The Two Hotel Francforts: A Novel (15 page)

“Yes, but there are other people … For instance, there’s a Romanian, to whom this neighbor woman was on the very brink of renting the house when I came by. Which was why I had to act quickly—so that I could get it before he did.”

“And you believed her?”

“Of course I believed her. Why shouldn’t I have?”

“But it’s the oldest trick in the book! Invent another customer to put pressure on the one you have.”

“Don’t be absurd. She’s not some car salesman.”

“Thank you.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. I mean, why should she lie?”

“And is he Jewish, this putative Romanian?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”

“Because you are, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I’m American, too. And as Iris pointed out, if you’re American or British—”

“And is
Iris
planning to stay in Portugal? Is
she
renting a house in Sintra?”

“No, she is not. But only because of the books. Pete! Will you slow down? You almost hit that woman.”

“All right, this is what’s going to happen. When we get to Sintra, you’re going to get out of the car—”

“I won’t get out of the car.”

“You’re going to get out of the car and you’re going to put on your prettiest smile, and in your prettiest French you’re going to tell this neighbor, whoever she is, that you made a mistake and you want your money back.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”

“You do it if you’re so determined. You do it.”

“I didn’t give her the money in the first place.”

“I don’t care. I don’t care. I might as well just jump out into traffic right now. I might as well stand in the road and then you can hit
me
. Because that’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to be dead. Well, you’ll have your wish soon, I promise you.”

“If I wanted you dead, I’d leave you here, because that’s what’s going to happen if you stay here. You’re going to end up dead. Or worse.”

Julia groaned. Teary-eyed, hair amiss, she leaned her head against the window. And on the other side of that window … What beauty! For by now we had left Lisbon and were heading into the hills. The road curved as it rose. There were olive groves, and orchards, and a little girl in a bright dress carrying a basket of flowers, and now and then, through a chink in the hills, you could catch a glimpse of the Atlantic, the towers of Estoril, a villa with a patio on which a family was eating … And to think that, not so far away, whole cities lay shattered. Yet looking at these people on their patios, you would have thought that war was as remote as winter, as far-fetched as earmuffs or galoshes … Who can blame Julia for wanting to stay? Really, who can blame her?

And then we got to Sintra. Of the town itself, I have only the vaguest memory, for by then my rage had verged into a kind of euphoria. I was almost giddy with it. It was the kind of feeling you get when you drink too much coffee without eating anything. I recall thinking that Sintra was very much like all the other towns we’d visited where rich people go in the warm months. The surfaces had that sort of glossy sheen. Most of the cars were new, with Polish or Belgian plates.

“This house,” I said. “Where is it?”

Julia’s voice was listless. “Bear to the left. There.”

I parked. There was a gate grown over with ivy, exactly as she had described. And a stone wall. And beyond the wall, a garden with citrus trees.

Instinctively she took a pocket mirror out of her purse, repaired her face, and patted down her hair.

“Pete,” she said when I opened the door for her.

“No,” I said.

She didn’t persist. She followed me to the gate, stood behind me as I rang the bell.

The housekeeper answered. She smiled at Julia.

A conversation in three languages ensued, at the end of which the neighbor lady was fetched. She was imposing in the manner of Margaret Dumont in a Marx Brothers movie. She even had on ostrich feathers.

“Enchantée,” she said, extending a bare arm, the fat of which wobbled a little in the breeze.

Before I could respond, we were being led through the gate, toward the house.

“Votre maison,” Margaret Dumont said.

“No,” I said.

“Comment?” she said, peering at me through her pince-nez.

I turned to Julia, who shrank back. As clearly as I could, I explained that my wife had acted rashly, without my consent. We could not stay on in Portugal. We were obliged to return to America. “À notre patrie.” Therefore, if the lady would be so kind as to return the deposit …

“Comment?” she said again. “Qu’est-ce que vous dites?” Not as if she didn’t understand; rather, as if she simply refused to accept my words, the way a shopkeeper might refuse to accept delivery on a shipment of bruised bananas.

I repeated what I had said.

“Mais ce n’est pas possible,” she said. “Votre maison—”

“Ce n’est pas notre maison.”

“Votre maison.”

“Ce n’est pas notre maison.”

But what was she to tell Monsieur in England? She had already wired him the news.

That we changed our minds.

But if the lady, my wife, had not been so insistent, she could have rented the house to the Romanian. And now it was too late. He had taken another property.

That is not my problem.

But she signed a receipt.

A receipt is not a legal document.

You are a judge, Monsieur?

I glared at her. She glared back. I tried to look menacing. She met my eyes fearlessly. She was implacable, this woman, in her armor of ostrich feathers. Not only that, she was right. It is never pleasant when someone reneges on what you assume to be a done deal. Had I been in her shoes, I too would have been worried about the gentleman in England. I too would have been thinking of my commission.

I am not ashamed that I was, for much of my life, a salesman. Indeed, it is because I was a salesman that I can refute with confidence the fallacy that the salesman is by nature a cheat. To succeed as a salesman, you have to believe not just in the product you are selling but in your own rectitude. To adopt a false position is a torture for you. Yet now I had no choice. For though the amount of money in question was not huge, neither was it negligible. We could not afford to walk away from it, as Edward and Iris could. More than that, it seemed to me imperative that I teach Julia a lesson. She had to face facts. It no longer mattered what she called herself. What mattered was what others called her.

So we stood in the garden, that woman and I, with Julia and the housekeeper hovering around us like bees. Several minutes passed. The question was which of us would blink first—or, more accurately, which would crack first: her pity or my resolve. For she must have seen that Julia was not well. Yet justice was on her side.

Then the bells of a church chimed twice. Once again, I had lost track of time. I was supposed to meet Edward at three thirty.

Despite myself I glanced downward—not at my watch, but toward it. And in that moment, the game was lost. I knew it, and so did the woman in the ostrich feathers. I could tell by the way she relaxed her shoulders, allowed herself to smile. For the ball was in her court now. She could be generous or not, merciful or not, as she chose.

“Voulez-vous du café?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” Julia said.

An hour later we left with a third of our money.

“I am drained,” Julia said as we got back into the car.

I said nothing. Back down the winding roads we hurried. This time I knew I was driving too fast. And of course, as is always the case when you are really in a hurry, obstacles of every variety appeared in my path. First I got stuck behind a horse-drawn carriage. Then, after the carriage turned off the road, I got stuck behind a bus. Then we reached a railroad crossing at the very moment the bar was being lowered. No longer was it a question of whether I would be late; it was a question of how late I would be. And would Edward wait for me? I had no idea. He might stay until I got there. Or he might leave after fifteen minutes.

At four we arrived at Cais do Sodré. Edward’s parking gods must have been smiling on me still, for I found a space within a few minutes.

“I need to walk a little,” I said to Julia outside the Francfort. “I’ll be back.”

She didn’t protest. She slid into the revolving door and for a moment was multiplied and fragmented, as if the glass had absorbed her. I hurried over to the British Bar, in the murky depths of which—in fact, right under the famous clock—Iris was waiting for me.

“I imagine you’re surprised to find me here.”

“Not as surprised as you might think.”

“Well, you needn’t worry, I won’t stay long. Edward will be along as soon as I leave.”

“He knows you’re here?”

“My husband and I have no secrets from each other. Please sit down. What I have to say won’t take more than a few minutes.”

I sat. “Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “It gives me a chance to ask you just what the hell you thought you were doing, talking Julia into putting money down on that house.”

“Talking her into it! I did nothing of the kind.”

“Yet you didn’t discourage her.”

“Why should I have? There’s no reason she shouldn’t stay in Portugal if she likes.”

“On the contrary, there’s a very good reason. It’s not safe.”

“Is any place? Plenty of people have done plenty of guessing in the last few years—and look where it’s got them.”

“Yet
you’re
not staying.”

“I’m sure you’ll understand, Mr. Winters, when I say that I don’t think it would be in my best interest—or Julia’s—for you and my husband to remain on the same continent.”

“I see. So you’re perfectly willing to throw Julia to the wolves—”

“How dare you accuse
me
of throwing Julia to the wolves, when it’s you who’s doing the thing that will surely kill her? Or should I put the matter more bluntly? Very well, I will. You are having sexual relations with Edward. I can endure it. Julia could not.”

“And why does she have to find out?”

“Exactly. She mustn’t find out. Not under any circumstances. Of course, there’d be less of a risk if you stayed in Portugal. But you’ve closed off that avenue of possibility, and now it seems that in a week or so, the four of us will be sailing off to New York. Won’t that be grand? No doubt we’ll sit together every night at dinner. And after dinner, every night, you and Edward will go off and—what lie shall we all agree upon?—have a cigar? That old ritual of the gentlemen and the ladies separating for a bit? Or do you prefer the afternoons? Teatime.”

“Please! Not so loud.”

“What, you’re afraid of people hearing? Good. You should be.”

She turned away and lit a cigarette. Her hands were shaking. There was something splendid about her, splendid and aristocratic and ungainly, what with the humped back and the disordered hair and the long, white neck poised for the guillotine.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she went on. “You’re thinking I’m going to forbid you from seeing Edward. Well, I’m not. I’m not stupid. I know my own limits. And so instead I’m going to offer you what seems to me a quite reasonable proposition. You may do whatever you like with Edward, and I shall look the other way—so long as Julia remains in the dark.”

“And why is it that all of a sudden you’re so concerned about Julia?”

“Because she’s vulnerable.”

“And you’re not?”

She blinked. “This may come as a shock to you, but I know my husband better than anyone alive. Trust me, none of this comes as a surprise.”

“You’re referring, I suppose, to your arrangement—”

“Is that what he calls it? How funny.” She leaned across the table, until she was so close that I could smell her perfume, the perfume Julia had carried into our hotel room the night before. “Mr. Winters—Pete—please listen to me. You have no idea, no idea at all, what you’re getting into with Edward.”

“Don’t I?”

“No, you do not. If you were a woman, I’d tell you the same thing. If you were me as I was twenty years ago, I’d tell you the same thing. He’s not well, Edward … Oh, I know he comes across as charming and odd and clever. But that’s only a screen. And yes, perhaps I’ve made it worse, coming to his rescue so many times, putting up with things no reasonable woman would tolerate … I don’t know what he told you about the men. It’s true that I slept with them. But not, as he seems to have convinced himself, because I wanted to. It was because
he
wanted me to. Which isn’t to say there weren’t a few times when I thought, Iris, you might as well enjoy yourself. You deserve to. In fact, there was one chap who was perfectly prepared to leave his wife if I left Edward. Now I wonder if I shouldn’t have.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She leaned in close across the table. “Have you ever noticed that when we’re walking down the street, the four of us, and it’s too narrow to go two abreast, I always walk behind Edward? Well, do you know why? It’s because if I went ahead of him, there’d be the chance
that when I turned my head, he’d be gone. There, how’s that for a confession? I love him—I can’t bear the idea of losing him, no matter what it costs me. I’m not what I appear. I’m not indomitable. If anything, I’m weak. Embarrassingly weak. What Julia feels for you, I feel for Edward.”

“Julia! I’ve always been a disappointment to Julia.”

“It would be so much easier for you if that were true.”

“I see, you’re referring to the talk you gave her yesterday. ‘Exhilarating,’ she called it. An impressive feat.”

“You speak as if I’m a mesmerist. If only I had that kind of power!”

“Well, whatever you did, the effect didn’t last. She hates me again.”

“Don’t be foolish. When a certain kind of woman—I include Julia and myself in this category—when a certain kind of woman loves a man, she will do anything—anything—to hold on to him. Julia understands that as well as I do. It’s why she’s so determined to keep you in Portugal. Because she knows she has a better chance here than in New York. Even if she doesn’t see
why
.”

“And you? You’re telling me that’s the only reason you slept with all those men? To hold on to Edward?”