Small shops on each side of the lobby, flower shop, gifts, candy, place to telegraph, desk to reserve plane flights, the bustle of guests at the desk and the elevators, the huge potted plants, and under their feet the carpeting, thick and soft. She could smell the hotel, the many people, the activity. Neon signs indicated in which direction the hotel restaurant, cocktail lounge, snack bar, lay. She could barely take it all in as they crossed the lobby and at last reached the reservation desk.
There was even a bookstore.
While Joe signed the register, she excused herself and hurried over to the bookstore to see if they had The Grasshopper. Yes, there it was, a bright stack of copies in fact, with a display sign saying how popular and important it was, and of course that it was verboten in German-run regions. A smiling middle-aged woman, very grandmotherly, waited on her; the book cost almost four dollars, which seemed to Juliana a great deal, but she paid for it with a Reichsbank note from her new purse and then skipped back to join Joe.
Leading the way with their luggage, the bellboy conducted them to the elevator and then up to the second floor, along the corridor—silent and warm and carpeted—to their superb, breathtaking room. The bellboy unlocked the door for them, carried everything inside, adjusted the window and lights; Joe tipped him and he departed, shutting the door after him.
All was unfolding exactly as she wanted.
“How long will we stay in Denver?” she asked Joe, who had begun opening packages on the bed. “Before we go on up to Cheyenne?”
He did not answer; he had become involved in the contents of his suitcase.
“One day or two?” she asked as she took off her new coat. “Do you think we could stay three?”
Lifting his head Joe answered, “We’re going on tonight.”
At first she did not understand; and when she did, she could not believe him. She stared at him and he stared back with a grim, almost taunting expression, his face constricted with enormous tension, more than she had seen in any human in her life before. He did not move; he seemed paralyzed there, with his hands full of his own clothing from the suitcase, his body bent.
“After we eat,” he added.
She could not think of anything to say.
“So wear that blue dress that cost so much,” he said. “The one you like; the really good one—you understand?” Now he began unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to shave and take a good hot shower.” His voice had a mechanical quality as if he were speaking from miles away through some sort of instrument; turning, he walked toward the bathroom with stiff, jerky steps.
With difficulty she managed to say, “It’s too late tonight.”
“No. We’ll be through dinner around five-thirty, six at the latest. We can get up to Cheyenne in two, two and a half hours. That’s only eight-thirty. Say nine at the latest. We can phone from here, tell Abendsen we’re coming; explain the situation. That’ll make an impression, a long-distance call. Say this—we’re flying to the West Coast; we’re in Denver only tonight. But we’re so enthusiastic about his book we’re going to drive up to Cheyenne and drive back again tonight, just for a chance to—”
She broke in, “Why?”
Tears began to surge up into her eyes, and she found herself doubling up her fists, with the thumbs inside, as she had done as a child; she felt her jaw wobble, and when she spoke her voice could hardly be heard. “I don’t want to go and see him tonight; I’m not going. I don’t want to at all, even tomorrow. I just want to see the sights here. Like you promised me.” And as she spoke, the dread once more reappeared and settled on her chest, the peculiar blind panic that had scarcely gone away, even in the brightest of moments with him. It rose to the top and commanded her; she felt it quivering in her face, shining out so that he could easily take note of it.