“I see. Are they guests, too?” asked Joanes, referring to the others. There were close to forty people out on the lawn, sitting on plastic chairs under umbrellas advertising Coca-Cola.