“My stomach hurts,” he replied. She stopped for a moment and looked over at him. He sounded exactly like that little girl Miriam. Odd, she thought, two children in the same morning.
Just outside the steam room, the men’s health club had three rows of lounges on which guests could nap and relax. The walls of the health club were made of a heavy, slick aqua tile. The floors had recently been relaid with an inexpensive indoor-outdoor darker blue carpet. On both sides of the lounge area there were shelves of towels and racks of current newspapers and magazines. Further in, just past the steam room, was the shower section consisting of a dozen stalls. Small cakes of soap could be taken from wall dispensers spaced out evenly along the outside walls. To the left of the showers were two small rooms used for massages. Four men dressed in see-through tee shirts and white pants slapped and stirred the flesh of groggy guests sprawled out like corpses in a pathology lab. Legs juggled and stomachs growled as muscles were stretched and the blood around them stimulated.
Bruce Solomon knelt down beside the end lounge on which the limp and now dampened body of David Oberman had been placed. Marco Romano, the men’s health room attendant, stood beside him looking down. Marco had been a professional wrestler, a fact still testified to by his thick, muscular shoulders and forearms. Only his lower stomach had surrendered to time and lack of exercise. He had almost grotesque facial features with wide separations between his teeth. A piece of his left eyebrow was missing, the result of an old wrestling injury that never healed properly. In his time, he had been a popular performer going under the name Marco the Magnificent. When he worked he wore a centurion costume and carried a spear into the ring with him.
“Sven told me he couldn’t get this guy to move but I didn’t want to use force on him till we contacted Mrs. Golden. It could be he’s drunk or maybe just a kook. We get our share around here, you know.”
“Look,” Bruce said, noticing the small crowd that was beginning to form around them, “you’ll have to clear out one of those massage rooms so we can put this man in there until the ambulance comes.”
“Clear one out?” He looked in their direction. “But … the guests are paying for their time in there.” One look at Bruce and he knew he wasn’t kidding. “Okay, I’ll take care of it right away.”
“What’s the matter with him?” a man asked.
“I’m not sure. Probably passed out from too much heat.” He remembered Sid’s description of how hotels handled their sick in front of their guests.
“O.K.,” Marco said, coming back. “let’s just lift him lounge and all. It’ll be easier.”
“Right.”
The two of them carried David’s body into the massage room. Marco left and Bruce closed the door, shutting himself off from the onlookers. He studied the dead man’s face. His mouth was opened slightly, but his eyes were sealed so tightly they looked like they’d been sewn shut. His identity had already begun to seep out of him. Death was replacing it with that anonymity that characterized all corpses. How quickly a man or woman became a thing, an object only good for scientific curiosity. It was difficult to relate the voice and the gestures of the David Oberman he had met the night before to this cold and clammy body sprawled before him.
“Is it Oberman?” Sid asked, coming into the room. Bruce hadn’t heard him enter. “Bruce?” He tapped him on the shoulder.
Bruce whirled around. “Huh? Oh, Sid. Hi.”
“Is that the man?”
“Yes, it’s him … or I should say was him.” Bronstein moved forward and lifted an eyelid. He felt for a pulse and pinched the skin.
“When you wipe off the condensation from the steam room, you see how dry the skin was.”
“I noticed that when I spoke with him earlier but it didn’t occur to me he was near death.”
“The Bluestone woman is in a very bad way. She must’ve been rundown to start. Dehydrated quickly. She’s already into uremia.”
“A really vicious strain.”
“That’s my guess now. We’d better get back to Ellen’s office. There’s nothing else we can do here.”
Bruce nodded and they left the room. Marco approached quickly. “How long’s that guy gonna be in there?”
“The ambulance should be along any minute,” Bronstein said. “In the meantime, it’s essential that no one goes into the room.”
“Sure, sure.”
They walked out of the health club quickly and headed up the stairs to Ellen’s office. When Sid opened the door they were confronted by a cool, neatly composed Jonathan seated on the couch, a file folder in his hand, his pipe held comfortably in his fingers. Ellen’s face looked flushed but there was a surprisingly controlled calm about her. She leaned forward, eager to hear what they had to say.
“The man in the health club is dead,” Sid reported. “I’m sorry. He turned to Jonathan and pointed his finger. “Dead, Jonathan, okay? What you were so sure was impossible a day and a half ago is cold reality today. Damn it, I never should have listened to you in the first place!” He stood up and started pacing around the room. “And why the hell didn’t you tell Ellen like you promised? You knew how important it was. …”
“He claims he was trying to protect me,” Ellen interrupted. “That there was no reason to upset me over something that would probably prove to be a false alarm.”
“False alarm? He knew I had very serious suspicions that Tony Wong had cholera. And that you had to be alerted to all of the potential danger. I’m sorry if I’m getting carried away, but…”
“You’re the doctor, Sid. Why didn’t you tell me yourself if it was that important?” Ellen asked quietly.
There it was. The question he always knew he would have to face along with why he hadn’t called the health authorities immediately. To say he had faith in Jonathan was little more than half truth. To say that he would have done anything to avoid bringing Ellen news of another death, this time perhaps the death of the Congress itself, was not the whole truth either. No, deep down he knew he had acted in a cowardly way. He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat, disturb the status quo, or be the least bit responsible for participating in a disaster that could have caused his father-in-law to lose his investment and put friends and associates out of business. And disturb his pleasant life style, too, he admitted. At this moment, he didn’t particularly like himself very much.
The pained look on his face aroused great sympathy in Ellen. She pushed him no further. “What do we do now to protect our people? Do we send them away?”
Sid was grateful for the chance to get back to medicine. “No. First I have to call Gerson Kaplow, the public health officer. The procedures are pretty well outlined for Class I communicable diseases. Quarantine is mandatory where there is a possibility of an epidemic and they don’t know what’s causing or who’s carrying the disease.”
Ellen’s hands flew involuntarily to her face. “Quarantine? You mean keeping all the guests restricted to the grounds?”
“Everybody, guests and staff alike. All deliveries will be stopped at the gate and no one will be permitted in or out without official authorization.”
“Oh, my God. It’s like keeping hostages in a prison.”
“Not exactly,” Sid said, managing a smile for the first time. “No prison I’ve ever seen has such elegant meals and facilities.”
Suddenly Bruce interrupted. “There’s something we’ve got to do right away,” he said. He looked directly at Jonathan. “The New York doctor you sent the dishwashers and chambermaid to. You’ve got to call him immediately and advise him of the status of things. There’s a possibility they are infected and—”
“There’s no one to call,” Jonathan whispered, staring down at his patent leather pumps. The enormity of what was happening was finally sinking in. He let out a deep breath and tapped out his pipe. His shoulders began to sag.
“What are you talking about now?” Ellen asked.
“Hold it,” Bruce said, ignoring her question. It suddenly all become clear. “You didn’t send those people to a medical facility either, did you? Did you?” The room was silent. “Just where the hell did you send them?” He reached down toward Jonathan, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him to his feet.
“Get your fuckin’ hands …”
“Hold it, Bruce,” Sid said, pulling them apart. “Fighting isn’t going to solve anything.” He turned to the general manager. “Just what exactly did you do with them, Jonathan?”
“I gave them some money and sent them into the city to have some fun until the weekend was over.”
“You sent them into the city to walk the streets when they might have been contaminated because you were afraid the hotel might get some negative publicity? Why you son of a …” Bruce pushed Sid away and lunged for him again.
Ellen stood up. “
Enough
,” she said sharply. In the midst of the three raging men, she suddenly took on new strength and control. “Now sit down, all of you.” Bruce glared at Jonathan and retreated to a chair. “Bruce, I want you to go to Halloran and see if he has any information regarding where the dishwashers and Margret Thomas went. Sid, I know you have your hands full. Jonathan,” she turned with undisguised bitterness to her general manager. “I have nothing to say to you right now. When this is over, if there’s anything left after the damage to our reputation and finances is computed, we’ll discuss whether or not you have a future with the Congress.”
“There won’t be any need.” He backed toward the door. “There won’t be any hotel to discuss. I’m getting out while there’s still a chance.”
“I advise you not to try to leave,” Bruce said.
“He’s right,” Sid said. “By the time you’re finished packing we’ll be in quarantine.”
“And,” Bruce added, “as hard as it may be for you to believe, Mr. Holier-than-Thou, you too might already be infected. Knowing what kind of a scum you are, it probably feels right at home.” Jonathan didn’t wait to hear what anyone else had to say. He turned and rushed out of the office.
“You’d better start making your phone calls,” Ellen said. Sid nodded and reached for the phone.
“I’m sorry Ellen,” he said quietly. He lifted the receiver but before he could get the operator, Rosie came barging into the office.
“Oh, Dr. Bronstein, hurry. There’s a pregnant woman with stomach pains, terrible stomach pains, and they just took her out of the dining room. She’s afraid it might be a miscarriage.”
Bronstein followed her out of the office.
“Cholera can do that,” Bruce said softly. Ellen Golden reached for the phone to make some of the calls herself.
When Flo Goldberg came back to her room after breakfast, she found Manny in his undershirt and shorts sleeping on top of the bed. His mouth was wide open and he was snoring. For a few moments she stood staring at him in disgust. Then she tiptoed across the room to her dresser, took out her bathing suit, and went into the bathroom. She changed, put on her robe and sandals, gathered her body oils and lotions together, found her copy of
McCalls
, scooped up her sunglasses and headed out of the room.
They were giving mambo lessons at the pool and she was the first to volunteer. All of the others who joined the class came up in couples. Since she was alone the dance instructor used her for his demonstration. That was all right, but when he was finished illustrating the steps, he left her to give the couples individual attention. For a few moments she stood there with a bemused expression on her face looking about for a partner, someone who would step forward and rescue her from this absolutely foolish stance in between the dancers. No one came over so she went back to her chaise.
She tried to read her magazine but the words kept flying off the page. When she looked around the pool, it seemed to her that everyone else had someone to be with. Of course, this wasn’t true. There were other women who were unescorted, but most of them at least had other women to talk to. She was completely by herself. She stared at the lifeguard and tried to think about his body and the way he would move in bed, but even those thoughts became unglued.
Gradually the mambo rhythms, the voices of the people, the sound of splashing in the pool, and the laughter all around turned annoying. She didn’t understand why, but she was suddenly feeling miserable. She thought about ordering a drink, then remembered what drinking in the daytime usually did to her. If anything, it made her groggy and gave her sinus headaches.
She even considered writing a few postcards, then realized how stupid that would be. After all, she was only spending an extended weekend in the Catskills. It wasn’t like a trip to Europe or the Far East. Besides, Bernard hated the Congress and everything he thought it stood for. He certainly wouldn’t be interested in any details. In some ways he was a terrible snob. She wondered if it was a terrible thing for a mother to sometimes dislike her own son.
With her daughter it was just the opposite. It was Linda who had come to dislike her. They saw so little of each other now and somehow she had come to realize it was better that way—a mutual truce, an unspoken understanding. The love, the respect, it just wasn’t there—despite the years and the attention, the meals and the doctoring. It had never taken, like a skin graft that failed. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out to be a mother in the first place.
As the late morning wore on, Flo lay there thinking. She felt very small and alone. Her affairs, her two minute episodes, were really not very satisfying. She could dote on them for a while but in the long run they were like aspirins. The thought made her laugh but she could see that the analogy was true. The aspirin took away the symptoms of the headache but didn’t really get to the cause.
What was the cause? If, for a moment, she would give her life serious thought, she was certain to grow depressed. Here she was over forty years old without close friends, without any family that really gave a damn, without any purpose. In some ways she envied Ellen Golden. Her husband had died and left her with too many problems and too many responsibilities to feel sorry for herself. She thought about her, wondered where she was right now, imagined herself in Ellen Golden’s place, saw herself greeting people, issuing orders and overseeing glamorous projects. It didn’t take her long to see how ridiculous a picture that would make. She had a hard enough time running a house for her husband and son, much less a hotel like this.