“Good nerves,” he said aloud, and tried to laugh about it. But the laugh turned out to be a whimper and his voice sounded as strange to him as the room and the bed and the clothes. It was weak and husky.
I’m sick, he thought again. Where did I get sick? Where was I? Where am I?
He looked around the room again. It wasn’t his room, but he’d seen it before. Somewhere, sometime before he had been in this room.
There was a pitcher of water on the little table beside the bed and three glasses.
Three glasses. Why three glasses? He squinted to make his eyes focus better, but there were still three glasses. He picked up one and poured some water into it. He was very thirsty and in a minute all the water was gone from the pitcher and he was feeling steadier and the pain behind his eyes had settled down into a gnawing ache. When he put the glass back on the table he saw an empty quart bottle of gin on the floor.
Gin, he thought, I never drink gin.
But the bottle was empty, and he, obviously, had been full, so he must have drunk gin, or else he’d had someone with him.
As soon as he thought of that he knew it was right. He couldn’t remember anybody, but something seemed to move in his mind and click into place. Someone had come here with him, maybe two people if there were three glasses.
From the next room came the sound of a vacuum cleaner starting up. I’m in a hotel, he thought. If I could get over to the window and pull up the blind and look out maybe I’d know where I am. I could always remember roads and buildings...
Roads.
There was something about the word that hit him. His heart began to thump again and the blood roared in his ears. Roads.
He swung his legs off the bed and staggered over to the window and tore at the blind to get it up. It came off the roller and fell on his head and he fought it off desperately as if it were an animate thing, and a mortal enemy.
It ripped and fell to the floor and he looked down at it savagely and kicked it away with his foot.
The sun beat in on his eyes and for a second he could see nothing but a black-red glare. The glare faded and became the orange twinkle of sun on snow.
He was on the second floor of the hotel. Just outside his window a painted sign swung gently back and forth: Hotel Metropole, it said on one side. Prix moderes. Tout confort. On the other side it said, Metropole Hotel. All conveniences. Reasonable Rates.
The sign brought everything back so vividly that he had to breathe deeply again to ward off the sudden nausea that hit him.
The bus. Where’s the bus? I’ve lost the bus.
He strained his eyes to see across the street. There was the station looking the way it always did, too bright and modern in this sleepy third-rate little town. But the place in front of the station where he always parked the bus was empty.
That was where he kept the bus, waiting for the Montreal train to come in. Sometimes it was late and he went across to the Metropole for coffee or beer, but he’d never stayed here before. He’d never been upstairs.
He turned away from the window and sat on the bed holding his head in his hands and trying to think through the pain. Maybe if I talked out loud, he thought, maybe if I asked myself questions I’d remember everything.
What’s your name?
Maurice A. Hearst. A for Albert.
How old are you?
Twenty-six, hell, no, twenty-seven. Who cares? Old enough to know better than to talk to strangers.
Strangers, eh? What kind of strangers?
I don’t know. That just slipped out. I don’t...
Well, take it easy. Where do you work?
I work for the Chateau Neige. I drive their bus. I’ve been there for two years now and I’m a damn good driver and that bus gets through roads that nothing else can get through but a snowplow. It’s like a jeep, see? It bounces. It doesn’t look so hot and you have to coddle the engine but...
All right, all right, so it’s a jeep. Where were you last night?
I don’t know.
All right. Where were you this morning?
Here.
You couldn’t have been here this morning. You drove the bus down this morning, didn’t you? That was this morning, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?
He groaned, “Oh, Jesus,” and rolled his head back and forth. Then he began again.
You still there, Mr. Hearst?
Sure, sure. It’s my wrist, isn’t it? Sure, I’m here.
You know what day this is?
No.
You know what time it is?
No — wait, the sun — it’s noon, twelve o’clock.
Good work, Mr. Hearst. Where are you usually at noon?
I’m in my bus waiting for the train to come in.
So that makes this today and not yesterday. Isn’t that right?
Sure, sure. It’s today. If it isn’t yesterday it must be today.
So you’ve lost twenty-four hours. Where were you yesterday at noon?
I was in my bus. I had the motor idling because on the trip down it coughed a couple of times and I didn’t want to have any trouble with it going back. It was ten below and the roads were as bad as I’ve ever seen them.
Anybody with you on the trip down?
No, not this time.
All right. You’re sitting with the motor idling. Do you remember seeing anyone?
Sure, a kid with a St. Bernard.
That’s dandy. Maybe he got you drunk.
I wasn’t drunk. I was knocked out or something. I’m sick.
All right. The kid and the dog. And what else?
A couple of guys came out of the station. I remember thinking it was funny because the older guy was all dressed up but the younger one was shabby...
Hearst got off the bed and walked over to the window again. He tried to picture the bus standing in front of the station, and himself behind the wheel, and the two men walking out of the station. There had been no sun and the wind ripped up the street, and the train was going to be late... The two men came over and one of them rapped on the door of the bus, it was the well-dressed one who looked as if he came from the city...
Hearst looked down at the blue serge suit he was wearing. It belonged to the shabby young man, the one who hadn’t talked. The older man had done the talking. He looked as if he came from the city...
“Is this the Chateau Neige bus?”
“Sure is,” Hearst said.
“How long do you wait here?”
“As long as it takes the train to come in. Been late a lot the last month.”
The older man grinned and said, “The war or the weather?”
“Both,” Hearst said. He liked talking but the two men were keeping the door open and the bus heater didn’t work so well. He said, “You want to go up to the Lodge? Well, hop in. I have to close this door.”
“No, no,” the older man said. “I’m supposed to meet somebody here, a lady. She’s going on up but I’ve got to wait a couple of days in town here. Business. Any place I can get a drink?”
Hearst pointed. “Sure. The Metropole.”
The shabby man smiled and nodded his head.
“Maybe you’d like to join us?” the older man suggested. “We’re strangers in town...”
“Have to wait here,” Hearst said, but the idea tempted him. He’d go and look on the call board and see how late the train was going to be and maybe he’d have time for a quick one.
Both of the men looked pleased, and they went with him to see about the train. It wasn’t due for half an hour.
The older man said his name was Aldington. He was in the lumber business. The other man, hunched inside his coat even in the bar, kept smiling stupidly at everybody and didn’t say anything.