'This way, brothers,' said the abbot.
Led by Jerry Cornelius and Karen von Krupp the monks trudged off down the corridor. They turned right, turned left and found the rooms. All the doors were painted turquoise with yellow numbers.
Jerry stopped outside his door.
Karen stopped outside her door.
The monks put their keys into their locks and opened their doors and went inside, closing the doors.
'See you later,' said Jerry.
She shrugged.
Jerry entered his room and turned on the light.
It was a small, narrow room with a couch that converted to a bed, a single window at the far end with turquoise drapes. He switched on the set and got the time, the temperature and the humidity. He adjusted his watches, pulled off his cassock and checked his blue silk suit for wrinkles. It had survived pretty well.
The bathroom was near the door. It had a shower, a sink and a lavatory. The towels were turquoise edged with gold. The shower curtains were yellow. The soap was turquoise. The tiles were green and orange. Jerry turned on the shower.
He went back into the room and took off his clothes, carrying his holstered vibragun with him to the bathroom and hanging it on the towel rail. He stepped under the boiling shower, soaping himself all over and humming Jimi Hendrix's May This Be Love to himself.
As he dried, Jerry called room service and ordered the quart of Jack Daniel's Black Label, the Onion Soup au Gratin Mouquin, the Sautéed Calf's Liver with Smothered Onions, Hickory Smoked Bacon and Home Fried Potatoes, the piece of Old New York Cheese Cake, the Two Flavor Jello with whipped cream and the Pot of Steaming Freshly Brewed Coffee. He gave his room number and his name as Father Jeremiah Cornelius.
He called the main desk.
'This is Father Cornelius. Has Bishop Beesley checked in, do you know?'
'I'm sorry, sir. No Bishop Beesley.'
Thank you. God bless you.'
Room service arrived. There was something to be said for civilization, really. Jerry set to eating.
When he had finished the food, he poured himself a large glass of bourbon and drank it down.
There was no doubt about it; America was the last decent country to eat in. Now he was ready for almost anything.
He unwrapped the towel from his waist and pulled the cassock over his head.
The sign on his door warned him to lock it carefully in case of prowlers. He ignored the sign and crossed to Karen's door.
He turned the handle. The door wasn't locked. He opened it a crack. The light was on. He slipped inside.
At first all he noticed were Karen's legs tightly wrapped around the heaving buttocks of Brother Thomas. She looked over the monk's white shoulder and raised her eyebrows.
'You can go off people, you know,' she said.
'Oh fuck,' said Jerry miserably.
2
He won't have to beg me—tonight
Jerry pulled up the blind, yearning for music, and stared out at the American morning.
It wasn't all beer and skittles. Even the educational channel was playing Gilbert and Sullivan. He had been sick twice in the night and had finally turned the television off.
Abandoning the cassock, he clad himself in yellow silk with a wide red tie knotted under the flowing collar of his white shirt. His soft calf boots, by Raviana, enclosed his feet and the vibragun cheered him up a little. Perhaps it was time to kill someone.
He combed his milk-white hair in front of the mirror, sweeping it down and then up to form two wings framing his graceful black face.
'Astatic,' he murmured cheerfully before his thoughts returned to Karen.
As he entered the corridor, he glanced across at her door, hesitated and then continued towards the elevators.
He wasn't often in love, after all. Not that sort of love. Could it be that that was giving him the identity trouble? It was worse than he'd expected. There had been a certain difficulty in focusing ever since he and Karen had left London. A certain mistiness, a feeling of fragmentation.
He patted his vibragun under his jacket as he reached the elevator. It was his only link with reality, with the machine in the cellars at Ladbroke Grove.
Koutrouboussis...
The name came and went.
Memories of Soho faded.
He put his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a postcard. On it was a slightly out of focus picture of a Tompion clock in an engraved steel case. On the other side was an address, JERRY CORNELIUS, AMERICA, and a message: HANG ON.
He thought of Baptiste Charbonneau and Kit Carson, of Humphrey Bogart and Kirk Douglas, of George Washington and Franklin D. Roosevelt, of Herman Melville and Dashiell Ham-mett, and he thought particularly of Charles Ives, Leadbelly, Woody Guthrie and Nina Simone.
Tears came to his eyes and he leaned heavily against the wall until the elevator arrived. America, the shattered dream, the broken promise...
At breakfast he couldn't eat his scrambled eggs, and his English Muffin also went untasted. He drank a lot of coffee and for an hour read Jack Trevor Story's Hitler Needs You which cheered him up, as he had known it would.
The monks and nuns were all seated at another table, staring at him incredulously. Karen was nowhere in sight, but Jerry saw a face he recognized.
It was Protz. A Russian agent and almost certainly a double agent for the Israelis. Could the archaically dressed man be interested in him?
Protz tripped from the crowded restaurant almost as soon as Jerry had spotted him. Remembering his encounter with Zhazhda of Okharna, Jerry began to feel nervous.
Mr Silver appeared behind him. 'Father Abbot? The arrangements It wasn't like Jerry to lie. It surprised him as he said shiftily, 'Not 'abbot' if you don't mind, my dear Mr Silver — Chuzzlewit — I'm afraid there are enemies who have succeeded in following me to this — even this — sanctuary...'
The police?'
'What could they prove? No, no. I thank you for your concern, but do not worry. I have friends, you see, in New York. They'll pick me up later. Bishop Beesley...'
'Oh, Bishop Beesley! Good hands. God bless you.' Mr Silver backed secretively away.
'God bless you, Mr Silver...'
'No, God... Nice of you, father — Chuzzlewit — thanks again...' Mr Silver dropped his eyes. 'God... thank you, Mr...' Jerry whirled on his heel and went softly away from the restaurant, bought some Marlboros in the lobby and returned to his room.
He turned on the television and changed channels until he got the hotel's own closed circuit channel. It showed a broad view of the road outside the main exit. The road led across the plain to Manhattan. There was surprisingly little traffic. The channel was vision only and the room itself was sound-proofed. A sense of isolation overwhelmed him.
He went to the window and saw a Pan Am 727 shimmer into the sky.
If Protz were in the States, then Zhazhda could be here, too. Zhazhda would tip off Beesley. Beesley would come to the hotel.
Why was he waiting for Beesley to come to him? Impulsively he went to the mirror. His skin had turned a deep brown, his eyes were uncomfortable.
If he hired a car he could be in New York in a half hour. He would be all right in New York. But Karen wouldn't come with him.
In the distance, the sun beat on the towers of the shining city.
There was no escape.
He took off his jacket, switched channels, watched five minutes of The Good, the Sad and the Ugly before the quality of the colour upset him, poured himself a glass of Jack Daniels, sipped it, put his jacket back on and went out of his room and opened Karen's door.
She had gone. Her suitcase was gone.