Hotel Iris (12 page)

“And what does he plan to do when he graduates?”

“Continue his studies at a research center.” The nephew reached for his pendant, but the translator stopped him. “No, don’t bother. You should enjoy your lunch in peace. If you start writing, you can’t eat. We can talk as much as we want and eat at the same time,” he said, though he was the only one actually talking.

“What is the Gothic style?” I asked, wondering what would happen if I asked a question the translator could not answer.

“He can show you his postcards later,” the translator said before his nephew could begin to write. “And he has sketches from his travels. He’s a brilliant artist, too. He comes here to have time to draw.”

His nephew continued to spoon up his lunch, apparently content to let his uncle answer for him. Though we were talking about him, he barely acknowledged us and simply went on quietly eating. From time to time, the pendant knocked softly against the edge of the table.

The only easily identifiable item on the table was the water. I asked for more, and the translator filled my glass from the pitcher on the serving cart. The music stopped for a moment and I thought the concerto had ended, but then it started again, apparently beginning another movement.

“Do you like it?” the translator asked.

“Yes,” I murmured noncommittally. “It’s quite unusual.”

“I went to the market yesterday and started preparing last night. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent the day cooking.” He seemed quite proud of himself.

“But do you always cook everything until it turns to soup?” I asked, trying not to sound critical.

“Yes, when my nephew is here.” The two of them exchanged a glance, some sign known only to them, and I realized I would never get used to the idea of anyone coming between us, of him trading looks with someone other than me.
I felt as though the three of us were on a crazy Ferris wheel—as I braced on one corner of the seat, holding my breath, the nephew sunk in silence on the other side, and only the translator, in the middle, seemed to enjoy himself. And the more pleasure he took, the more violently the seat seemed to rock.

“I usually cook for him myself. When he writes to say he’s coming, the first thing I do is get out the blender. We go out sometimes, too, but he can’t order anything but soup, or thin stew.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he has no tongue.” The ice rattled in his glass. His nephew pushed back an empty plate and pulled another one nearer. I counted the yellow drops falling from my spoon as I let the meaning of his words sink in. “When he was a child, he developed a malignant tumor on his tongue. So they had to remove it.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said.

“But it’s true. Sad, but true.” He said nothing more on the subject.

I glanced as discreetly as possible at his mouth, hoping neither of them would notice. From the outside, everything seemed normal. His lips were perfectly formed, and each spoonful of food seemed to run smoothly down his throat. I felt a sudden wave of panic. Did I have a tongue of my own? I bit down softly to be sure.

The translator went on talking, barely taking a breath between stories of his nephew’s exploits. He bragged about
his achievements and boasted about his future prospects. He told how he’d been born half dead, with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck. How he had appeared as a baby in a commercial for powdered milk. How he’d got lost in a department store. How he’d saved a kitten from drowning in a river and been written up in the newspaper. The stories came bubbling out of him like baby spiders hatching from their eggs, each episode giving rise to another memory, anecdote, or tirade against an imagined enemy.

The only figure who failed to appear anywhere in all of this talk was the translator’s dead wife, the woman who had been strangled with the scarf. She had completely vanished.

I was barely listening; it took all my energy to keep the boredom from showing on my face. The nephew, on the other hand, sat there eating his meal, apparently unfazed by the translator’s endless soliloquy—so much so that I began to wonder whether they had also removed his eardrums.

But the translator did not seem to care whether we were listening. He simply went on hatching baby spiders into the void in front of him, apparently unable to stop until there were no more.

I put down my spoon, having managed to eat only half of what had been set in front of me. I didn’t want to disappoint him, but I had begun to feel sick, and my skirt was glued to my thighs with perspiration. I was worried he would dissolve in anger because I rejected his cooking, that his brain and organs and bones and fat would come apart. I wondered
whether his nephew would know any better than I did how to put him back together again.

Then I suddenly realized he had stopped talking. The last egg had hatched. He tipped up his plate and was noisily spooning up the dregs of a dark red paste. Applause crackled from the radio; it was the end of the concerto.

“You don’t look much alike,” I said, thinking this might bring the conversation around to the subject of his wife. But he said nothing. He was as intent now on finishing his meal as he had been on the conversation a moment before.

“Because we’re not related by blood,”
the nephew answered at last. He could write with amazing speed even on such a crowded table, and his movements seemed all the more discreet after the translator’s long soliloquy.
“My uncle’s wife and my mother were sisters.”
The note slid noiselessly across the table.

“He told me that his wife died,” I said. I was curious how the translator would react if I spoke directly to his nephew. The young man tore out another sheet of paper and began writing a longer note with his small pen.

“Does anyone have room for dessert?” asked the translator. “We have peach sorbet and banana mousse. They’re in the refrigerator. But first, we should clear the table a bit. Could you give me a hand?” His nephew put the note he’d been writing back in the case and stood up to help.

Their efforts were remarkably efficient, as if they had agreed on the division of labor ahead of time. A glance or slight gesture was enough for them to understand one another, and there was nothing left for me to do.

The hibiscus flowers were so fresh they seemed to sparkle. It was as hot as ever outside, but from time to time a breeze passed through the window above the kitchen sink and out across the terrace to the south. Each time it did, the pages of Marie’s novel fluttered quietly. A new piece started to play on the radio; I had no idea what it was.

They served the sorbet and the mousse. I wondered what the nephew had been writing in his note and how he could get along so well with a man who had killed his aunt. There were many things I didn’t understand. The mousse melted and slid down my throat.

T E N

The translator strangled me over and over in my dreams, always with the same scarf. I learned every stain and frayed edge by heart.

The pain would build until it became unbearable, and just when I thought I couldn’t stand it anymore, when I felt I was sinking to the bottom of the sea, the nephew would appear out of nowhere.

“Because we’re not related by blood,”
he would write quickly on his notepad, and the translator would immediately stop strangling me and turn his attention to finding something by Chopin on the radio. Then he would tie the scarf around his nephew’s neck. Though it was a woman’s scarf, it suited him perfectly and was a good match for his pendant. …

———

I had nearly suffocated once before, long ago. My father was still alive, so I must have been in first or second grade.

At the time, I was strictly forbidden from going into the guest rooms, and Mother told me the story of our resident ghost to discourage me.

“Many years ago, she committed suicide here with her lover,” Mother told me, though I was too young to know what “suicide” meant. “She doesn’t bother customers, only naughty little girls. She rips them open with her long fingernails and eats their insides.”

Needless to say, I stayed out of the guest rooms—except once.

I don’t remember why, but one morning I absolutely could not bring myself to go to school, and so I pretended to leave the hotel but then crept back and hid in Room 301. I was planning to reappear in the afternoon when I would normally arrive home from school.

I passed the time reading comic books on the bed and eating the chocolate I’d hidden in my backpack, though I was careful not to make a sound or leave a single crumb behind. From time to time I’d hear Mother’s voice somewhere nearby and nearly die of fright, but I was also thrilled by the danger.

There was just one flaw in my plan: at around noon, some guests checked in to the room. There had been no reservations for that day—I knew because my grandfather had taught me how to decipher the guest book and I had checked to be sure that 301 was free. Nonetheless, a couple walked through the door just a half hour before school would have been ending.

I grabbed my backpack and dove into the closet. As I did, I hit my elbow hard on the corner of the dresser, but I pressed my hand over my mouth to keep from crying out. The closet door was slightly ajar, and when I peeked out I could see a young woman and a middle-aged man.

They had barely set down their luggage when they started to argue. The woman did most of the talking, telling the man he was worthless and thoughtless and stuck-up, and then calling him every bad name she could think of. Meanwhile, the man just muttered quietly and punched the bed with his fist.

Suddenly, I realized that I’d forgotten my shoes. They were lined up neatly by the bed, with the toes tucked under the comforter. What would I do if they found them? A pair of little girl’s shoes was sure to strike them as strange, and they were bound to tell Mother.

My chest began to ache. My heart was beating fast, and I broke out in a cold sweat. I probably should have been worried about one of them opening the closet, but for some reason, at the time, I was obsessed with the shoes.

The woman walked right by them several times, almost stepping on them. Why had I remembered my backpack but completely forgotten about the shoes? Why had I taken them off in the first place? Why had I been so worried about getting the quilt dirty?

Liar! Worthless good-for-nothing! Coward! We’re through! It’s all your fault. I always knew you were a bastard, a bum! … Her threats and insults were getting more violent. But I
was terrified that the man would explode, that he would kill her.

Then I remembered my mother’s story, and I felt as though the long-nailed ghost was standing right outside the closet door. I started having trouble breathing, as if I’d used up all the air in the closet. I was terrified that the ghost would pull me out and slice open my belly with her fingernail, and I could feel a scream building in my throat. As long as they were there in the room, I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t even cry out for help. I might have to spend all night in this dark box. I was so terrified, I fainted.

That was the first time I felt the pain of being unable to breathe, but at the moment I lost consciousness, I felt wonderful, as though my body was being absorbed into the sea—the same feeling I’d had years later when the translator strangled me with the scarf.

When I came to, there was a crowd around me. My father was holding me in his arms, and my grandfather was peering at me over his shoulder. My mother was apologizing to the couple, who were no longer fighting. My father made me take a sip of whiskey from the flask he kept in his back pocket. That was the one and only time that his alcohol served a useful purpose.

One day, I went swimming with the translator and his nephew. I hadn’t known the translator could swim and wouldn’t have even imagined he owned a bathing suit.

We rented an umbrella on the beach, at the edge of the crowd. There was a haze on the horizon and the surf was high, but the heat was still oppressive. Some shorebirds floated on the breeze. The island was a blur in the distance.

The translator rubbed coconut suntan oil on his nephew, moving his hands gently from his neck to his back, from his chest to the tips of his fingers. The nephew’s young skin quickly absorbed the sickly sweet oil. The pendant hung on his bare chest, and when the translator brushed it with his palm, there was a flash of silver. The nephew was much more muscular than I had imagined, with a strong chest and powerful arms and legs. His body was well formed in every respect—the line from his shoulders to his hips, the alignment of his chest and arms, his smooth, sand-colored skin. It seemed odd that he was so fit, eating nothing but liquid foods.

The translator’s hands worked over his body. Just as my mouth had with his feet. Eagerly. Earnestly.

“Now it’s your turn, Mari,” he said at last.

“No,” I told him. “I don’t like the smell of the oil.” But in fact, I didn’t want to be touched by the same hands that had touched his nephew.

The two of them went swimming while I stayed under the umbrella to watch our belongings. The nephew took off his pendant.
Could you look after this for me?
he seemed to say as he placed it in my hand.

Children cried out as they chased after the surf. A lost inner tube was floating out to sea. The sand was washed smooth
by each wave, only to be pocked with footprints again a moment later.