The Two Hotel Francforts: A Novel (14 page)

“Upset! Why should I be upset? Why, with my bloodied shirt and my swollen lip and the world ending, should I be upset? I’m not being sarcastic, you realize.”

“Yes.”

“Besides, you need to know.”

“Why?”

“Because Iris knows.”

“You told her?”

“I didn’t have to. She guessed.”

Again I looked at the clock. I could make no sense of it. I could no longer make sense of time.

“But what is she going to do? My God, what if she tells Julia?”

“Oh, she won’t do that. In fact it was the first thing she said—that Julia must never find out.”

“You might have mentioned this earlier.”

“Would it have made any difference?”

“No.”

“Exactly. The trouble, my friend, is that this thing, this affair—let’s call it by its name—it’s serious. It matters. I mean, if it was just fun and games on the beach, a punch in the face, the occasional afternoon in a brothel, that would be one thing … But you see, I’m starting to have these mad notions about you. For instance, I want to dance with you. Isn’t that mad?”

“No. I’ve thought the same thing.”

“And not just any dance. An old-fashioned dance. A waltz.”

“That would be quite a spectacle.”

“Grown men dancing together … I know, it’s ridiculous. Ridiculous—and yet sort of touching, when you think about it.”

“Edward—has this ever happened to you before?”

“Strictly speaking … But how can one speak strictly of these things? There was the usual fooling around in boarding school, of course. And then once, when I was visiting my mother, we had a row, and I stormed out and and took the train to San Francisco and went to a bar. And even though I was underage, the barman served me. I met a sailor. He was dead drunk. That’s how I got the scar on my chin.”

“What happened?”

“It doesn’t matter. Anyway, that’s the sum total of it. My lifetime experience of buggery—until now. And you?”

“Me? Nothing. Never.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Not even in college?”

“Wabash was a very clean-minded place.”

“Yet it seemed to come to you so naturally.”

I didn’t reply. I was embarrassed. Instinct embarrassed me, appearing this late in the game.

At last the hour had come when we could put off parting no longer, so we paid the bill and left. The rain had stopped. Mist rose from the pavement. Soon Rua Bernardino Costa gave way to Rua do Arsenal, which is famous for its shops that sell salted cod. On the sidewalks, warped strips of the stuff hung from hooks. They looked like dried-out sponges, smelled like ammonia. Back at the brothel, I had taken what my brother George called a “whore’s bath,” running a wet washcloth up between my legs. Now a gummy sweat coated the sides of my torso. When I got back to the hotel, the first
hurdle would be to get into the bathroom before Julia caught a whiff of me.

Outside the Francfort’s revolving door, Edward and I shook hands.

“Tomorrow?” he said.

“Where?” I said. “When?”

“How about four? No, three thirty. At the British Bar.”

The prospect warmed me. I nodded.

He walked away, in the direction of the Elevator.

In the lobby, as I passed the front desk, I saw that the key to our room was on its peg.

“My wife is out?” I asked Senhor Costa.

“She has been out since two,” he answered. “An English lady came and took her away.”

“Was she tall, this English lady?”

“Very tall.”

I thanked him and went upstairs. While I was gone, the room had been made up. The pillows were fluffed. Strangest of all, not a single item of Julia’s clothing was to be seen.

Was it possible she had actually left? Taken her things?

No. On the dressing table, the requisite hand of solitaire was laid out. La Belle Lucie, in which the cards are arranged in fans.

She must have been in the middle of a game when Iris came for her.

I undressed, stuffed my clothes in a suitcase—later, when Julia wasn’t looking, I would have them laundered—and locked myself in the bathroom. Much to my relief, the water in the tub ran hot. Down my arms and legs, a grayish residue slurried.

After I was dry, I put on clean shorts and an undershirt. Thinking I might rest for ten minutes, I lay down on the bed, atop the coverlet.

At midnight the sound of church bells woke me. The room was dark.

No sign of Julia.

I got under the covers and fell back asleep.

At one, there was a rapping on the door.

I let her in. She smelled of cigarettes, of gin, of a perfume not her own.

“I’m sorry to be so late,” she said. “Were you worried? You must have been worried.”

“I was, rather.”

“I knew it. Iris said you wouldn’t be, but I knew you would.”

She kissed me on the nose.

“Your wife,” she said, “has had a most extraordinary day.”

From one night to the next, our roles had reversed. Such, at least, was Julia’s view. Now it was she, not I, who had been out until all hours; she, not I, who was carrying the redolence of the public world into our private bed; she, not I, who, as she put it, had “some explaining to do.”

And oh, how she longed to explain! Even as she washed up, I could hear her voice from behind the bathroom door, though I couldn’t make out the words. Finally she eased herself into the bed, and it was as if a fiery ingot, fresh from the furnace, were pressing into my back. For she was always hot, my Julia. Sleeping with her was like sleeping with some fantastic tiny, overheated creature, one of those hairless dogs that in Mexico are used as hot-water bottles. Before Edward, this had excited me. Making love to Julia had been like a fever dream, in which I grew immense and she shrank to a fierce little Thumbelina, to whose supplications I had no choice but to yield … And now I wanted to push her away. At her touch I broke
into a sweat. I feared flailing in the night and smashing her nose, rolling on top of her and crushing the life out of her in my sleep.

“Oh, Pete, what can I do to make it up to you?” she asked in the morning as we were waiting for our coffee at the Suiça.

“Make what up to me?” I said.

“Being so impossible these last weeks. So difficult. About rooms and so forth. And then last night, staying out so late … Were you terribly worried? Is that why you haven’t asked me where I was?”

“I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would,” I said, trying to affect a tone of woundedness.

She put her hands atop mine. “Oh, my poor darling, how petulant you’re being. You really
must
have been worried.”

Petulance seemed as convenient a screen as any other for what I was feeling. I shrugged.

“I must say, it touches my heart to see you like this. Why, yesterday I said to Iris—I really did—‘Iris,’ I said, ‘the way I’ve been behaving, he’ll probably be relieved that I’m not there. He’ll probably hope I’ve gone for good.’”

“And what did Iris say?”

“That I was being silly. Self-dramatizing. And she was right. One thing you can say about Iris, she doesn’t mince words. She can take you down a peg—but gently. Without hurting you.”

“You mean she’s bracing in her truthfulness?”

“Not exactly. It’s more that she has a way of looking at things, a way you’d never consider if she didn’t suggest it. But then, when you do look at things that way, they make a new kind of sense.”

“And what’s her new way of looking at you?”

“Well, that I’m angry at my family—and all these years I’ve been taking it out on you. Which is absurd and unfair, because you’re the one who got me away from my family. Why, if it hadn’t been for you, I don’t know what would have become of me. And yet from the way
I’ve been acting … as if it was ever within your power to change things … But now I’m going to make it up to you, Pete. I promise. From now on you’ll find me a changed woman.”

She leaned back, almost rapturous in her contrition. Have you noticed how certain dogs, when you speak to them in a voice not your own, when you use a falsetto or meow like a cat, will become deeply agitated? I am like that. It bothers me when people don’t sound like themselves. Cynicism, even outright hostility, I was used to from Julia. But earnestness—it made me shudder.

After that she told me the story. It seemed that no sooner had I left to fetch the car from Estoril than Iris had swooped down on her. “Swooped”—that was the word she used. “I mean, I was just tidying up a bit, thinking I might take a nap, when all of a sudden the telephone rings and it’s Senhor Costa saying that there’s a lady to see me. And so I went down and it was Iris. And she said, ‘Get your hat—we’re going on an expedition.’ And I said, ‘What sort of expedition?’ And she said, ‘Never mind that, just get your hat.’ So I got my hat and we went out and she had a car waiting. She’d hired a car. And off we drove to Sintra. And, Pete, it’s the loveliest town in the world! Like an Italian hill town, but greener. Not so stony or severe. And the air! You can
taste
how clean it is. And there are the most breathtaking views, and an old hotel—Byron stayed there—and a palace. So we had tea—outdoors, in the most beautiful garden, with climbing roses—and ate these delicious little cheese pastries that are a local specialty. And we talked. About Paris and New York and our childhoods and you and Edward. I told her about our drive from Paris, and it was then that she gave me the most exhilarating dressing-down, pointing out that whatever we might have gone through, it was far worse for other people, these poor people with no citizenship, no country, because unlike them, at least our passports are worth something.”

“But that’s exactly what I said at dinner. At dinner you argued with me.”

“I know I did. Probably because—I have to admit it—it was you who was saying it. But this time, maybe because it was just Iris and me, and she’d pointed out how horrid I’d been, I could listen.”

“A miracle worker, this woman.”

“Don’t make fun of her. It’s not that she’s a saint. It’s that I’m an obstinate fool. And when you consider what she’s had to cope with! Orphaned so young, and then the tragedy of the child.”

“Oh yes, the child.”

“You know, it breaks her heart that she couldn’t raise her own daughter. Especially since, from what she tells me, the girl is absolutely beautiful. Just beautiful. But her mind … it isn’t there. ‘A blank slate,’ Iris said … Well, it was getting on by then, and I said I really ought to be getting back, in case you should worry, but she said that in the long run you’d be glad that I was showing more independence, and in Portugal people keep late hours, so what was the rush? And so we had a walk around the town, and it was while we were walking … Now, Pete, promise you won’t get angry.”

“What?”

“Just promise that you won’t lose your temper. Because once you’ve thought about it, I’m sure you’ll see—”

“What, for God’s sake?”

She drew in her breath. “I’ve rented a house.”

“A house?”

“In Sintra. And, Pete, it’s just marvelous! We passed it entirely by chance. There was a gate with ivy growing over it, and a TO LET sign. And so we stopped, and I was gazing through the gate, sort of dreaming, and Iris said, ‘Why don’t we ring the bell?’ And I said, ‘Pete will kill me.’ And she said, ‘It can’t hurt to make inquiries.’ So we did, and the housekeeper let us in. The owners are English.
They’re in London now—the husband is doing some sort of war work—and they’re letting the place month by month. Just until the war is over, you understand. A neighbor showed us around, a Portuguese lady, very cultured, she spoke perfect French. And, Pete, it’s just exquisite! The architect is someone famous. I forget his name. Iris will remember. And not only did he design the house, he built all the furniture. Every piece. By hand. Beautiful things, oak and leather, no froufrou. Jean would love it. So I asked the price, and Pete, it was so
cheap
that … I took a leap of faith. I rented it.”

“What do you mean you rented it?”

“Just that. I rented it.”

“You’re not saying you actually put down money—”

“Only the first month, since it was all I had on me. I said that this afternoon—”

“Did you sign anything?”

“Just a receipt.”

“Not a lease?”

“No, not a lease.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a lease?”

“Of course I’m sure it wasn’t a lease. What do you take me for?”

“Come on. Get up.” I threw some coins on the table.

“Why? Where are we going?”

“To get your money back.”

“But I don’t want my money back … Pete! You’re hurting me! Oh, I knew it would be like this. I knew it. Iris said you’d come around, but I said … Stop! Where are we going? Pete, please!”

I didn’t relent. I practically dragged her to Cais do Sodré. After a few minutes she gave up resisting, though intermittently she would make a noise—half cough, half moan—and pretend to be out of breath.

“Pete, if you’d just
listen
…”

We had reached the car. “Come on, get in.”

“No! I won’t get in.”

She got in.

“Pete! You’ve no right to do this. No right whatsoever. And you haven’t even given me the benefit of … You haven’t even heard me out. I’m not an idiot. I’ve thought this through.”

“You mean Iris thought it through for you?”

“No, I do
not
mean that. I have a mind of my own, though you seem to have forgotten that. The thing is, we talked it over with the neighbor and she’s convinced that Portugal’s a perfectly safe place to wait out the war … which in her estimation isn’t going to last more than a few months … and she has that on inside authority. From the owner of the house. Who knows Churchill.”

“Jesus!”

“What?”

“Julia, don’t you realize that these people are taking you for a ride? Telling you what you want to hear?”

“It’s not a question of what
I
want to hear, it’s a question of what
you
want to hear. For some reason you absolutely will not listen—Slow down! You’re driving like a maniac. It’s you who absolutely refuses to consider the possibility—”

“What possibility? Have you taken a walk by the American consulate lately? If Portugal’s such a paradise, why are all those poor people waiting hour after hour in the burning sun, hoping for a visa?”