The Pink Hotel

by Patrick Dennis; Dorothy Erskine

  By George, he paid Ludwig to keep him well. Ludwig was a charlatan, a high-priced humbug. “H-h-hhh!” he said. This medical party here looked pretty promising, pret-ty promising. Mr. Browne-Smythe prided himself on his ability to read faces, and he had seen at a glance that the medical party was no fool. Honest as a silver dollar. He’d have a little talk with her, and before you knew it, he’d bring the conversation around. Wouldn’t cost him a penny, and the professional party would probably enjoy talking a little shop.

  “H-h-hhhh!” he said again, hitching his chair. Dr. Pomery looked up.

  “Yessirree,” Mr. Browne-Smythe said. “Old sun feels pretty good, pret-ty good. Your first trip?”

  First and last, first and last. She knew what she knew. “First trip,” she admitted. “Beautiful.” She indicated the sea, the sky, with a hungry gesture.

  “Come every year,” Mr. Browne-Smythe said. “Yessirree. Wouldn’t miss it. Keeps me young. H-h-hhh. Fountain of Youth. Ponce de Leon, you know.” Careful, always careful.

  “My blood pressure,” Mr. Browne-Smythe began. “Try to keep it down.” He nodded in gray complacence of his blood pressure.

  “Clear out,” Dr. Anna said and smiled a little. “Move to China. Nobody knows why; it isn’t racial. Unsalted rice, probably. Transplanted Chinese suffer from hypertension just the—”

  “You don’t say? You don’t say? Very interesting. H-h-h-hhh. V-e-r-y interesting.” Mr. Browne-Smythe made a church and steeple, applied the steeple, considering, to the tip of his nose. Careful, always careful; he didn’t know but he’d try a little rice for luncheon. “Have a funny headache today,” he said, “Right in front. My arms . . .”

  No one wanted free medical advice more than the people who could and did pay for the best. She’d given him his little victory and a slow joke formed, like a bubble, within her. The practice of medicine was usually a vast placebo.

  “Ever try aceta-salicylic acid?” she asked, and shook three aspirins out of a glass phial. “About an hour apart. Drink two glasses of water before and after each tablet. Two glasses,” she emphasized.

  Mr. Browne-Smythe showed his gray teeth in a little gray smile. “Don’t know how to thank you,” he said. China. Rice. Aceta-salicylic acid. Miracle agents that would preserve intact his thin, dry grayness. Careful, always careful. Mr. Browne-Smythe bowed and left abruptly for his rooms and a glass of the proper height and circumference.

  Dr. Pomery permitted herself a brief uncharitableness. The man was an old fool. Well, eight to ten glasses of water should certainly flush his kidneys, offhand she couldn’t think of a better diuretic, and the aspirin would do him no harm. He’d have eaten a soap suppository, she supposed, if she’d called it sodium stearate.

  She’d look in on Cora May in an hour or so, give her her Christmas present, a simulated red alligator bag with ten tens in the bill compartment. The child could have a little vacation too. Dr. Anna pulled her bamboo chair a little apart from the circle of sociable sitters, slept restlessly in the sun.

  The sun that had opened the hibiscus and wakened Dukemer, that stirred the flagella in their culture of warm milk to wriggling life, that glinted in the blue and white waves and caressed old Dr. Pomery as she drowsed at ease in the Pleasaunce, found a small, round imperfection in a window of the service wing and focused genially upon it.

  Cirrus and cumulus advanced and retreated in a thin, blue pas de deux. A white ibis ate some shrimp and then a fiddler crab. Mr. Goodenow smacked his lips noisily and grunted with approval. It was his turn for fruit and for cereal. Purcell shaved disastrously, and the blonde in the white shantung suit pushed a check for $300.00 through the cashier’s wicket and, when Daniels asked her for identification, announced that she had never been so insulted in her life.

  In Centralia, Mary Street bathed her face again in cold water and decided to go downstairs. She’d say she had a cold.

  The sun concentrated its rays through a bubble of cheap glass and heated the rim of a celluloid mirror in a barrel of loose trash.

  A rat was a gray streak between garbage cans. One of the dishwashers was drunk, one was sick and one was sensitive. The Old Man sulked in his gold and white suite meditating ingratitude, and planning Personal Touches for the Future.

  At the Colony in Palm Beach, Mr. Mather munched a bismuth tablet and listened to Violetta practicing scales, and to Violet, The Greeks were right. Not to be born is better.

  Cloud banks shifted ponderously in the bright violence of the day. The radiant heat and energy at the point of concentration increased. There was a cracking noise, and a little blue tongue of flame ran rapidly around the celluloid mirror.

  The Bar

  “. . . Let nothing you dismay,” but Purcell was dismayed, nevertheless. He had a dull feeling of hopeless hangover. His mouth tasted like a dirty wool sock. He’d even gone back to the Baldwins’ last night after closing, like a damned fool, not that there had been anybody home. Mary, baby. My lovely girl. He shuddered briefly and entered the bar. Phil was piling dirty glasses onto a big room-service tray. “The usual, boss?” he asked. Purcell nodded.

  The windows were open, but there was a stale reek of spirits and lemon peel, a heavy flavor of tobacco in the polished wood of the bar. A lone female figure draped over a bar stool resolved itself, after a bit, into Dukemer. “Good morning, Mr. Legree,” she said. “Do you want me to quit now, or would you rather fire me?”

  His eyes focused painfully. Mary, Mary, Mary. “Aren’t you supposed to be on duty, kid?” he asked.

  “That’s a very embarrassing question,” Dukemer said,

  “She don’t feel so good,” Phil added apologetically.

  My love is like a red, red rose. I mustn’t cry. Antidisestablishmentarianism is the longest word in the English language. “I’m all right,” she said. “A Touch of Cashier’s Colic, maybe,”

  “She works too hard. For a woman, it ain’t right. People?” Phil said darkly.

  Dukemer looked into her glass. “I don’t do it for my mental health, exactly.”

  “Never learned to like it myself,” Purcell admitted. “This working for a living is no good. What about you, Phil?”

  “You kiddin, boss? Know what I’d like to do? Raise chickens. S-ay. You take a Black Minorkey. . .”

  Dukemer lifted her hand to her nose and left abruptly for the Powder Room.

  “A good kid,” Phil said. “Regular. She come in right after I open up. She has this nosebleed, see? Talks sort of funny, too,” Phil continued. “The Old Man, he’d fire her in a minute if he saw her. I can’t do nothing with her.”

  “She’s a good kid, all right,” Purcell assented, “but that never got a dame anywhere.”

  “Pardon my maiden vapors,” Dukemer said returning, wiping her nose and sliding her glass across the bar. “A little more simple syrup, please. I’m not having a very good time.”

  Purcell laid a light hand on her shoulder. “Look, sweetheart, why don’t you go home like a good girl? The Old Man sees you, he’ll make me fire you. You know I don’t want to do that.”

  “So he’ll fire me.” Dukemer shrugged a little. “I. . .” she began, and her voice broke and mended. “I can’t take the cage today.”

  “Sure,” Purcell said earnestly. “Sure. I don’t blame you. Everybody’s entitled to a day off sometime. You don’t feel good. But choose up sides and go to bed or, you want to get swacked, go do it someplace else. Anywhere else. It isn’t healthy. Try Boca Raton or Hollywood Beach. Don’t do it here, kid. The Little Father wouldn’t like it.”

  Dukemer clasped and unclasped her hands nervously. Laughed. I mustn’t cry. “Look who’s being a good guy,” she said at length. “That’s quite a Big Brother Act you’ve got there, Jack Dalton. What do you want that I’ve got?”

  “We’re friends.” Purcell flushed uncomfortably. “You’re okay. Maybe I like you. Don’t put me in a spot,” he begged.

  “A fine friend,” Dukemer said slowly. “A fine friend. I do not like yo
u, Doctor Fell. Look at little Street—another friend of yours. You did the dirty on her,” she pointed out.

  “Yes,” Purcell admitted. “I did. How do you know?” he asked abruptly. “Did she tell you?”

  “I figured it,” Dukemer said. “You always get what you want, don’t you? It’s too bad Mary doesn’t have any money, you might even want to marry her, you being such good friends and all.”

  “Friends, hell,” Purcell exploded. “Do you know where she is?”

  Dukemer wiped her mouth, nodded and patted her purse. “You ought to be ashamed. Stick to Countess Alexandroff. She’ll make you a lovely friend.”

  “Look,” Purcell said excitedly. “Look! Do you honestly know where she is? I’ve got to square myself. She—she means a lot to me. I’m a no-good bastard, just like you say, but I’m crazy about my Mary. She won’t have anything to do with me.”

  “Now, he’s crazy about her!” Dukemer said bitterly. “Another drink and he’ll want to settle down and raise a family.”

  “How can I marry her when I don’t even know where she is?” Purcell asked reasonably. “Stop talking like Beatrice Fairfax. I don’t like myself very well either. You know so much, where is she? I’ve been going nuts trying to find her.” Purcell pursed his mouth with hungry abstraction.

  “A-ahh,” Dukemer said with a curled lip. “A-ahh. Is that the way it is? Why didn’t you say so? You want to know? You really want to know? Right about now, our little Mary is probably at, let’s see, she said producing an envelope. “Two-four-one-three Pleasant Heights Place, Centralia, Illinois, that’s where.”

  Purcell’s face fell. 2413 Llama Place, Tibet, Tibet, “That’s one hell of a long way from here.”

  “Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone,” she pointed out, “and ten to one, the Centralia operator has a crisscross. But you don’t really care. You’re all alike.”

  “Say, I could call her at that. Phil!” he shouted suddenly. “Give me a dollar’s worth of silver.”

  “You crazy or somethin?” Phil asked. “That thing eats quarters, boss. You got a finnif?” He put his hand in his pocket. “If you’re a little short, I—”

  Purcell grabbed his change and pounded to the pay station.

  Phone Booth

  “Hello, operator. Give me long distance. . . . Long Distance? I want to call Centralia, Illinois. Yes, Centralia. C-e-n-t-r-a-l-i-a. See if you have a phone listed for 2413 Pleasant Heights Place Street,” he said. “The name is Street. No, not Pleasant Heights Street. Pleasant Heights Place. Street is their name. They live there.”

  The connection wasn’t very good. Purcell could just hear a dim, distant conversation overflowing with the banalities of the long-distance holiday call. Someone was asking how someone named Hortense was and then someone else said that Hortense was great, just great, but that little Ella got whooping cough for Christmas. It sounded like a queer present, Purcell thought foolishly. Then the operator said, “I’m ringuingggggg,” and ring she did.

  “H-hello?” Mary’s voice came faintly to him.

  “Mary? Mary, baby, it’s Dave.”

  “Dave!” she said. And then she said, “I’m sorry but I don’t want to—”

  “Mary, baby, why did you do this to me?”

  “W-why did I do what to you?” she said with a tinge of bitterness.

  “Go away without a word. You didn’t even answer my note. I don’t write notes like that every day. In fact, it was my first.”

  “Note?”

  “The note I left on your desk, the day you went to Palm Beach. My God, do you realize I haven’t seen you since?”

  “What note are you talking about, David? I didn’t get any—”

  “The note I left on your typewriter. It was before you came in. Only the Old Man was. . . Why, that dirty, lowdown—”

  “David! David, are you still there? Are you drunk?”

  “No. But I wish I were.”

  “I don’t know anything about a note. I only know that Mr. Wenton said that you were all set to marry that horrid Countess Alexandroff and I—”

  “That son-of-a-bitch,” Purcell said quietly. “Listen, Mary, I’ve been going out of my mind on account of you. I—”

  “I—I’ve been having a pretty bad time of it, too, David. I came home because—”

  “Mary, listen to me baby, I want you to marry me. Now. Right away. I even gave it to you in writing. I—”

  “David,” she said, “are you sure you’re not—that you haven’t been drinking?”

  “I never meant anything more in my life. I want to marry you. Right away, if you’ll have me.”

  “Oh, David! I will! Of course. Yes. I—”

  “Listen, baby, I don’t believe in long engagements. You scared me too much this time. I’m coming up there today. I’ll take the next plane out. Meet me at the Midway Airport in Chicago. We’ll get married right away.”

  “B-but will Mr. Wenton l-let you just take off like—”

  “Mr. Wenton isn’t going to have anything to say about this. In fact I’m going to have some things to say to Mr. Wenton. I’m going up there and—”

  “Oh, David!”

  “Hey, don’t start crying, baby. Please don’t cry. This is it. This is the happy ending. You meet me in Chicago, we get married just as fast as we can. We live happily ever after, Repeat after me: Meet in Chicago. Midway Airport. Get Married. Merry Christmas.”

  “M-meet in Chicago. Midway Airport. Get Married. Merry Christmas. Sincerely, Art Wenton. Oh, David, yes!”

  “Your thu-ree min-nits are up. Kindly insert—”

  “No use wasting time on idle chit-chat, darling. I’ll see you in Chicago and I love you.”

  “Oh, David, and I love you, too.”

  “You’re so sweet, baby. My little wife.”

  “David.”

  “If you wish to continue your conversayshin kinely insert—”

  “Bye, baby. I’ll see you in Chicago.”

  Phil and Dukemer exchanged raised eyebrows. With his hand over his mouth Phil made convulsive motions indicative of nausea. “Ain’t he a kick?”

  “I’m not laughing,” Dukemer answered. She coughed.

  “Hod’ja catch such a cold, Tootsie?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.” Dukemer shrugged.

  Purcell bounded into the bar. “I’ve done it,” he crowed. “Release the doves, scatter the petals. David Underdown Purcell is off to wife it pronto in Centralia!”

  Dukemer took off her black glasses, stared bluely at him and then put the glasses back on. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  “You won’t see it, Dukemer. A simple ceremony in the Chicago City Hall, the Centralia Odd Fellows Lodge. I don’t know when or where, but as soon as possible. Mary said Yes!”

  “Gee, that’s nice,” Dukemer said, draining her drink. I mustn’t cry. I mustn’t cry. “I hope you’ll stop being such a bastard. Little Street deserves something better.”

  “I’ll try, Dukemer. Scout’s Honor I’ll try. Goodbye, kid,” he said, planting a big smooch on Dukemer’s cheek.

  “Sure you will,” Dukemer said and she had a hunch he’d succeed. “Good luck,” she quavered after him. “You’ll probably need it.” Dukemer blew her nose. “Well, I guess somebody’s got to be happy.”

  Cruel physalia lashing the water, Portuguese Men of War inflated their blue pneumatophores. Chiang vaulted an area-way silently, and, as silently, L. Harvey Crull, Jr. prowled halls and service stairways. Are you ready? Scorpionida Arachnida, that excellent parent, fixed five moist eyes on the shrimp-pink sole of Mrs. E. J. Westbury’s foot and adjusted his telson.

  Gracia Mellott swallowed with dry distaste and scratched her stomach petulantly. “He!” she called hopefully. “He! Come to he mudder,” she said.

  Dawn Tribbie had a new, well, bump on her chin and T. J. Sturt, III shuddered in the grip of Korsakoff’s Psychosis. Furman exposed all of her splendid teeth and wished late-risers a cute, little old “Merry Chr
istmas, you y-hear?”

  “He’s a nice kid, that Roger,” Bill McCannon admitted, “but hell, why didn’t you wait for me?” “You talk too much,” Ann said lazily, and shut his mouth pleasantly with hers.

  The crumpled paper towels and waste cotton in the trash barrel ignited easily. There was a flare of old newspapers and cardboard boxes.

  Executive Suite

  Purcell stopped off at the Hall Porter’s desk, tossed the man a five. “Get me a seat on the next plane to Chicago. It’s urgent. I don’t care if they throw the President’s golf bag off. It’s urgent.”

  “Easy, Mr. Purcell. Christmas Day an’ all that. There’s the noon plane from Miami or the—”

  “That’s it. Noon. Noon, moon, June, spoon and take it out of my severance pay.”

  Purcell got into the elevator and said “Two.”

  Purcell was still grinning as he rode up in the elevator. Happy days. Happy days and ah, the nights. What I’ll do to her, he told himself. There was a girl who’d always come down smiling to breakfast. But Phil was right; the Old Man wasn’t going to like hearing about the birds and bees and flowers. The Old Man preferred something a little more complicated. His own awkward vice, and Von Krafft-Ebing for light reading.

  Oh well. He knocked on the white paneled door of the Executive Suite. A scrap of nursery rhyme floated foolishly through his head. “Over the hills and a long way off—And the wind will blow my topknot off.”

  The Executive Suite was dark and cool. “Merry Christmas,” Purcell said. “The head better today?” I wish you were in hell.

  “Same to you,” the Old Man answered languidly from the depths of his chaise longue. Good-looking chap, Dave. Fine nose. Good shoulders. He adjusted a dashing black patch over his bad eye and was lost in Executive Thought. “How’s the house count?” he asked automatically.

  “The house count’s down, the season’s off and the weather’s unusual,” Purcell said. “It always is.”