1985 - Stars and bars (22 page)

‘Cocktails, sir?’ she asked. ‘At the Indian village.’

‘What? Oh, no. I’m looking for the atrium.’

‘Keep right on to the end of this path.’ She slipped away into the trees.

He followed her instructions and broke out into a towering atrium some twelve or fourteen stories high. Before him stretched a lake, blocking his way, some thirty yards across, dotted with islands furnished with seats and sprouting plants. Over on the left of the far bank was a cluster of wigwams which on closer inspection turned out to be a large restaurant and bar area. On the balconied far wall, a dozen scenic elevators rose up and down, some of them disappearing into holes in the roof like silent glass scarabs.

Henderson let out a spontaneous gasp of surprise. He had heard of this new breed of American hotel: the hotel as wonderland, as secular cathedral, as theme park—but his imagination had been deficient. Plants grew everywhere, fountains splashed, the light was pale, neutral and shadow-free.

A cowboy wandered over and handed him a wooden paddle.

‘Good God, what’s this for?’

‘For the canoe, sir.’

Henderson looked to his right. Sure enough, a dozen canoes were tethered to the concrete bank.

‘Do you mean I’ve got to paddle myself across to the elevators?’

‘I can do it for you, sir, but a lot of our guests like to make their own way.’

He saw an intrepid couple set off, little shrieks of delight coming from the wife.

‘Oh. Right.’

The cowboy let him down to a canoe, deposited his bag in the bow and helped him in. Henderson settled down.

‘Listen, are you sure these things are stable? Perhaps you’d better—’

The cowboy pushed him off. ‘Enjoy your stay at Monopark 5000, sir.’

Henderson found himself drifting into the middle of the lake. He looked about him. The various islands were linked to the far bank by large round stepping stones. Indian maidens tripped across these carrying drinks from the huge gloomy bar area. Hesitantly, Henderson dipped his paddle in the water and performed a couple of gentle strokes. The canoe, thin aluminium painted to look like birch-bark, skidded easily across the surface and clanged into the side of another canoe traversing the water. This was occupied by a high-ranking military man—a general, judging from the stars that flashed on his shoulders—in a smoky green uniform.

‘Sorry!’ Henderson laughed. ‘Haven’t quite got the hang of this. Ha ha.’

‘Remember to paddle on both sides,’ said the general, with a false grin, and pushed him away—a little more forcibly than need be, Henderson thought, as his canoe turned through 180 degrees and he found himself facing the forest grove again.

He dug his paddle in and the canoe moved off in a smooth arc. He cut across the bows of some more competent guests.

‘Hey, watch out for the rapids!’ one of them called- or at least that’s what Henderson thought he said.

‘What?’ he shouted back over his shoulder, a little alarmed. It seemed to him not inconceivable that in Monopark 5000’s fanatical pursuit of verisimilitude they should have installed genuine wilderness hazards: rapids, submerged rocks, alligators…However, his call went unheeded and, his attention distracted from his course, he soon had another collision, this time with a cocktail island.

‘
Pow! Pow! Pow!
’

Henderson looked up. A little boy shot at him with levelled fingers from behind the cover of the circular banquette seating.

‘Waylon, stop that,’ his father commanded. ‘Having trouble?’ he called to Henderson. ‘Can I throw you a rope?’ Other people on the island stood up, smiling at Henderson’s seaborne invasion of their territory.

‘Hit the beach!’ called one, to tumultuous laughter.

‘
Pow! Pow!
’

‘I’m fine,’ good sport Henderson called out with artificial gaiety. ‘Lost my compass.’ More laughs.

‘
Pow!
I got him, Dad.
Pow!
I shot him, I shot him!’

‘Waylon, stop it, I told you.’

Cursing under his breath, Henderson leant forward and pushed off. He would like to connect the flat of his paddle with the little brat’s head. The canoe shot backwards in a tight spiral.

‘
Watch out!
’ someone screamed from behind.

Panicked, Henderson thrust his paddle into the water too forcefully. His arm plunged under the surface up to the elbow. Furious, he threw his paddle down and tried to wring his sodden sleeve dry.

‘Watch where you’re going!’ shouted two angry guests avoiding his drifting canoe.

‘Sorry!’ Henderson. called merrily, though his-throat was thick with anger and frustration. ‘Lost control.’

‘You’re not supposed to fool around like this, you know,’ a heavy-jowled, blue-rinsed matron admonished from the prow of a canoe being manoeuvred by a grinning cowboy.

‘I know,’ Henderson replied, then forced his ‘jolly’ voice out between gritted teeth. ‘Sorry!’

After a couple more minutes and half a dozen more cheery cries of ‘Sorry!’ he finally gained the opposite bank. Utterly exhausted, he was helped ashore by two vastly amused cowboys who assured him they’d never seen anyone have such difficulty before. Henderson felt as if he’d just completed a two-week outward-bound course. His arm dripped water, the muscles in his neck were in spasm and his shirt was transparent with sweat. What sort of demented, perverse architect had designed this hotel, he wondered. He was going to write to the owner, insist that some sort of causeway or bridge be provided for those not aquatically inclined.

He held his damp sleeve away from his side as he ascended in the scenic elevator. The splendour of the panorama below—grove, lake, islands, scudding canoes—was entirely lost on him.

He walked down the corridor on the thirty-fifth floor, past suites G, H and I, towards suite J which lay at its end. As he fiddled with his piece of card, inserting it in a slot at the side of the door frame, the general with whom he’d collided on the lake stepped out of suite K opposite. The smile on his face dissolved.

‘Oh,’ he said, badly concealing his disappointment at the sight of Henderson. ‘Finally made it.’

‘Yes,’ Henderson said. ‘Great fun.’

The general looked up the corridor, grunted and disappeared back inside. He was obviously expecting someone, Henderson thought, as, with a buzz, his door swung open.

Suite J was plushly and lavishly appointed, right down to a scattering of little china ornaments on various surfaces. There was a small sitting room, and off this was a bedroom with a canary yellow, kingsize bed. In the bathroom the large triangular bath was canary yellow too. Moreover, it was oddly ribbed, and provided with several curious moveable chrome nozzles and hand grips. This was the whirlpool he’d so blithely requested, he realized. He looked at the luxury of the room and hoped the expense would be worth it. He thought Irene might be taken by the whirlpool bath.

He took off his wet jacket and pungent shirt and decided to try the bath out. A hot bubbling soak was just what he required. For ten minutes he studied the instruction manual on how to operate the whirlpool mechanism, then set various dials and switches on the wall and ran the water. When it was full he stripped off and climbed in. The hot water was ideally soothing. For a moment he wondered if he should even bother with the whirlpool option, but decided that he might as well get his money’s worth. He reached up and flipped the switch. At first nothing happened apart from a humming and grinding noise. Then suddenly the bath erupted in foam, as if he’d been attacked by a shoal of piranhas, and heavy fists thudded simultaneously into his body.

He screamed with shock and pain—one thundering misdirected jet had pulverized his groin—and leapt out of the bath. His body was red and throbbing. He felt like a huge bruise. The tub frothed and gurgled like an acid vat in a horror film. He switched it off and within seconds it became an ordinary hot bath again. He decided not to get back in: the pleasure had been spoiled, somehow.

Wearily he got dressed and checked the time: four thirty. He wondered when Irene would arrive. The evening, she had said. He sat down and phoned Beeby. He told him only that Gage was unhappy with his valuation of the Dutch paintings and was stalling on fixing a date for the auction. Beeby couldn’t understand. Was Hender-son absolutely sure they were insignificant pictures? Yes, Henderson said, no doubt, very run-of-the-mill. However, he was checking out the portrait—which was why he was in Atlanta, needed a reference library, he lied fluently. Beeby sounded worried and impressed on him the need to bring matters to a speedy conclusion. Henderson told him the results of his valuation and said he thought Gage was looking for another half-million for the Dutch paintings. Out of the question, Beeby said, they’d make a huge loss, especially if they underwrote the reserve. They batted ideas back and forth for a while to no great effect. Eventually Beeby exhorted him to do his utmost and told him he had Pruitt Halfacre on another line.

‘Henderson. How’s it going?’

‘Well, up and down, Pruitt.’

‘You know that painting, the allegory? I’ve been doing some work on it; it could be Demeter and lambe.’

‘Good God, you’re right.’ Henderson was very impressed.

‘But it’s not.’

‘No?’

‘It’s Demeter and Baubo. Very unusual.’

Pruitt told him it was a variant myth. After Persephone had been stolen by Hades, Demeter had wandered the world, crushed by her grief over the loss of her daughter. However, in Eleusis she had been jolted out of her sorrow, and had broken her fast, by a serving maid, either called lambe who, in one version, told her dirty jokes or, in another, called Baubo, who made Demeter laugh by raising her skirts and exposing her genitalia. After that Demeter ceased to mourn for Persephone and the world got its harvests back.

‘The fascinating thing is you only find that myth in the
Songs of Orpheus
and
Protrepticus
by Clement of Alexandria.’

Henderson wrote it all down. ‘Pruitt,’ he said, ‘I’m phenomenally impressed. Great help.’

‘Who’s the painting by?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s no good. It was just the myth that floored me.’

‘It is a little arcane, for sure.’

‘Absolutely. Listen, Pruitt, do you know a New York gallery by the name of Sereno and Gint?’

‘Never heard of them.’

‘I thought so.’ He said goodbye and put down the phone. He took out his polaroids and looked at the painting again through his magnifying glass. He put the magnifying glass down and thought about what he had told him. Odd myth. It made no sense. He phoned Melissa.

‘Henderson! At last, when are you coming home?’

‘Very soon, I hope,’ he said with feeling.

‘How’s Bryant? She sent me a postcard. She seems to be having a good time.’

‘She is.’ He swallowed. ‘She’s made friends with a…a very nice girl called Shanda.’

‘Oh good. Darling, I’m so grateful to you, honestly. You’re sure she’s no trouble.’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Baby, I’ve got to run. Dying to see you. Irving sends his love.’

She hung up before Henderson could send his love back to Irving. He felt suddenly uneasy about the barriers of deceit he was erecting. To Beeby about Sereno and Gint; to Melissa about Duane; to Irene about their planned holiday…

Beeby phoned back. How much did Gage want for the Dutch paintings? Henderson repeated the Sereno-Gint estimates.

‘Good Lord,’ Beeby said. ‘But if they’re so mediocre how can he ask so much for them?’

‘He’s a shrewd old devil. He knows we want the others.’

‘All right. Go to $50,000 each. But he must pay for insurance, printing the catalogue and advertising. We might just break even. Let’s pray one of the others comes good. The Sisleys are fine, you say?’

‘Yes. I’ll do my best, Tom.’

‘I’ve never done this before, Henderson. It goes against the grain. We must have a date for the auction soonest, too. When will you be back?’

‘Monday or Tuesday,’ he said without much confidence.

He hung up. He passed both hands over his face, tugging at his features, pulling his eyelids down, flattening his cheeks. He felt disturbed and unsettled but not just because of the farcical events on the atrium lake. They were deeper qualms he was suffering: more spiritual and metaphysical. His self-doubt, his lack of faith in his own capacities, always considerable, had grown these last few days like a tumour. He was beginning to feel unable to cope. The struggle to fit his personality to his new environment, to emulsify with his chosen culture like oil and vinegar, just wasn’t happening. It was too unyielding; he and America just weren’t creating the harmony he had expected. It simply wasn’t enough, clearly, to be keen, to wish earnestly for something to happen. Perhaps all marriages were made in heaven, he thought glumly. He had an awful foreboding nothing was going to work out.

And what then? Back to England? But he had been miserable there. All his hopes resided here. To fail to find himself in the U.S.A. didn’t bear contemplation. He felt, for the first time in his life, slivers of black despair begin to insert themselves into his spirit. Like the first pins in a voodoo doll. What was it Gage had said? ‘We all want to be happy and we’re all going to die.’ It didn’t leave you much.

He heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor and immediately recognized their weight and cadence as Irene’s. He ran joyfully to the door and threw it open. Across the corridor the general did the same. They both looked at the astonished face of a black maid.

‘Mo’ towels, sir?’

Henderson and the general sheepishly accepted a towel each. Henderson noted that the general was in mufti.

‘I thought,’ Henderson began, smiling.

‘I’m expecting someone,’ the general said. He was wearing loud checked trousers of the sort favoured by champion golfers, a short-sleeved shirt and a silk scarf tied at his throat. It looked incongruous beneath his hard taut face and cropped grey hair. Out of uniform he had lost all his confident authority. Just another man. He raised a palm and stepped back inside.

Henderson called the front desk and asked where the best reference library in Atlanta was and, after a brief pause, he was given the relevant information. He heard more footsteps in the corridor—not Irene’s, he was sure—followed by a knock on the door. He got up and opened it.