We aren’t fucking!
Not yet, said the businessman. But we will.
You may be fucking. But not me. There will be no fucking tonight.
It remains to be seen.
Don’t talk about fucking, said the man. Please. It makes me sad.
That’s odd. Why?
I don’t know, said the man.
But it was true: the talk of fucking had made him sad. The exuberance he had just felt was gone. He looked dejectedly at the unappetizing array of food before him.
You’ve ruined everything, he said to the businessman. He pushed the plate of hard-cooked eggs toward the edge of the bar.
The businessman reached out and stopped the plate from toppling to the floor. Easy now, he said to the man. What’s gone wrong? A moment ago you were gay as a lark.
Stop this gay talk. I’m not gay.
I know. But you were. Gay as a lark.
Quickly, before the businessman could stop him, the man pushed the plate of eggs off the bar and onto the floor. The plate crashed. Lárus, who was standing sentinel in his spot, flinched. He quickly looked down at the mess on the floor but then looked away.
It was quiet for a moment and then the man said, Look what I’ve done. I’m sorry. He stood up and leaned over the bar so that he could see the mess he had made and then sat back on the barstool. I’ve made a mess.
It’s not so bad, said the businessman. But perhaps we should put you to bed, before things get worse.
I’m not a child, said the man.
Lárus disappeared behind the door and reemerged a moment later with a dustpan and brush. He knelt down and swept up the shards of plate and slivers of egg and dumped them into the garbage. Would you like more egg? he asked the man.
No, the man answered. No more eggs. And I’m sorry, Lárus. I’m sorry I acted badly and made a mess. Thank you for cleaning it up.
It’s my job, said Lárus. I only do my job.
You do it very well, said the man. Thank you.
Anyone can do this job.
The businessman stood up. He withdrew his billfold from his jacket, extracted several bills, and placed them upon the bar. I think we should allow Lárus to have an early night, he said. Do you agree? he asked the man.
Yes, said the man.
The businessman steadied the man as he climbed off his barstool. The man started walking toward the door but the businessman said, Wait. We need provisions. He studied the plates of food arranged on the bar top and then put two of the meat sandwiches atop the bowl of ham and potato salad. Follow me, he said to the man. He held the man’s arm with the hand that wasn’t holding the food, and half pushed, half pulled him toward the door. They both paused before the beaded curtain. A little help? the businessman said. I’ve got my hands full.
The man reached out and parted the strands of beads, and the businessman pushed him through the jangling screen into the lobby. The businessman did not release his hold on the man as they crossed the lobby, as if he was afraid the man might suddenly bolt. They climbed the steps to the landing and entered the elevator and stood close together as it ascended. When it stopped the businessman motioned to the man to open the door, and when it was open he pushed the man gently out of the elevator onto the fourth-floor landing.
I’m on five, the man said.
Come with me, the businessman said, and led the man down the hallway. He stopped outside a door, knelt down, and carefully placed the bowl of sandwiches and potato salad on the floor. Then he stood up and unlocked the door. He flung it open and gently pushed the man before him into the room and closed the door behind them. It was completely dark in the room. The two men stood in the darkness. Even though it was completely dark the man closed his eyes. Although there was no sound he wished he could stop up his ears as well, and remove himself as completely as he could from the world. Once, while he was on business in Frankfurt, a colleague had taken him, after a somewhat drunken dinner, to a place where they floated in sensory-deprivation tanks. The tanks were like coffins filled with salt water, each in its own closet-like room; the man was told to strip and lie down in the tank and pull the cover closed above him; in an hour lights would come on inside the tank and he would know it was time to get out. It was the best feeling the man had ever had, floating alone in the darkness. He forgot his body and his mind, which had been racing but gradually quieted itself into a sort of conscious unconsciousness, a waking sleep, where the man somehow had access to the true and free self that emerged only in his dreams. Remembering this experience, the man wanted to lie down on the floor of the businessman’s hotel room, lie down in this perfect darkness and silence and let go. He began to sink to the floor but he felt the businessman reach around him, pull him up, and hold him against the wall. He could feel the businessman’s large belly pressed against his own and smell and feel the businessman’s warm breath touching his face. Although he could not see the businessman’s face, he knew that it was very close, perhaps almost touching his own. And then he felt the businessman’s mouth lightly touching his mouth, and he relaxed his lips slightly against the gentle pressure, and the businessman’s tongue slid into his mouth, fat and warm, and the man opened his mouth wider and felt his own tongue come alive and then felt the businessman take both of his arms and raise them above his head and pin them there against the wall. The businessman pressed his body hard against the man, grinding him into the wall, and the man could feel the businessman’s cock pushing against him, humping his leg, and then pressing hard against his own cock, and still the businessman held the man against the wall with his arms raised above his head, kissing him and bucking into him as if there might be some hole, there in the front of him, he could fill.
When the man woke up he was in the businessman’s bed and the businessman was sitting up against the headboard, smoking a cigarette. A lamp on the end table was turned on but was shrouded with a dark-colored handkerchief, so it glowed dully.
What time is it? he asked.
The businessman leaned over and picked up a little travel clock that sat beside the lamp. It was the kind that folds into its own little leather case. The businessman looked at it and then held it against his ear.
It’s twenty past five, he said.
Why aren’t you sleeping?
I can’t sleep when somebody’s in my bed. I want to fuck too much. Even if I’ve already fucked. And fucked.
The man felt there was something wrong and looked around the room. The bed was backward, he realized: it had been on the opposite wall.
Did you move your bed? he asked the businessman.
No, said the businessman. This is a different room. I change rooms every other day.
Why?
Because there’s nothing more depressing than living in a fucking hotel room. So I change rooms. Although in this hotel every room is a nightmare.
Where do you live?
In hotels.
You have no home?
I have apartments. One in London, and one in Istanbul. You and wifey live in New York?
Yes, said the man.
I can just picture it: lots of family heirlooms. Uncomfortable chairs the pilgrims carted over on the Mayflower. Maybe a few Zuni pots thrown in to spice things up.
Our pots are Oaxacan.
Of course! said the businessman. That’s the ugly black shit, right?
You must be very unhappy.
Why?
Because you have such disdain for everything. Or pretend to. It’s more than a bit tiresome.
Oh, please. Don’t get all faggy and psychological on me.
The man got out of bed. He looked around and saw his clothes on the floor and began putting them on. Where are my underpants?
I don’t know where your fucking underpants are, said the businessman.
The man put on his pants without his underpants. He put on his undershirt and shirt and sweater, an Irish fisherman’s knit sweater his wife’s mother had made for him the year they got married. Eleven years ag
o. It had always been too big for him, and he realized that his mother-in-law had thought he was a larger man, or wished he were, but he liked the sweater even though it did not fit him well. It was warm. He looked around for his coat, but it, like his underpants, had disappeared. He must have left it down in the bar. But not his underpants. He would not have left his underpants in the bar. He turned around and looked at the businessman, who remained sitting up in the bed, smoking. He looked fat and unhappy.
The man took the stairs down to the lobby and entered the bar. It seemed darker than usual in the bar and there was no sign of Lárus, or anyone else. But he saw his coat hanging from one of the pegs on the wall. He put it on because he suddenly felt cold, or eviscerated. He felt in need of an additional layer. He sat on a stool he had never sat on before, as if this might change his luck.
After a moment Lárus appeared. The man realized that of everyone, he loved Lárus the most. Perhaps because he was the one most impossible, most resistant, to love.
Lárus! Oh, Lárus, he said. May I have a schnapps?
Lárus nodded. He pulled the silver stag’s head from the bottle of schnapps and poured some into a glass and placed it before the man.
Thank you, Lárus, the man said.
Lárus nodded and assumed his position against the wall. After a moment, he began to speak. He was looking, as always, through the beaded curtains, and the man assumed he was speaking to someone standing just outside them, in the vast murk of the lobby.
We always hoped the Olympics will come here, Lárus said. We build things so that they will come. This hotel is one thing. But they never come. Since I was a boy they never come. So we build more things. A mountain for ski. A large home for ice. Everyone says if they come we will be happy for a time. And rich, perhaps. But they will never come here. Even if we build everything they want they will not come here.
Lárus stopped speaking, and looked at the man, who nodded. Lárus looked away but continued speaking.
They kill all the dogs one year because they think dogs not good for Olympics. That ugly dog in street keep Olympics away. And the shit of the dogs. But of course it is not the fault of dogs. But still they kill. Anything to get Olympics. In the winter I allow the dogs to be gone. But in the summer, no. There should be dogs in the summer in field and wood and river. Swimming, perhaps, or running. Barking. What you kill like that does not come back. The dogs know, I think. Or else they would come back. Even in summer they would come, along the roads. But they know, I think. We have broken with them. You understand?
Yes, said the man.
Why do I stay? asked Lárus. Would you stay?
No, said the man. I would not stay.
Then you must leave, said Lárus. You must go back.
But I can’t, said the man. No one can.
Because of why?
The Vaalankurkku Bridge, said the man. It has collapsed. Haven’t you heard? Because of all the snow.
There is no bridge at Vaalankurkku.
For the railway. A railroad bridge. For the train.
No, said Lárus. There is no bridge at Vaalankurkku. And bridges do not collapse here. Not from snow. Snow is nothing here.
Livia Pinheiro-Rima told me, said the man. I had lunch with her today. She told me that bridge had collapsed and there was no other way to leave here.
Don’t tell me that you believe in this woman.
Of course I do. Why would she lie about a bridge?
Because she lie about everything. I thought you knew.
Oh. I believed her.
She lie because she wants you to stay here. Everyone wants everyone to stay here. Especially in winter. But you can leave.
So can you, said the man. We can both leave. If we want. We could leave together.
You can leave, said Lárus. I cannot.
Of course you can, said the man. If you want.
Of course I want. But it is not a matter of want.
I don’t understand, said the man. What prevents you from leaving here?
It is my home, said Lárus. My only home.
But lots of people leave their homes. And find new homes. Better homes.
Did you leave your home, and find a better home?
Yes, said the man. In America, almost everyone does that. Home is not where you were born. I mean, perhaps it is, for some people, yes, but not necessarily. Not always. You could find another home, Lárus. Anywhere in the world.
Only in this world? That is the only choice you give me?
When the man got to his room he realized he did not have the key. He remembered it had been given to him, along with the message from Brother Emmanuel, when he returned from the orphanage, but he could not find it in any of his pockets. He realized the key must have fallen out of his pocket in the businessman’s room—they had undressed very hurriedly in the darkness and flung their clothes all about them in an adolescent rush to be naked.
He was not about to go knocking on the businessman’s door, so he went down to the lobby and rang the little bell on the altar of the front desk, but no one came. Everyone was asleep or gone. Or hiding.
He took the elevator up to the fifth floor and marched down the hallway to his room. He tried to open the door, but of course it was locked. He stood back and then jumped forward, lifting his right leg as high as he could and kicking it against the door, just beside the doorknob. The door was hollow and his kick dented it considerably, and the second time he kicked it his foot went through the door but got stuck on the withdrawal and he fell backward onto the hallway floor with his foot hooked through the broken door. The wind was knocked out of him and so he lay on the floor for a moment, his foot still stuck through the door, and then he managed to free it by kicking back and forth and widening the hole. He stood up and reached his hand through the hole and unlocked the deadbolt. He then kicked the door once again and felt a huge, almost transfiguring satisfaction when it obediently swung open. He had never kicked a door open before and the fact that he had done this improbable thing made him feel almost happy. It would have been perfect if he had not gotten his foot stuck and fallen backward in that shameful fashion, but as no one had witnessed it he decided to erase it from the narrative. He had kicked the door open! Or maybe he had even kicked it down! It would be a good story to tell his child someday.
He entered the room and closed the door behind him. He stuck his hand through the hole and then bent down and peered through it, enjoying this view across the hallway at the opposite door. He could also kick that one down if he wanted to. So what if the doors were hollow? That was another fact that could be expunged. It was an old hotel, built like a castle, and the door was thick and solid, the hinges made of iron, and he had kicked it down.
The excitement of kicking down the door had restored his flagging energy—he had planned to collapse on the bed immediately upon entering the room, but that no longer was an option. He wanted to perform another violent act—with his hands this time. Could he punch through the fake brick wall? It was probably as cheaply constructed as the hollow doors, and he imagined the satisfying and exciting sensation as his hand pushed through the fiberglass and particleboard, or whatever other shoddy materials comprised the wall. He looked closely at the wall and realized that it was just begging to be violated. He moved closer and ran his open palm across the faux brick surface, and then drew his hand away, made a fist, and punched it as hard as he could.
After a moment—or perhaps it was longer than a moment, he had no idea—he realized he was once again lying on the floor. The wall, like the door, had thrown him backward. And then he felt that a very large throbbingly painful cabbage had been attached to the end of his arm where his hand once had been. Some prehistoric innate wisdom told him it was best if he did not get up, perhaps ever again, that by lying still on the floor he could accomplish no further violence. He instinctively moved his cabbage hand beneath his body, and pressed down upon it with all his might, and although this was painful it was a more endurable pain than
the other, for it stilled the throbbing, contained it somehow, like one of those heavy lead blankets that deflect X-rays.
FIVE
The man woke to find something disagreeably wet and furry invading his mouth. He was lying facedown upon the floor, with his face mashed into a puddle of drool on the shag carpet. He quickly lifted himself up onto his hands and knees and then rubbed at his mouth with one of his hands, pulling at the moist fibers stuck to his lips. He went into the bathroom and rinsed his mouth out and washed his face and felt much better.
He heard someone knocking on the door and left the bathroom. Halfway across the hotel room he noticed the large hole in the door and he remembered what he had done the night before. Through the hole he could see someone standing in the hallway, and for a moment he had the ridiculous urge to lean down and speak through the opening, but he more sensibly opened the door.
The elderly concierge with the walrus mustache stood in the hallway.
I understand there has been an accident, he said.
Good morning, said the man.
Good morning. There has been an accident?
Where?
The concierge nodded toward the door and then reached out and inserted his hand through the opening. He withdrew it and then reinserted it, moving it back and forth within the opening, as if to prove without a doubt that the hole was real and not a magical illusion.
Oh, the door, said the man. That was not an accident.
It was not?
No, said the man. I lost my key last night and there was no one at the front desk. What else could I have done?
There is always someone attending the front desk. If they are not there, they shall return within minutes. You had only to wait to get your key.
I did wait, said the man. But there was no one there and no sign that anyone might appear. Or reappear. And I needed immediate access to my room.
Immediate? You could not have waited a moment or two? Was your need so urgent?
Yes, said the man. My need was extremely urgent. I needed to sleep. It is, after all, primarily what one comes to a hotel for.
What Happens at Night Page 16
