“Sorry.” Yamane fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and an expensive-looking gold lighter. He tapped out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. Rory stepped forward. He took the lighter out of Yamane’s hand, which trembled very slightly as he relinquished it.
“Please allow me.” Rory reached out and removed the cigarette from Yamane’s lips, threw it on the ground, and crushed it under his foot. “Those things will kill you dead.”
“Are you insane?” Yamane seemed shocked. He tried unsuccessfully to retrieve his lighter.
“Now, how can I stand by and watch you kill yourself?” Rory drawled.
“You remind me of a dog I once had as a very small child. I used to twist its ears until it howled in pain, and still it came running whenever I called it.”
Rory frowned. “Well, to my mind, that does nothing to recommend either you or the dog.” He held the lighter out. Yamane took it but merely put it in his pocket with his cigarettes.
“Are you always like this?” Yamane asked. “Like a radio tower, broadcasting everything you think on your face as clearly as if it were written there?”
“Probably.”
“You’re very simple.”
“But enough about me -- what do you think of me?” Rory leaned against the wall, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. He closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, Yamane was staring at him with something like…interest.
“Why did you really come here?” Yamane asked. “I want the unvarnished truth.”
“To find someone I thought…” Rory remained silent for a minute. “Someone I thought I loved.”
“Give me your arm, please.” Yamane uncapped his marker.
“Why?” Rory did as he was told.
“Blind faith should be rewarded, and outright stupidity should be eradicated. I haven’t decided which we have here, yet.” He wrote something on the interior of Rory’s forearm.
“What is that?” Rory asked when he saw the numbers on his arm.
“That’s the number of my room at the Hyatt. I’ll be in and out at events all evening and into the early morning. If you wish, you may rest there since you have nowhere to stay. I’ll let the hotel know I have a guest. Ask for a key at the desk.”
“That’s very kind of you, but --”
“Do you have a cell phone?”
“No, sir, I do not.”
“Hm,” murmured Yamane. “I see. Then if you are a complete fool, I’ll probably never see you again.” He knocked on the door of the convention center and the security guard let him in. When Rory made to follow him back inside, the guard closed the door in his face.
“Well, now,” he said aloud, picking up the paper and filter part of the cigarette he’d crushed, watching its loose tobacco blowing lazily around on the ground. “That was unexpected.”
2
Yamane shook the tension out of his hand on the way back to his hotel. The Hyatt Regency was within easy walking distance to any part of the Expo, plus, due to the pedestrian walkway, it was a quick step to some fine dining establishments on the water. He reached the lobby of the hotel and pulled open its massive glass door. Yamane ignored the many stares he drew as he walked to the registration desk.
“Ran Yamane, three twenty-four,” he said. “Any messages?” He knew there would be none, unless that boy… He wondered again why he had done such a thing. Really, writing on a man’s arm like that.
“No, sir,” said the clerk. “Are you expecting something in particular?”
“No,” he admitted. “I just invited an old friend to stop by and visit. Could you please make sure he gets the key to my room if he should come while I’m out?” He cursed himself for flushing as he said this. The clerk was looking at him speculatively.
“Certainly, sir, I’ll add him as a guest of your room, if you’d care to give me his name.”
Yamane fished through his memory, faulty for names at the best of times. What was the boy’s damned name? “Laurie.” He came up with it at last.
“Yes, sir.” The clerk began typing.
“Give him a key if he asks for it. I don’t actually know if he’ll really come…” The clerk looked up at him again, eyebrows raised. “He just mentioned that he might.”
“I see. Fine then, that’s all taken care of. Now, is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Um, actually…” Yamane pictured the younger man. “Could you please send a basket of fruit up to the room? Maybe with a big note that says ‘for Laurie’ or something so he knows he can eat it? I don’t think he’s eaten yet, and I won’t get out until late.”
The clerk continued typing without looking up again. “Certainly, sir, I’d be happy to call the kitchen. That’s a very thoughtful thing. I’ll write the note myself.”
“Thank you again,” said Yamane. “No trouble at all, sir, really.”
Yamane left the hotel and looked around. That was strange, he thought, even for me. He wasn’t unused to one-night stands. Of those he’d had plenty. He simply never took in strays, which is how he thought about his admirer. He kept hearing those words, “Please allow me,” in his head. He’d found something very compelling in that voice.
What kind of a person just packs up and goes on a cross-country odyssey to meet an artist whose work he admires? It was crazy.
Crazier still, he knew, was inviting that person to take refuge in your hotel room.
Yamane knew he was taking a tremendous chance; he’d been terribly mistaken about people in the past, and it had cost him. He simply didn’t want to be wrong about this…Laurie. He couldn’t abandon hope that Laurie was everything he seemed.
He passed some people who were dressed like Princess Celendrianna and her royal court and eating soft serve ice cream, and smiled to himself. Aside from his art, so little in his life was pure. He couldn’t bear to be wrong about this.
Rory was in a desperate quandary. He was tired, his whole body ached, he was hungry, and he was completely out of cash. He needed a shower and a place to change. He stood indecisively by his car. He had a small pilot case with his clothes in it. There wasn’t much; he wasn’t a slave to fashion. He had a couple of pairs of jeans, a couple of T-shirts, socks, underwear, and two nicer button-down-style shirts. He didn’t expect to attend church while he was here. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. If he took his pilot case and went to the hotel where Ran Yamane was staying, he’d feel embarrassed. Like he was some white trash relative come to call.
Yet today his options were limited. Furthermore, since the hurricane, he found he liked the taste of pride less and less. Rory knew enough to take what kindness was offered him. He picked up his case and wheeled it the long distance to the Hyatt Regency Hotel.
At first glance, the huge lobby bustled with so much activity that Rory, whose eyes were adjusting to the soft light, had trouble locating the main registration desk. He waited patiently in line to talk to a clerk. When it was his turn, he stepped forward.
“May I help you?” the clerk asked him.
“Yes, I was told by a guest, Ran Yamane, that he would have a key waiting for me at the desk, for room” -- embarrassed, he looked at his arm -- “three twenty-four. I forgot the number; room three twenty-four.”
The clerk didn’t bat an eye, as if he had people coming in all the time with room numbers written on their arms. “Your name?” he asked.
“Rory Delaplaines.”
“Hm,” said the clerk. “I must have mistyped this. It says Laurie here. Let me get that for you, sir.”
“Then Ran Yamane did mention me? I was afraid…”
“Yes, he came by specifically to request that we prepare you a key,” said the clerk.
Rory reddened. “I see.” He smiled at the clerk. “He’s nice, isn’t he?” he said stupidly, regretting it the instant it left his mouth.
“Yes, he is.” The clerk slid a key card to him across the huge granite desk. “And I have a note here that he most expressly wished
for you to enjoy a fruit basket he sent to the room. Enjoy your stay, sir.”
“Thank you.” Rory didn’t quite believe his good fortune. “You’re sure it means me there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ah. Well…thank you.” Rory wheeled his little pilot case toward a bank of elevators and pressed the Up button. Once inside, he allowed himself to speculate. The desk clerk was no doubt having a field day laughing at him. Furthermore, a number of different interpretations could be placed on his presence here. He began to seriously wonder what Ran Yamane had been thinking when the elevator doors opened. He wheeled his case to the room, and used his key card to unlock the door.
Of all the things he might have felt on entering Ran Yamane’s private quarters, the last thing he thought he’d experience was the vague general impression that he was criminally insane. No matter how many times he kept repeating to himself that he had been invited, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just wrong.
Walking carefully into the room, Rory found it to be neat, although it was apparent at once it was a room for smokers. It smelled like the ashtrays of a thousand dirty southern bars had been dumped there. All the occupant’s belongings were neatly stored, hardly visible in the room. A pair of slippers at the door indicated that Yamane practiced the custom of taking off his shoes when he entered, so Rory did the same, noting -- and almost laughing at -- the difference in the size of their feet. A deeply embedded southern politeness held him back from making himself at home, but he fought it, noticing the fruit basket on the table and its large note that said, For Laurie.
Rory certainly knew how Alice in Wonderland felt when she read the note on the cookie that said eat me. His hunger dictating to him, he tossed caution to the wind and removed an apple, taking a bite without even washing it in the sink. He closed his eyes tiredly and sighed. No larger or smaller, Rory eventually took his pilot case to the corner of the room by the window and sat down on the floor. After a while, using his messenger bag as a place to rest his head, he drifted off where he lay, the half-eaten apple forgotten in his hand.
When Ran Yamane came into the hotel room after his panel discussion on romance in classic manga, he thought -- a little sadly -- that his guest had never showed. Automatically, he removed his shoes without turning on the light and placed his feet in his slippers. When his toe bumped into something large and plaid, he realized that there was an unfamiliar pair of shoes on his hotel room floor. His eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, and he searched the room for any signs of his visitor. Neither of the beds looked occupied, and the bathroom was untouched. His eyes found something out of place in the corner of the room by the window.
There on the floor, curled up with his head pillowed on his messenger bag, was his guest. Yamane went to the sleeping man and noticed that he had a half-eaten apple in his hand. He removed it carefully and threw it away. Going to the spare bed, he retrieved a cover from it. He placed the ugly bedspread over his guest, wondering how old he was. He looked young, perhaps even high school age, while he slept, but Yamane’s memory of him was that of a grown man in his late teens or early twenties.
Cross-legged, Ran sank down next to his sleeping guest, uncertain what to do next. He had previously intended to ask him to eat dinner at one of the restaurants on the waterfront, but was not inclined to wake him up. He sat there for what seemed an eternity of indecision until a raucous crowd walked by the room. His visitor jumped visibly, startled awake.
“What? What are you doing?”
“I was trying to decide whether to wake you up, but a noise outside did it for me. I’m sorry if you were distressed.”
“No. I sleep soundly. How long have you been there?” He sat up.
“Not long,” Yamane prevaricated. “I came back here to ask if you would care to get dinner.” He looked away. This was so strange. It was as if someone else inhabited his normally antisocial body.
“Oh,” said Rory, whose face was burning in the faint light. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have absolutely no cash. It would be better if you asked someone else… Thank you for the fruit; that was very thoughtful.”
“Thoughtful.” Yamane tried out the word. “That’s what the desk clerk said. I’m not normally that kind of person at all.”
“You’ve been kind to me.”
“I know. How odd. Please come with me.”
“Um, okay.” Rory got up and fished through his pilot case for a clean shirt, slightly wrinkled, but better than the one he’d slept in. When he’d changed, he turned to find Yamane watching him. Rory put his hand on Yamane’s arm. “Just so you understand, though. You being a man wasn’t merely a minor disappointment to me personally, it’s a major obstacle romantically speaking, if you know what I mean. I mean, insurmountable. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time or your money making an assumption --”
“Understood.” It was Yamane’s turn to blush. “That said, do you still want to eat with me?”
“I do, Laurie.”
“In that case, may I please have your marker?” Rory held out his hand. Yamane went to the closet and retrieved his Sharpie from the pocket of his long silk coat.
“Here,” he said, handing it over. “Why?”
Rory took Yamane’s hand in his, turned it over, then pushed the sleeve of his shirt up past his forearm. Yamane tried to pull away, but Rory held firm. He took the marker and wrote “Rory Delaplaines” on the skin on the inside of Yamane’s delicate wrist. When he let go, Yamane looked at it for a minute and then asked, “What the hell is that?”
Rory laughed. “It’s my name.”
3
Once they exited the hotel, the two men moved slowly along the pedestrian walkway that took them over busy Shoreline Drive and then descended the circular staircase on the other side. They walked toward the restaurants and shops in companionable silence. Yamane was deep in thought. There was no point in asking himself why he was allowing this man into his life. It was so completely out of character, so perfectly random, that there could be no right answer. He slid a glance in Rory’s direction. Rory Delaplaines. It was a fact; he’d gotten the name wrong from the beginning. How awful must it have been to read the inscription in that book only to find out that the name was wrong?
“Where does the name Rory come from?” he asked finally, breaking the silence.
“It refers to my red hair. It comes from the Irish name Ruaidhri, meaning red king,” said Rory, as if he answered this every day. “What would we do without the Internet?”
“I like it. It suits you. It’s a name for a child or an overeager puppy.”
“That’s the second time you’ve compared me to a dog.”
“Sorry. What I meant to say was Rory is a friendly name.”
“Yes, that’s true. It’s not my real first name, you know.” He turned around and walked backward along the sidewalk, looking back every now and again to make sure there was nothing in his way. “It’s just what I’m called.”
“What is your real first name?” asked Yamane.
“Aren’t you just perishing with curiosity?” teased Rory, spinning back around with his hands in his pockets.
Yamane studied the man walking a few steps ahead. He was currently dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt with his classic French blue button-down over it, untucked. He had a very American look, Yamane thought, like a Kennedy playing football on the lawn at
Hyannis Port in a Life magazine photograph. His hair was a rich auburn red, and he had a smattering of light freckles over his skin, which was surprisingly not fair, but a creamy milk tea color.
The artist in Yamane observed the line of his jaw, the sweep of his cheekbones, and his dark lashes, which made shadows under his eyes when he closed them. There was a teasing airiness to Rory now, Yamane noticed, an unconsciously flirtatious southern charm that was attracting the attention of every woman they passed. Even the way he walked amounted to a kind of swagger that inevitably made people take a second look, and he occupied a grea
t deal more space than he actually physically needed.
“You’re a very large person, aren’t you?” said Yamane casually. “Um, well I guess at six feet two, I am tall.”
At five feet six, Yamane felt dwarfed by him. “But you are an American kind of tall. Larger than your space, if you know what I mean.”
“Freakishly large,” Rory teased.
Yamane rolled his eyes. “You seem to need a large space bubble.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Rory seriously. “But I do know I don’t much care for small places anymore.”
“Really?” said Yamane.
Rory slowed down. “You saw our big hurricane on the news where you lived in Japan, yeah? Katrina?”
Yamane nodded.
“When I realized how bad it was going to be, I went and picked up my grandparents, who live in the boondocks, and brought them to my mom’s house in New Orleans.”
“But, didn’t --” Yamane began.
Rory rolled his eyes. “In retrospect, New Orleans wasn’t a good choice, no. I was living in Baton Rouge, but my mother and stepfather were out of town. It’s a good thing I got my grandparents because their home was destroyed by high winds when the roof ripped off. But then the levee broke. We had to get up to the attic while the water was rising higher and then break through the roof to wait for help. Now I can’t stand small spaces. I’m not too partial to the smell of mold, either.”
Drawn Together Page 2
