Holland Suggestions (10 page)

“That means you’re staying?”

“For a while.”

She sighed in painful resignation: “Okay, I guess I’ll browse around across the river. There might be some people I know in the camp.”

Amy trudged away through the mud. I locked the car and turned for another look at the fine old Victorian gingerbread that laced the outside of the inn. What I saw instead was a woman standing in a second-floor room, looking down at me. The instant our eyes met she stepped back and drew the curtains closed. I saw her only long enough to know that she was young and her hair was dark. Her fingers appeared briefly between the curtains, straightening the wrinkles, then she was gone. I shrugged and clattered up the boardwalk, kicked the mud off my shoes, and went into the inn.

The lobby was empty. It was very western, with oil paintings of Indian raids and stuffed animal heads and ancient rifles adorning the walls. A long bar stood just to the right of the door, with a mirror behind it and a few bottles arranged neatly beneath the mirror. A beautiful old cash register stood at the end of the bar. Beyond was a social room, where eight or ten chairs were arranged in a semicircle. Across the lobby, near the back of the building, was a small kitchen with a refrigerator and a stove, and beside the stove a door that I guessed must lead to a storeroom. I walked along the bar toward the kitchen and noticed that the inn register lay open at the end of the bar. There were only two names: Jill Sargent of Bridgeport, Connecticut; and Willy Max of Philadelphia. I was thinking that the girl I had seen must be either Jill Sargent or Mrs. Max, and what a strange gathering of Easterners this was, when a man came out of the storeroom and crossed the lobby toward me.

He must have been forty-five, with hair that was graying and one day would be a distinguished white. He walked with a distinct limp, balancing himself with a cane that apparently had been cut and hand-carved from a tree branch. He smiled as he came closer, and the smile was wide and toothy and noncommittal.

“You can’t be another customer.” He said it as a fact, not a question.

“Don’t tell me you’re booked solid.”

He laughed heartily at that. “God, I’ve never had three customers at once in all the years I’ve been coming up here.”

“I probably shouldn’t ask you, but how do you stay in business?”

He laughed again. “It’s not a business; it’s a hobby. I bought this whole town twenty years ago when mountain land was so cheap you could get it for boxtops. I wish now I’d bought the other side too. But at least I got this side. I fixed up the inn myself; now I come up every summer. I’d spend the winter too if I could get the county to keep the road open.”

“But seriously, you do take guests?”

“Sure, if they come. I enjoy having them around.”

“How much are your rooms?”

“Whatever you can pay. We’re rustic as all getout. No room service, so you got to pick up after yourself. Five dollars sound okay?”

“Fine.”

“That includes run of the kitchen. We got no cook here, so you just pick up your own supplies—whatever you want to eat-in town, and store ’em in the fridge. All I ask is just leave the kitchen like you find it.”

“Great. I’ll get my things.”

I took everything from the car that I might need—all my clothes, the travel kit, backpack with its snakebite ration, and the large manila envelope containing the mountain pictures and the scraps of automatic writing. I locked the car and looked up just as the curtain fluttered closed in the second-floor room. The dark girl fascinated me, and I hoped I would meet her later. Again I started up the steps to the boardwalk; then paused almost as an afterthought and looked over my shoulder at the old house on the hill. That was when I saw the car, the big black Oldsmobile. It was just coming into view on the ridge over the town. I watched, captivated in a cold, clammy way, as it dipped out of sight for a minute and appeared again on the rim. It traveled quickly along the slippery road, slowing near the entrance to the old house, then turning in and winding among the heavy undergrowth. A few seconds later someone opened the garage door and the black Oldsmobile disappeared inside.

“S
OMETHING WRONG?”

The innkeeper stood in the doorway behind me. The black Oldsmobile was gone now, but for several moments I could not take my eyes away from the old house. The words brought me back to reality with a start.

“I was just intrigued by that old house,” I said; “it seems so out of place here. Do you know who owns it?”

“Some fellow in Pueblo. I don’t think he’s ever been up here.”

“Somebody’s living up there now.”

“Those people are tenants. The owner’s one of those land tycoons; got so much property even he doesn’t know what he’s got. He’s got a fine mountain cabin up near Taylor’s Gulch, and never used that either. I think he rents the cabin out to a hunting club in season and the members keep it up for him. It’s a crime to have property if you can’t use it.”

I followed him back into the lobby. “It just seems out of place,” I said again; “almost as out of place as this inn.”

“Nothing strange about either one. They were going to make a movie here once. Some Hollywood director moved a film company in here, paid me for the use of the place and fixed it up like you see it now. They were all ready to start filming when the star took sick. They waited around for a long time, but costs mounted up and they finally had to cancel the film. They left it like it is now.”

“What about the old house?”

“It was built during World War One. I guess there was still some life in the old town then; but it couldn’t have been much, because my research shows it was abandoned at the turn of the century. Anyway, the man who built it was the father of the one who owns it now. People say he was crazy, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“How about the people living there now? Do you know them?”

“Some man and his wife; I think they rented the place about two months ago. I guess part of the deal was that they would work on it, put it in livable shape again. At least that’s how I figured it when I saw the scaffolding go up. I never see them doing anything with it, but the owner’s so busy he wouldn’t know anyway.”

“Have you met them?”

“If you can call it a meeting. We had a storm in mid-March and we were all snowed in for the best part of a week. He came in here one day ranting like a wild man; said he had to get out and why the hell didn’t the county plow the road? Before that, I went up to meet them, but I never got past the front door. They wouldn’t even receive me. So I never have met her, and I only talked to him through a crack in the door. I thought for a while they’d checked out; hadn’t seen any sign of life up there for almost three weeks. Then, one day last week, I saw her out back sunning herself. She was behind the garage, where you can just see for a second as you drive past; so I knew they were still here. And now you tell me he’s back.”

He shook his head and pushed the register toward me. I signed my name and home address.

“Jim Ryan, are you?” he said, extending his hand. “Harry Gould.”

I took his hand. “There’s a girl with me, a young hitchhiker. She’ll probably want a room too.”

He didn’t say anything about that. I took my key, picked up my luggage, and started up the stairs. Halfway up, I stopped. “Do you know much about the history of this place?”

“I consider myself the authority. If you’re interested, we can talk after you’re settled in.”

“I’d like that.” I continued up to the second landing. The steps creaked and the hallway on the second floor was dark. I walked quietly past the rooms and paused at the door facing the street in the center of the hallway. This would be the room where the young woman at the window was staying. I stopped and listened. Inside the room a radio was playing, but there was no sound of movement. A board creaked under my foot and I hurried down the hall, looking for my room number.

The room was at the far end of the hall adequate but rough-cut and western, like everything else in the inn. I noticed at once a fringe benefit—an extra window. One of the windows looked across the sagging rooftops of the town and offered a partial view of the hippie camp; the other faced the incoming road, giving me a fine view of the house on the ridge. I sat at the window facing the house. Outside, I noticed, was a narrow balcony that ran down the length of the hotel. Only one door opened to the balcony, a door from the hall at the head of the stairs. For some time I watched the house, wishing for binoculars; better yet, a telescope. My eyes are good, but from this distance I could not make out anything specific

After a while my eyes tired; that brought thoughts of Amy, and the fact that I had had very little sleep the last few nights. I stretched out on the bed and fell asleep immediately. I was awakened at four o’clock by a gentle rapping at my door. It was Harry Gould.

“I’m sorry,” he said; “did I wake you?”

I shook my head, but there was still sleep in my eyes.

“Accept the apologies of the house. I just came up to see if you’d be interested in joining me and the other guests for dinner tonight?”

“Dinner?”

“It’ll have to be pot luck, since I’ve only stocked supplies according to my own taste. At least you won’t be subjected to my cooking. Miss Sargent is doing the honors.”

“What time?”

“Seven o’clock. Come down at six and we men can have a touch in the den.”

“I’ll look forward to it.”

He turned way, but I called to him before he had reached the end of the hallway: “Has the young lady I mentioned shown up yet?”

“I haven’t seen her.”

I nodded and closed the door. Then I showered and changed clothes and returned to my perch at the window for another uneventful hour watching the house.

At six I locked my room and went downstairs. Already an odor of good cooking was in the air, and as I came into the kitchen area I saw the girl at work over the stove. She was busy and did not see me, and I did not introduce myself, deciding to leave that to Gould. The den that Gould mentioned opened from behind the bar. I walked in and found Gould stirring a fire and another man, tall and thin, standing nearby with a drink in his hand. Gould heard me enter and came forward, hand outstretched.

“Mr. Ryan, come in. This is Willy Max. Mr. Max, Mr. Ryan.”

We shook hands and Gould said, “Did you meet Miss Sargent?”

“She seemed pretty busy when I passed through. I thought I’d leave her be till later.”

Max smiled. “Judging from the smell of that meal, I’d say she’s an artist. Nobody should ever disturb an artist at work. You probably did exactly right.”

“Mr. Max is a great believer in human ability,” Gould said.

“I believe everyone has one talent that he does naturally better than other people in that same field who cultivated theirs,” Max said. “The trouble is, most of us waste our natural abilities, and they deteriorate to nothing.”

I found that line of thought interesting. “What’s your talent, Mr. Max?”

“I climb mountains, and call me Willy. My wife finds mountains as big a bore as I find her damned opera. So once a year she goes to New York and I come out here. What’s yours?”

I thought for a minute. “I’m not sure I have one.”

“Please—there’s no room for modesty in this crowd.”

It’s got nothing to do with modesty, honestly. I just can’t think of anything that I can do better than anyone else.”

“What’s your occupation, then?”

“I’m an engineer. But that’s probably a result of circumstances, not talent. I try not to take it home.”

“Interesting,” Gould said.

Max pressed it: “Some people excel at hobbies. Take Harry here—best damned innkeeper in the state. That’s probably because he doesn’t do it for money. Do you have any hobbies?”

I thought long again. “Not really. You’ll give me a complex, Mr.—Willy—you’ve made me realize how really ordinary I am.”

“That wasn’t my intent. Well, let’s drop it and have a drink.”

Gould moved toward the door that opened into the bar.

“Bourbon, please,” I said.

While he was getting my drink, Max sat in a large comfortable-looking chair that seemed to engulf him. “I try to get up here for at least two weeks a year. Usually there’s no one else here; nobody but Harry and those abominable goddamn hippies. I can even remember a time when
they
weren’t here. Now the place is turning into another mountain city. But I suppose none of us owns this country, isn’t that right—Jim?”

“Yes, Jim—and yes, I guess you’re right.”

“I’d own it if it was available; not the town, but higher up, near timberline. That’s my country. I think this part of Colorado is one of the most beautiful spots on earth.”

“Why isn’t it available? I would think you could buy anything for a price.”

“The best of it is national forest land.”

Gould came in then with two tall glasses in his hand. He passed one to me and kept the other for himself, checked Max’s glass for level and returned to his spot near the fireplace. For a moment there was a strained silence, as though all were trying to think of something interesting to say.

“Have you been climbing yet, Willy?” I said.

“Once. I’ll go again in the morning. Care to join me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you mean by mountain climbing. If you mean hiking, fine. But if you mean the works, with spiked shoes and picks and ropes, forget it. Sheer drops make me nervous.”

“There’s all kinds of country around here. Everyone can do his own thing. That’s what I like about it.”

“What do you do—for a living, I mean,” I said, wishing I had phrased the question differently.

“Nothing,” Max answered evenly.

There was another long silence. “Oh,” I said finally, and that was the end of that line of talk.

From the outer room I heard the sound of pots rattling. Harry Gould excused himself with something that sounded like “there’s no reason this should be an all-male affair,” and in a moment he returned, ushering her into the den. She was perhaps twenty-five, though she might have been thirty or as young as twenty-one. She was one of those people who for about fifteen years remain ageless, as unchanging as a painting. I thought she was beautiful, and it was obvious by the stiffening in Max’s back as she entered that he did too.