Because he remained serious and seemingly abstracted until we reached his floor. We didn’t speak. As he left, he bestowed a final rictus on me, identical to the one at the beginning of the journey: a smile on his lips alone, belied and even undone by his eyes. It appeared we were going to part in silence, but he swiveled around again, in the hallway.
“Well, clearly you’re not here on the job. What a shame. I’d have loved to read the review on this one.”
It was just like him to say goodbye like that, with an indirect or deliberately twisted confession. He wasn’t going to say anything about what had happened in the underground hotel, and I knew that the only reason he had found it in him to acknowledge (obliquely, and for the first time) that he had read my work was because we wouldn’t be seeing each other again.
He took great care, at any rate, not to see the smile on my face. Before the doors closed, he had already turned his back and was pushing off toward the shadows at the end of the hallway.
~ ~ ~
The elevator inched up to the ninth floor. And once again, I felt grateful for how interminable the journey was.
My mouth was dry, and I was furiously, ravenously thirsty. At the back of the cabin stood a smaller version of the tiered carts that crowded the passageway in the staff area, and it was similarly filled with trays of clearedaway breakfasts and dinners. I took two gulps of milk from a china jug with two intertwined, blue Ps on it. The mirror on the wall alerted me to a white moustache over my upper lip that I hurried to wipe off. This did something to mitigate how much older I appeared to myself in the lugubrious light of the elevator’s single overhead bulb.
Apart from that, I looked the same as ever. Perhaps that should have surprised me even more. The elevator, steady but slow, arrived at the top floor and opened silently. I had to tear myself away from my reflection — outlined against the exact replica of the hallway that lay alluringly behind me — before I could leave the cabin. I walked slowly down the hushed passage toward the door at the very end, whose number matched the one on the key ring.
I paused for a moment, the key in the lock — I felt obliged to go through the formalities and also to sternly remind myself of how much would depend, as of that next moment, on my every movement, word, and gesture. Then I rebelled against making such a solemn palaver of things, and I tossed my head like a docile child who for the first time refuses to submit to the cologne-impregnated comb that heralds important occasions. I turned the key, pushed the door slightly ajar, and peered through the crack.
Standing in front of the still-made bed, the boy from the cheap hotel, half-naked, was undoing the buttons on her blouse. She was focused on the play of his fingers and remained motionless for him. Her right hand was on the back of his neck. Perhaps it wasn’t quite touching, though, because I saw it trembled slightly.
I pushed the door open gently and walked all the way into the room. The boy looked at me and smiled. An angelic, limpid smile, without an iota of insinuation. He drew his fingers back from the last button, which remained half stuck in the buttonhole. She looked up and followed the direction of his eyes with her own.
All those hours spent picturing her and remembering her voice had, it seemed, had an effect. She was prettier and she seemed more youthful, as if my constant remembering had faded her image in my mind. The change was plain to see, and yet difficult to explain. I was already searching for the right words and storing them away for later, for now.
I recalled the permanent guest in the room of the forgotten poet. It amused me to think that I, too, might give rise to the birth and dissemination of a minor mystery on the scale of my own little milieu, an intriguing rumor to be passed around after dinner at conferences or in hotel lobbies: the story of the errant critic who disappeared one fine day in the middle of one of his trips.
I took a step forward, and she made a sudden move of alarm or warning. She was looking at something behind me. I turned. In the corner stood — what else — the tripod and the camera. A light was blinking. I had just walked into the shot, and now I was in the movie.
~ ~ ~
I completed this novel during a residency at the Santa Maddalena Foundation in Tuscany. I am grateful to Beatrice Monti della Corte for her ever generous hospitality.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JAVIER MONTES won the José María de Pereda Award for his first novel, Los penúltimos (Pre-Textos, 2008), which he followed with Segunda parte (Pre-Textos, 2010), and La vida de hotel (Anagrama, 2012). Along with Andrés Barba he won the Anagrama de Ensayo Award for La Ceremonia del Porno (Porn Ceremony), and also co-edited and participated in After Henry James, a collection of novellas based on James’ notebooks (451 Editores, 2009). In 2010, Granta included him on their issue The Best of Young Spanish-Language Novelists and his stories have appeared in numerous collections including Puros Cuentos (Letras Libres, 2011) and Life in Cities. An Anthology of European Contemporary Writers (Minumsa, Seoul, 2010). He is a regular contributor to publications including ABC, El País, Letras Libres, Granta, Artnews, Revista de Occidente, Letra Internacional and Arquitectura Viva, and has curated a number of exhibitions, including “Beckett Films” at the CAAC in 2011. Montes has translated works by Shakespeare, Dickens, Apollinaire, Mary Robison and Rachid O. and has also been a lecturer in Art History at the Spanish College in Malabo (Equatorial Guinea).
ABOUT THE TRANSLATORS
OLLIE BROCK has co-translated books by authors including Isabel Allende and Eduardo Halfon. His writing has appeared in the Times Literary Supplement, the New Statesman, TIME and the Revista de Libros. He has worked as a freelancer for the London Review of Books, on the staff of Granta magazine, and as a Translator-in-Residence at the Free Word Centre in London.
LORNA SCOTT FOX has translated several books from French and Spanish, most recently Teresa, My Love, by Julia Kristeva. Her articles and reviews in English have appeared in the London Review of Books, the Times Literary Supplement, and The Nation, and she has written for magazines in Mexico and Spain. She is currently an editor, journalist and translator based in London.