Hotel Iris (2 page)

I saw the man from Room 202 again two weeks later. It was Sunday, and I was out doing some errands for Mother. The sky was clear and the day so warm I’d begun to sweat. Some kids were on the beach trying to get the first tan of the year.
The tide was out, and the rocks along the coast were exposed all the way to the seawall. Though it was early in the season, a few tourists could be seen on the restaurant terraces and the excursion boat dock. The sea was still chilly, but the sunlight on the seawall and the bustle in town made it clear that summer was not far off.

Our town came to life for just three months each year. It huddled, silent as a stone, from fall through spring. But then it would suddenly yield to the sea’s gentle embrace. The sun shone on the golden beach. The crumbling seawall was exposed at low tide, and hills rising from beyond the cape turned green. The streets were filled with people enjoying their holidays. Parasols opened, fountains frothed, champagne corks popped, and fireworks lit up the night sky. The restaurants, bars, hotels, and excursion boats, the souvenir shops, the marinas—and even our Iris—were dressed up for summer. Though in the case of the Iris, this meant little more than rolling down the awnings on the terrace, turning up the lights in the lobby, and putting out the sign with the high-season rates.

Then, a few months later, the summer would end just as suddenly as it had begun. The wind shifted, the pattern of the waves changed, and all the people returned to places that are completely unknown to me. The discarded foil from an ice cream cone that yesterday had glittered festively by the side of the road overnight would become no more than a piece of trash. But that was three months away; and so, without a care, I went out to do Mother’s shopping.

I recognized the man immediately. He was buying toothpaste at the housewares shop. I hadn’t looked at him carefully that night at the Iris, but there was something familiar about the shape of his body and his hands as he stood under the pale fluorescent light. Next, he seemed to be choosing laundry detergent. He took a long time with the decision, picking up each box, studying the label, and then checking the price. He put a box in his basket, but then he read the label again and returned it to the shelf. His attention seemed completely focused on the soap; in the end, he chose the cheapest brand.

I cannot explain why I decided to follow him that day. I didn’t feel particularly curious about what had happened at the Iris, but those words, his command, had stayed with me.

After leaving the shop, he went to the pharmacy. He handed over what appeared to be a prescription and was given two packets of medicine. Tucking these into his coat pocket, he walked on to the stationer’s, two doors down the street. I leaned against the lamppost and cautiously looked inside. He had apparently brought a fountain pen to be repaired, and there was a long exchange with the shopkeeper. The man dismantled the pen and pointed at one piece after the other, complaining about something. The owner of the store was clearly upset, too, but the man ignored him and went on with his complaints. It occurred to me how much I wanted to hear his voice. Finally, the shopkeeper seemed to agree reluctantly to his demands.

Next, he walked east on the shore road. He wore a suit,
and his tie was neatly knotted, despite the heat. He held himself stiffly and looked straight ahead as he walked, keeping a good pace. The plastic bag containing the laundry detergent dangled at his side, and the packets of medicine made a bulge in his coat pocket. The street was crowded, and from time to time his bag bumped a passerby, but no one noticed or turned to look back. I was the only one who seemed to see him, and that made me all the more intent on my strange little game.

A boy about my age was playing the accordion in front of the giant clock made of flowers in the plaza; perhaps because the instrument was old, or because of the way he played it, the song sounded sad and thin.

The man stopped and listened for a moment, though no one else seemed interested in the boy’s performance. I watched from a short way off. In the background, the hands of the clock turned slowly around the floral face.

The man threw a coin in the accordion case. It made a soft thud. The boy bowed, but the man turned and walked off. Something about the boy’s face reminded me of the statue in our courtyard.

How far was I going to follow him? The only thing that I’d bought on Mother’s list was the toothpaste. I began to worry. Mother would be angry that I was still out when the guests started arriving, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the man’s back.

He reached the excursion boat dock and stepped into the waiting room. Was he planning to take a ride? The room was
crowded with families and young couples. Several times a day, the boat sailed out to an island about a half hour away from the shore, briefly docking at the wharf before returning to the mainland. The next boat wouldn’t be leaving for twenty-five minutes.

“Young lady. Why are you following me?” At first, I didn’t realize he was speaking to me—the room was so noisy and the words so unexpected—but finally I recognized the voice that had shouted at the Iris. “Is there something I can do for you?”

I shook my head quickly, startled to have been caught, but the man seemed even more frightened than I was. He blinked nervously and ran his tongue over his lips. I found it difficult to believe that this was the same man who had uttered that magnificent command at the Iris that night.

“You’re the girl from the hotel, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, not daring to look directly at him.

“You were sitting at the front desk that night. I recognized you right away.”

A group of elementary school children filed into the waiting room, pushing us back against the windows. I wondered uneasily what the man intended to do with me. I’d never planned to speak to him, but now I didn’t know how to get away.

“Did you have something you wanted to say? Perhaps you were going to scold me?”

“Oh no! Not at all …”

“Still, I apologize for the other day. It must have been unpleasant for you.” His tone was polite, quite unlike the
man who had shouted in the lobby of the Iris, and this somehow made me even more nervous.

“Please don’t worry about what my mother said. You were very generous when you paid the bill.”

“But it was a terrible night.”

“That awful rain …”

“Yes, but I mean I’m still not sure how things ended up the way they did. …”

I remembered that I had found a bra wadded up on the landing after they left that night. It was lavender, with gaudy lace, and I had gathered it up like the carcass of a dead animal and tossed it in the trash bin in the kitchen.

The children were running wildly around the waiting room. The sun was still high in the sky, sparkling on the sea outside the window. The island in the distance, as everyone in town seemed to agree, was shaped like a human ear. The excursion boat had just rounded the lobe of the island and was heading back toward us. A gull rested on each post of the pier.

Now that I was standing next to him, the man seemed smaller than I had imagined. He was about my height, but his chest and shoulders were thin and frail. His hair was even more neatly combed now, but I could see a bald spot in back.

We stood quietly for a moment, looking out at the sea. There was nothing else to do. The man grimaced in the bright sunlight, as though he’d felt a sudden pain.

“Are you taking the boat?” I asked at last, suffocated by the silence.

“I am,” he said.

“People who live here don’t usually ride it. I did it only once, when I was little.”

“But I live on the island.”

“I didn’t know anyone actually lived there.”

“There are a few of us. This is how we get home.” There was a diving shop on the island and a sanatarium for employees of a steel company, but I hadn’t known about any houses. The man rolled and twisted his tie as he spoke, creasing the tip. The boat was getting closer, and the children had begun lining up impatiently by the gate. “The other passengers have cameras or fishing poles or snorkels—I’m the only one with a shopping bag.”

“But why would you want to live in such an inconvenient place?”

“I’m comfortable there, and I work at home.”

“What kind of work?”

“I’m a translator—from Russian.”

“Translator … ,” I repeated slowly to myself.

“Does that seem odd?”

“No, it’s just that I’ve never met a translator before.”

“It’s a simple sort of job, really. You sit at a desk all day long, looking up words in a dictionary. And you? Are you in high school?”

“No, I tried it for a few months, but I dropped out.”

“I see. And how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen … ,” he repeated, savoring each syllable.

“There’s something wonderful about taking a boat to get home,” I said.

“I have a small place. It was built a long time ago, a cottage on the far side from where the boat docks. Just about here on the ear,” he said, tilting his head toward me and pointing at his own earlobe. As I bent forward to look at the spot, our bodies nearly touched for a moment. He pulled back immediately, and I looked away. That was the first time I realized that the shape of an ear changes with age. His was no more than a limp sliver of dark flesh.

The excursion boat blew its horn as it pulled up to the dock, scattering the gulls in a cloud. The loudspeaker in the waiting room announced the departure, and someone unhooked the chain at the entrance.

“I have to be going,” the translator muttered.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“Good-bye.” I felt as though we were saying something far more important than a simple farewell.

I could see him from the window as he joined the line of passengers and made his way along the pier. He was short, but there was no mistaking his suit in the crowd of tourists. Suddenly, he turned to look back and I waved to him, though it seemed absurd to be waving to a stranger whose name I didn’t even know. I thought he was about to wave back, but then he thrust his hand in his pocket, as if embarrassed.

The boat blew its horn and pulled away from the dock.

———

Mother was furious when I got home. It was past five o’clock, and I had forgotten to pick up her dress at the dry cleaner’s.

“How could you forget?” she said. “You knew I was planning to wear it to the exhibition tonight.” Someone was ringing the bell at the front desk. “It’s the only dancing dress I have, and I can’t go without it. You know that. The exhibition starts at five thirty. I’ll never make it now. I’ve been waiting all this time. You’ve spoiled everything.”

“I’m sorry, Mama. I met an old woman in town who was feeling ill. She was pale and shaking all over, so I took her to the clinic. I couldn’t just leave her there. … That’s why I’m late.” This was the lie I’d come up with on my way home. The bell rang again, enraging Mother.

“Go get it!” she screamed.

The “exhibition” was nothing more than a humdrum little function where shopkeepers’ wives, cannery workers, and a few retirees could dance. It was a miserable thing, really, and if I had remembered the dress, she would probably have decided that it wasn’t worth the trouble to go.

I have never seen my mother dance. But it makes me a little queasy to imagine her calves shaking, her feet spilling out of her shoes, her makeup running with sweat, a strange man’s hand at her waist. …

Since I was a little girl, Mother has praised my appearance to anyone who would listen. Her favorite customers are the big tippers, but the ones who tell her I’m beautiful run a close second, even when they aren’t particularly sincere.

“Have you ever seen such transparent skin? It’s almost
scary the way you can see right through it. She has the same big, dark eyes and long lashes she did when she was a baby. When I took her out, people were constantly stopping me to tell me how cute she was. And there was even a sculptor who made a statue of her—it won first prize in some show.” Mother has a thousand ways to brag about my looks, but half of them are lies. The sculptor was a pedophile who nearly raped me.

If Mother is so intent on paying me compliments, it might be because she doesn’t really love me very much. In fact, the more she tells me how pretty I am, the uglier I feel. To be honest, I have never once thought of myself as pretty.

She still does my hair every morning. She sits me down at the dressing table and takes hold of my ponytail, forcing me to keep very still. When she starts in with the brush, I can barely stand it, but if I move my head even the least bit, she tightens her grip.

She combs in camellia oil, making sure every hair is lacquered in place. I hate the smell. Sometimes she pins it up with a cheap barrette.

“There,” she says, with deep satisfaction in her voice, “all done.” I feel as though she’s hurt me in a way that will never heal.

I was sent to bed without any dinner that night—the usual punishment since I was little. Nights when my stomach is empty have always seemed darker, but as I lay there I found myself tracing the shape of the man’s back and ear over and over in my mind.

Mother took extra care with my hair the next morning, using more oil than usual. And she made an even bigger fuss about how pretty I am.