“I’m not going to be so easygoing with you quite yet.”
She turned her back on me and walked into the bedroom. I followed her, weighing up that “yet.”
“We can talk here. Even though it’s rather a mess.”
The air in the room was thick. There were empty miniature bottles of gin and whiskey on the bedside table and the bed. The porn actors continued their exertions silently on the television screen. She gestured to the only armchair that was still in its place.
“Have a seat. I’ll open the window.”
I sat down while she turned off the TV and the spotlight on the camera. The room itself also felt a little less hostile in the lamplight. Cool air and the sound of rain came in from the street. She sat back down on the edge of the unmade bed.
“And how is that?”
How was what? It took me a moment to understand that she was taking up the conversation from the last words we had spoken in the hallway.
“They made a mistake at reception. They gave me the key to this room.”
She looked at me impassively.
“And what did you see?”
“Hardly anything. I wasn’t here long. The boy.” I jutted my chin toward the bathroom. “And the girl who walked out.”
“Right.”
She hesitated before adding anything further.
“They fought. She got very upset.”
She said it quickly, apparently without much interest in hiding the fact that it was a spurious explanation, that it didn’t explain a thing, really, or do anything other than state the obvious.
I would have liked to ask her why, but I didn’t feel I had the right to — nor would she have been obliged to answer. Or would she? She had the opposite effect on me to my neighboring columnist: with her, I wasn’t sure if we had established the necessary trust. She spoke first.
“Are you with the police?”
I smiled. If I had been offended that she had taken me for a snitch before, I ought to be even more put out now. But the question amused me.
“No.”
“And you’re not the hotel security guard?”
I looked down and was pleased to find a rock-solid alibi.
“I’m not even wearing shoes.”
We looked at each other and laughed a little.
“Well, be careful. A glass got broken and there are pieces of it on the floor. I had to put shoes on myself.”
She spoke with tentative good-will. I ventured a little more.
“I’m here to review the hotel.”
I regretted it the moment the words were out of my mouth. It sounded forced, and I thought it unlikely she would tolerate that sort of pseudo-friendliness. And perhaps it would be worse if she did. I never talk about my work with strangers. It only leads to stupid conversations. I feared I would now be the one who had to put together some tedious explanation.
“To review it?”
She didn’t give me time to resign myself to answering, hardly even to nod.
“What’s your byline?”
I wasn’t expecting that. Perhaps that’s what it would always be like, talking to her. She reminded you that almost everything people say to each other is nothing but a mechanical testing of the waters. When she heard my name, she leaned back, grinning.
“Oh, of course it is. I read your column. I’ve even followed a few of your recommendations.”
I remember very well that it was then that she started to speak to me like an equal. And that I felt a prick of foolish pride even a little more intense than usual.
“Oh really?”
And at the same time, I started to feel impatient. A conversation like that was absurd given the context. I know myself well, and I’ve learned to resign myself to the fact that well-aimed questions and witty parries only occur to me after the horse has bolted. But even now, I can’t think of a topic of conversation that wouldn’t have been ridiculous at that moment. I didn’t know what I had gone in there to talk to her about. I had no reason to stay in that room. I didn’t want to stay, and I didn’t want to leave. I’m not surprised now that I started to feel faintly irritated — not with her, but with myself.
I looked at the furniture again, at the camera, at the little empty bottles. I couldn’t see a speck of broken glass. She got up and closed the window slowly. She no longer seemed in a hurry.
“And what are you going to say about this one?”
“I’ll say they ought to have better soundproofing.”
The joke came out of the blue. It told itself, really. I can’t even claim I said it to see her reaction. Although it was interesting to watch it, anyway. She turned around quickly. For a brief second, her eyes smiled as they had earlier. It flattered her to smile like that, in a negative image of my page neighbor: her mouth serious, and all her intention in her eyes. She made no comment.
“Well, you’ve already seen what I do.”
I pretended to go along with the joke. It was easier to say it jokingly.
“Porn?”
She laughed, and I assumed — wrongly — that that would be her whole reply.
“That’s right. Well, almost.”
She spoke seriously, almost pensively. Without defiance. I could see that it was now she who feared the string of irksome questions — she looked at her hands, adjusted a switch on the camera that didn’t need adjusting. The bathroom door creaked open. We both turned around as the boy walked in wearing his towel. She seemed thankful for the interruption. I was glad that something had happened, too, that the boy had come in. But before it was too late, I gave her a protesting look. I wanted to make it clear that I wasn’t going to ask her stupid questions, either. Now I think my look may have had a pleading edge to it.
We stayed like that for a long second and a half. (Were we understanding each other? Or am I imagining all that now?) And then she looked over at the boy, who was standing by the door.
“Sorry. I’m just gonna get dressed and I’ll go.”
The boy brushed past without looking at me on his way over to the bed. He fished a pair of pants out of the tangle of sheets. Then he knelt down and felt along the floor under the mattress. He brought out some underpants, shook them, and after a lot of fussy maneuvering managed to put them on before taking off his towel. Up close and in profile he was less bulky than I’d thought.
She held out his shirt to him with one hand.
“I’ll finish up with you in a moment.”
The other man appeared in the doorway and took me completely off guard. I’d forgotten that he was also in the room. It quickly became clear that I was the odd one out here. It was as though common sense had walked in, leaned against the doorframe, and given me a knowing look. I almost jumped up out of my armchair. The woman was looking for something in the drawers of the bedside table.
“Well, I’ll be going.”
She turned around, and it almost seemed she had forgotten about me. She smiled with only her mouth.
“To tell you the truth, I can’t even offer you a drink.”
She nodded toward the empty minibar. I would have enjoyed getting to turn down an invitation to stay.
She was looking at the man. When I turned around, I caught him making an impatient gesture.
“OK, well, good night.”
The boy didn’t even look up from his position on the edge of the bed; he was utterly absorbed in the task of tying the laces on his sneakers. I think there was something unnatural about how natural he was: he combined rudeness, awkwardness, and an anxious, shy desire to cover his tracks.
I brushed past the other man on my way to the door. He didn’t move or bother to hide his disparaging look. When I was in the entryway, I heard her voice again.
“But if you haven’t drunk all of yours yet, you can invite me over to your room.”
I stood very still, focused on concealing the fact that I’d been caught off guard again.