Hotel Iris (5 page)

I was afraid to disappoint him. He had approached me so timidly, with such caution, that I feared what would happen if I didn’t turn out to be exactly what he was hoping for.

I managed at last to get the lipstick right. Then I put on my stockings and my hat and checked one more time to be sure my dress was properly fastened. Someone else was headed for the exact same spot, on the same day, at the same hour. It was an insignificant point, but it made me happy.

Mother and the maid were cleaning rooms on the third floor. I called good-bye to them, ran across the courtyard to
the kitchen door, and kept running until I reached the flower clock in the plaza.

“So my letter reached you safely?” the translator asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“I was terribly worried that it would be intercepted or go astray before you got a chance to read it.” He reached over and tilted back the brim of my hat just a bit, as if to get a better look at my face, and the bright summer sun made me squint. Behind us, the boy was playing his accordion.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. I nodded, though I had no idea whether I was or not. I took him in with my eyes and ears and skin, studying him, and I had no interest in my stomach.

We walked along the shore road toward the restaurant. Beach umbrellas had been planted in the sand. The seawall was exposed, and people were picking their way among the rocks. The street was crowded with tourists who had come up from the beach for lunch. They had thrown on T-shirts over wet, sandy bathing suits, and some were clutching inner tubes. We walked closer together to avoid being separated.

The translator was wearing a wool suit and the same tie as before. Tiny pearls decorated his cuff links and the matching tiepin.

“I’ve never eaten in a real restaurant,” I told him. “Much less such a fancy one.”

“There’s nothing to be nervous about. Just order whatever you like.”

“Do you go often?”

“No, not really. Only when my nephew comes to visit.”

“You have a nephew?”

“He’s the son of my late wife’s younger sister. He’s a few years older than you.” I was surprised to learn that he had a family, but the words “late wife” struck me most.

“The wall is completely exposed today,” he said. Then he pointed out at the sea. Its color was most beautiful at this time of year, the pale blue at the shore deepening gradually out in the open water, set off by the occasional flash of white from a sail or the wake of a ship. The sun bathed the seawall right to its base, glistening on the crust of shells and seaweed, still damp from the retreating tide. I followed his gaze out to sea, finding no place for a “late wife” in a scene like this.

At the restaurant, the doorman smiled and bowed politely, and we were just about to enter when someone spoke up behind us.

“Well, this is a nice surprise!” The voice was familiar. “How are you? I never got a chance to thank you for the other night.” The tone was high and sweet, but there was a subtle note of confrontation. The translator put his arm around my shoulders and tried to pass inside without acknowledging the woman. “Now don’t pretend you don’t remember me,” she said, winking significantly at a second woman who had come up with her. “That’s too cruel.”

Their faces were round and without makeup; their ratty hair was tied up in back. They wore very short skirts, and their feet were bare. I realized that the one who had spoken was the woman who had been at the Iris that night.

“You’re a very funny man,” she cackled. “Acting all proper. You were happy enough that night with your tongue up my ass!” People passing in the street turned to look, and the customers in the windows of the restaurant stared at us. The smile had faded from the doorman’s face. I turned away and clung to the translator’s arm.

He sighed so softly that no one else could hear. Then he looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard her, slipped his arm behind my back, and pushed through the glass door.

“So you’re on to little girls now?” she called after us, refusing to give up. “What are you planning to do with her? Young lady! You’d better watch out!” I tried to press deeper into his chest to shut out her voice.

The maître d’ greeted us just inside the door. He seemed confused by the women who had practically followed us into the restaurant, but he tried to observe the usual formalities. The translator gave his name. Outside the window, the woman yelled one last insult and stalked away. But her presence lingered around us like a mist.

The maître d’ took a long time studying the leather-bound reservations book. His eyes ran from the top of the page to the bottom and back to the top again, and from time to time he stole a glance in our direction. I was feeling more and more
uneasy, and I suddenly felt too poorly dressed for the restaurant. I hid my little purse behind my back.

At last the man looked up. “I’m terribly sorry,” he began cautiously. “We have no reservation in that name.”

“But you must be mistaken,” the translator protested. “Could you check again?”

“But I have checked.”

“I called five days ago: party of two, July eighth at twelve thirty, a table with a view of the sea.”

“I’m afraid there must have been some sort of misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“But we’re here now. You must be able to do something.”

“Unfortunately, we’re completely booked.”

A drop of sweat appeared on the translator’s forehead and traced a line down his temple. His lips were dry, and the hand on my back was cold. The maître d’ bowed, but his expression seemed more annoyed than apologetic.

“I want you to get the person who takes your reservations, and we’ll clear this up. You can’t just pretend I never called. I remember the voice, and every word that was said, down to the last syllable. I want to talk to the person who answers the phone. Or would you rather just show me that book? What would you do if I found my name there in the column for twelve thirty?”

A man who seemed to be the manager appeared from the
back with one of the waiters. Every eye in the restaurant was watching us now. I was frightened more than ever before, and I froze, feeling that something awful would happen if I moved any part of my body.

“How can I help you?” the new man said.

“You can stop insulting us!” the translator shouted. His hand shot out from behind my back and grabbed the reservations book, throwing it violently to the floor. We all stood staring down at the book. The translator was gasping, his empty hand dangling at his side. He seemed to be trying to expel something—not so much his anger as some deep distress. It was as if a tiny crack had opened somewhere in him and was growing, tearing him to pieces. If he had simply been angry, I might have found a way to calm him, but I had no idea how to put him back together once he came apart.

“Please!” I said at last. “We don’t have to eat here. Who cares whether there was a reservation or not? Let’s go. Please don’t make it worse.” I clung to him, tears in my eyes. I thought about the sound of the translator’s voice as he’d said “Stop insulting us!” It was the voice that had overwhelmed me that night at the Iris. A blade of clear light cutting through the confusion.

I was confused and afraid, and yet somewhere deep inside I was praying that voice would someday give me an order, too.

We had been turned away, and though the color of the sea and the brilliance of the sun hadn’t changed, there was no
way to regain the excitement we’d felt before the restaurant. It was as though we had suddenly fallen into a cold, dark cave.

“I’m sorry,” the translator said. He seemed to have recovered quickly from the embarrassment. The sweat on his brow had dried, and his arm was once again wrapped around my back.

“You mustn’t apologize,” I said. But my tears would not stop. The woman’s insults, the way we had been treated at the restaurant, the sudden change that had come over the translator—and the discovery of my secret desire—were all too much for me.

“I’m sorry you had to see that. I had no idea we’d run into her.”

“Please don’t apologize.”

“Then at least let me wipe away these tears,” he said, taking a perfectly pressed handkerchief from his pocket and touching it to my cheek.

“It was just an unfortunate mishap, and that’s not why I’m crying.” His scent on the handkerchief made me cry all the harder.

No one had said a word as we left the restaurant. The patrons had cast only quick looks of contempt our way, then returned to their meals and conversations as though nothing had happened. The maître d’ retrieved the reservations book from the floor and wiped its cover. The doorman held the door open for us as we left.

We walked until the restaurant was out of sight and then
sat on the concrete breakwater, waiting for my tears to subside. The sky was cloudless and the sun burned bright. A breeze tugged at the hem of my dress. From time to time, the translator peered sheepishly under the brim of my hat. He patted my back and refolded his handkerchief and brushed the sand from my shoes to pass the time.

A beach ball sailed over the breakwater and rolled at our feet. A small boy, his face smeared with ice cream, was eyeing us dubiously. Some young people in wet suits left a damp trail as they made their way down the street, and the horn of the excursion boat sounded as it pulled away from the wharf.

“What would you like to do now?” the translator said. I took a deep breath and waited for the last tears to dry.

“I’m hungry,” I confessed. Before the restaurant, I’d been too unsettled to eat, but now, after all that had happened, I found myself famished.

“Of course you are! It’s past one o’clock. We’ll find something delicious—there are plenty of other restaurants. So, tell me, what would you like?”

“That,” I said, pointing at the shabby pizza stand directly in front of me.

“But there are much better places. I know a very good restaurant right near here.”

“No, this is fine,” I said, my finger still pointing at the stand. I had an overwhelming desire to eat greasy pizza, to stuff myself to bursting, and this seemed like the right place for the two of us.

We stood at one end of the counter, eating pizza and sipping
Cokes. The translator nibbled the end of his slice, his head cocked to the side in deep thought. When the least bit of grease touched his hand, he wiped it with a paper napkin, which he would then ball up and toss in the ashtray. From time to time he looked up as if about to say something, but he would take another sip of cola instead. I ate slice after slice in silence, my toes throbbing in my secondhand shoes.

The wooden counter, sticky with oil and tomato sauce and Tabasco, was even more scratched and worn down than the front desk at the Iris. A cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the shadows under the awning, and a surly waiter shuffled among the rickety tables. Tiny roaches skittered over the condiments.

Melted cheese stuck to my teeth, and the mushrooms burned my mouth. The lipstick I had applied so carefully that morning was completely gone.

F O U R

We stepped ashore from the excursion boat and walked along the coast road, away from the tourists headed for the diving shop. At the very end was a small cove, on the shore of which stood the translator’s house.

It was a modest structure with a green roof. The lawn was neatly trimmed and the deck freshly painted. White lace curtains hung in the windows, but here and there were signs of decay on the house. The walls and doors and window frames were deeply scarred from long years in the salt air. Concrete stairs encrusted with shells led up to the front door.

“Watch your step,” he said, taking my hand as I climbed them. The pain in my toes, forced into the leather shoes, was almost unbearable. But it was not real pain.

“What a beautiful room,” I said as I sat down on the
couch. But I didn’t mean it. The moment I had walked through the door, something had oppressed me.

“Thank you,” he said, apparently genuinely pleased. The gloomy expression he had worn since the restaurant faded at last, and he smiled pleasantly, perhaps considering when to give his first order.

The room served as both parlor and office. One wall was covered with bookshelves. Through a door, I could see a smaller room with a dresser and a bed. The kitchen was also visible through a sliding door that had been left open. The utensils and appliances were old but neat and clean.

There were no decorations to be seen, no pictures or vases or art on the walls. Only things that could be put to use. But the translator had brought to the house a rigid sense of order unlike anything I’d seen before. The spines of the books on the shelves were perfectly aligned, the gas heater was polished to a bright shine, and every wrinkle had been smoothed from the cover on the bed. The room was stuffy, not cozy, and it made me feel I should return the cushion I had propped on my knees to its original place on the couch.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked, hurrying off to the kitchen. When he reappeared, the teapot, cups, kettle, and creamer were arranged on a tray with the same care as the room itself.

I watched as he warmed the cups, measured the tea, and filled the pot with boiling water. Then he covered the pot and waited. He added milk to each cup, uncovered the pot,
and held it high above the cups to pour. The long stream of tea frothed into the milk. Removing the lid from the sugar bowl, he finished his little ritual by giving the cup a half-turn in my direction.