The Two Hotel Francforts

by David Leavitt

  We entered a sort of reception room. The curtains were drawn. In the dim light the walls were the color of bruised figs. Dispersed about the room were sofas and chairs upholstered in muddy velvet with bullion fringe, upon which girls and women, some wearing cocktail dresses and some wearing silk slips and one wearing only a pair of silk drawers, lounged in attitudes of display. Most held glasses of what looked like champagne. A few smoked. A few rested their heads on each other’s laps.

  There was an odor of ammonia and licorice. On the gramophone, a fado was being sung.

  Noticing Daisy, two of the girls beckoned her. She went to them without hesitation. The susurrant words they uttered as they caressed her could have been the ones they used with their clients. With their long nails they scratched her nape, pulled at the scruff of her neck. She put her ears back. From a standing position she collapsed into a squat, from the squat into a sprawl, her hind legs spread behind her.

  An elderly woman, stout and even shorter than Julia’s mother, stepped out from the shadows. She wore more jewelry than Madame Fischbein. Standing on tiptoe, she kissed Edward on both cheeks, as the maid had.

  “This is Señora Inés,” Edward said, at which she smiled and held out a hand swollen with rings.

  “Enchanté,” I said, wincing from her grasp: the rings cut into my flesh.

  She had a walleye. The left one. The dilemma of choosing which eye to meet—the moving eye or the still eye—revived the sensation of vertigo.

  “Señora Inés is from Barcelona. All these girls are. She collects les poupées.” He indicated a shelf from which a dozen or so porcelain baby dolls glared at us sinisterly.

  “Ah, oui,” Señora Inés said. “Sont mes petits.”

  “Garçons?”

  “Bien sur, garçons. Ici on a trop de femmes.”

  “Isn’t it remarkable,” Edward said to me under his breath, “the sentimentality into which even the most hardened prostitute will lapse in her dotage?”

  One of the girls—the one wearing only drawers—stood and approached him. She was thirty-five or forty, with visible ribs and the sort of pot belly that gaunt women acquire with age. She touched his shoulder and whispered something in his ear. He laughed. A colleague, younger and plumper, came up to me and folded her arms around my neck. She opened her mouth to show her tongue, very pink and flecked with tiny bubbles.

  I looked to Edward. He was kissing the prostitute in the silk drawers. This confused me. What were we doing here? I wanted to ask. Were we to go off separately, each with a prostitute? Or together, with two prostitutes? Had I misunderstood everything?

  No. He turned to Señora Inés, who uttered some sharp words in Spanish. The girls undraped themselves and returned to their posts.

  “Can’t blame them for trying,” Edward said. “Come on.”

  The maid led us up another staircase, narrower than the first though not as long. It gave onto a vestibule off of which several doors opened. She turned a key in one of these.

  I stepped through. The room was larger than ours at the Francfort, though it had a lower ceiling. A portrait of the Virgin Mary hung over the bed, which was impeccably made, with a frayed silk coverlet. Across from it stood an armoire and a dressing table with a basin and ewer. The lamps had pink shades, fringed and singed.

  After tipping the maid, Edward shut and locked the door. He slipped the key into his breast pocket and let Daisy off her leash. No sooner was she free than she circumambulated the room, stopping only to lick at a stain on the tiled floor.

  “Don’t, Daisy,” Edward said. “It’s probably something vile.” He walked to the window and opened it. “Look.”

  I looked. To our left I could see the ramp of Rua do Alecrim and the staircase bridge. Below us was a drop of several more floors to Rua Nova do Carvalho. “Isn’t it strange?” Edward said. “It’s because the floor on which we entered, though it looks like it, isn’t the ground floor. Rather, it’s the third floor. The ground floor is way below—do you see?—on that street that runs under the bridge—the bridge of Rua do Alecrim.”

  “How did you find this place?”

  “I have my ways.” He drew me away from the window. “Anyway, I hope it will do. Believe me, I racked my brains to think of something better, but given the shortage of hotel rooms—”

  “But when? Where do you find the time?”

  “There are more hours in the day than you might think.” He took off my glasses, which he folded and slipped into his pocket. “Of course, at first she asked a ridiculous price—the price we would have paid for two hours with a girl. I had to haggle her down.” He pulled off my jacket and threw it on the bed. I tried to take his off in kind, but he pushed my hand away and loosened my collar. Again I reached for his jacket. Again he pushed my hand away. He un-knotted my tie and pulled my shirt and undershirt, together, over my head. Then he bent down and unlaced my shoes. Then, when the shoes were off, he pushed me onto the bed, onto my back, undid my belt, and yanked my trousers and shorts down and off in one swift gesture. The bundle of clothes he shoved into the armoire, which he locked, dropping the key into the same pocket that held the room key and my glasses.

  “There,” he said, surveying me. “This is better than the beach. I couldn’t get a good look at you on the beach.” As he spoke, he ran his hands down the length of my chest, along my legs, then up again, to where my erection bobbed. When he squeezed it, I groaned. “Shh!” he said, covering my mouth with one hand while with the other he clutched my testicles, just as hard.

  It was when he reached his hand under my rump that I arched my back and let out the noise—something between a wail and a laugh—that woke Daisy, whose tongue I suddenly felt on my ankle.

  “Quiet!” Edward said. He withdrew his hands and backed away. He looked me up and down, shook his head, and laughed, almost derisively.

  “Perfect,” he said.

  Then he picked up Daisy and her leash, unlocked the door, and left. I could hear him relocking it on the other side. I could hear his footsteps on the stairs.

  I sat up. The only sounds were birdsong and, further in the distance, the gramophone, still playing fados.

  “Edward?” I called. “Edward!”

  No answer. I walked to the window. After a minute or so, I saw two blurry figures, one large and one small, emerge from the front door of the house, descend the staircase bridge, and turn left, toward the river.

  Never had the midday sun burned my eyes like this. It was as if the rays were boring into my head.

  I closed the shutters and the window and drew the curtains. Save for the weak lamplight that leaked under the door, the room was pitch black. I had to feel my way to the bed. The sheets reeked of Dettol and perfume and cigarettes. I pulled them to my chin. I turned on my side and put my arm under my pillow. I tried to stay absolutely still, for if I moved so much as a muscle in my neck, the pain in my head became intolerable.

  Considering the circumstances, I was remarkably calm. It is often like this at moments of crisis. Understanding lags behind experience. The speculative engine takes a few minutes to kick in. Once it does, the very rhythm of its rotors has an oddly soothing effect.

  I laid out the possibilities as Julia did her cards. Perhaps Edward was a spy, and had staged this elaborate deception for purposes of blackmail, to induce me to betray my country. Or perhaps he was a swindler, and when I got my clothes back I would find that my wallet and passport were missing. In either case, Iris was probably in on it with him—which meant this whole business about their being the authors of the novels was a lie. They were not Xavier Legrand. For wasn’t that the mark of a good con man, that he came across as utterly credible? And really, when you thought about it, the thing was very cleverly managed. For how could I go after him, when I was naked in a locked room in a squalid brothel, my clothes stuffed into an armoire the key to which was in his pocket? And not just the key to the armoire but the key to the room? And not just the key to the room but my glasses? Oh, my glasses! An
d to think that if he hadn’t stepped on them at the Suiça, there would never have been a “situation.”

  I shut my eyes. The throb in my head worsened. The Dettol smelled like burning rubber. You can put plugs in your ears to block noise, a mask over your eyes to block light. But what can you do to block a smell? Nonetheless I slept.

  The next sound I heard was a rapping on the door. Female voices were shouting in Spanish. Ordinarily I am a man who is absurdly conscious of time. I have never in my life set an alarm clock. If I have to get up at a certain hour, I get up at that hour. When I awaken in the middle of the night, I always know exactly what time it is.

  Now, though, I had no idea.

  I almost rose—then remembered that, but for my socks, I was naked. On the far side of the door, the voices railed on.

  “Je ne peux pas ouvrir la porte,” I said. “Je n’ai pas la clé.”

  They didn’t understand.

  “I don’t have the key. Je n’ai pas la clé.”

  Whispered consultation. Then silence.

  The next voice was that of Señora Inés.

  “Monsieur, c’est l’heure. Devez sortir.”

  “Je n’ai pas la clé. Monsieur—l’autre Monsieur—a pris la clé. Il est sorti.”

  “N’avez pas la clé?”

  “Je n’ai pas la clé.”

  More consultation. Then footsteps. Then a master key must have been found, for in a moment the door opened. Señora Inés stepped through. She walked straight to the window, opened the curtains and the shutters, then turned to look at me, her arms crossed over her breasts. No doubt the spectacle of a naked man pulling bedcovers to his chest was one with which she was not unfamiliar. And still she wore an expression of unease.

  One eye stared straight at me; the other looked a little to my left, as if to see what was outside the window.

  I said, “Mes vêtements—ils sont dans l’armoire. Je n’ai pas la clé de l’armoire.”

  “N’avez pas la clé de l’armoire?”

  “L’autre monsieur a pris tous les clés, tous les deux.”

  That the key to the armoire was missing apparently posed more of a difficulty than that the key to the door was missing. Señora Inés summoned the maid, who, upon entering the room, burst out laughing. Señora Inés rebuked her and she shut her mouth. Instructions were issued and the maid left. Señora Inés now crossed her arms again and peered at me with her moving eye. Was she also in on Edward’s scheme? It seemed unlikely. From what I could tell, his flight had left her just as perplexed as it had me.

  Eventually the maid returned. She carried half a dozen keys, each of which she tried in the lock on the armoire. The third one did the trick.

  Señora Inés ordered the maid out. She took my clothes from the armoire and laid them on the bed, her attitude ruthlessly solicitous, like that of a nurse. Once the clothes were sorted, she left and shut the door. I got up and dressed. The chair on which I sat to lace my shoes was ridiculously low. To my surprise, both my wallet and my passport were in my jacket pocket, where I had left them.

  Once I was put back together, I stepped out into the vestibule. I could hardly see. I had to feel my way down the stairs into the salon. In silence the prostitutes watched me, to make sure I felt the potency of their contempt.

  Señora Inés stood behind the bar. “Combien?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.

  She shook her head. “Monsieur Edward a déjà payé.”

  “Merci,” I said.

  Now came the most difficult challenge: the stairway. Clutching the railing, I descended like an invalid. No one offered to help me. Then again, no one could have helped me—the stairwell was too narrow for two people to go down it side by side.

  As I neared the door, the light became stronger. I wondered how I would explain to Julia the loss of the second pair of glasses. At least I would not have to tell her I had been robbed of my money and my passport. Or would she welcome that news? For she was shrewd, my Julia. She would quickly calculate that between my having to wire for more money and having to obtain a new passport, we’d miss the sailing of the Manhattan. Why, in my avidity to win her forgiveness, I might even reconsider her wish to stay on in Portugal.

  I had made it to the landing. I opened the door and stepped outside. Much to my surprise, rain was falling. The sky, so brilliantly blue the whole week, was a heavy gray.

  Down the iron staircase I stumbled, onto the sidewalk. Heavy drops fell like birdshot. A blur of human traffic passed. When a space opened, I plunged into it.

  I turned left, in the direction of the river. Edward was walking toward me, with Daisy.

  He smiled. “Glad to see me?” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “Are you glad to see me?”

  I swung out and punched him in the face. He reeled and fell. Daisy barked. I pulled him up from the ground by his lapels, which I felt tearing.

  “You bastard,” I said, and hit him again. Again he fell, again I pulled him up. He was limp as a rag doll—and smiling.

  “What kind of game are you playing?”

  “No game.”

  I hit him a third time. By now Daisy was in a panic. She was straining at her leash, barking, nipping at my heels. “Give me my glasses,” I said. He handed them over. I put them on and his face came into focus. Blood was streaming from his mouth, onto his shirt.

  “Can we go back inside?” he said. “I need to put some ice on my jaw.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “I might have broken a tooth.”

  “Jesus. All right, come on.”

  The maid, when she opened the door, regarded us as one might a pair of capering monkeys. Somehow I managed to get Edward up the stairs, standing behind him in case he should fall, for he was far from steady on his feet. Later I would discover that he had twisted his ankle rather badly. We reached the top, where Señora Inés awaited us. Edward asked for an ice pack, which was supplied. For a few minutes he and Señora Inés spoke in rapid French, his tone placating, hers stern at first, then affronted, then yielding.

  Edward handed her some bills, which she tucked into her bust.

  “We can have the room for another hour,” he said. He still had the keys. Both keys. He gave them to me and we went upstairs.

  Once we were inside, I locked the door. I unleashed Daisy.

  “Come here,” I said and removed the bloody ice pack from his face. “Open your mouth.”

  He obliged. I put my finger inside it, ran it along the edges of his teeth.

  “Nothing broken,” I said, “but you’re going to have a hell of a bruise.”

  “I hope so.”

  I pushed him down onto his back and got on top of him. I kissed him roughly, knowing the kiss would hurt.

  “Don’t smile,” I said, “or I’ll hit you again.”

  “Don’t hit me again,” he said.

  Those were the words I needed to hear. I pulled his tie tight around his neck, almost choking him. And then I untied it.

  Chapter 11

  I shouldn’t have hit you.”

  “Yes, you should. I deserved it.”

  “You did, actually. Why did you leave like that?”

  “Why? I don’t know. I was just looking at you … and I thought, This is perfect. This is what I’ve wanted from the beginning. So I left.”

  “It was what you wanted, so you left?”

  “Well, what was the alternative?”

  “You could have stayed.”

  “But then the moment would have been lost. By leaving, I preserved it, so to speak. And not just for me. For you. I knew that when I saw you next, you’d want it more. And you did. Daisy, don’t.”

  “I thought you’d planned the whole thing out in advance. That you were a spy or a con man. That you’d taken my money, my passport.”

  “Yes, on reflection I can see how you might have thought that.”

  “What else was I supposed to think?”

  “Oh, any num
ber of things. For instance, that I’d gone to have a beer at the British Bar—do you know the British Bar?—and lost track of time. Which, by the way, is extremely easy to do at the British Bar, since there’s a clock there—it’s quite famous—on which the numbers are written backward. So that if, say, it’s quarter past five, the minute hand is on the nine and the hour hand on the seven. I think I’ve got that right.”

  “But how could I have known that? Especially when you’d locked me in, locked my clothes away?”

  “I had, hadn’t I? That was thrilling. Finally I had you in my power.”

  “Then you did have a reason.”

  “In retrospect, it looks like it. Iris would certainly say so. It’s her worldview. She thinks everything is plotted. Whereas my world-view is that things happen at random, and people act on impulse, and it’s only afterward, when we look back, that we see a pattern. I suppose it’s a matter of which parts you shine the light on, if you get my drift. My great failing is that I can’t cope with time. I want to combat the degradation that memory suffers at the hands of time. And the effort is futile, isn’t it, because—have you noticed?—it’s always the memories you comb through the most avidly that fade the fastest, that are eclipsed the fastest by—what to call it?—a sort of memory-fiction. Like a dream. Whereas the things we forget totally, the things that sneak up on us in the middle of the night, after thirty years—they’re so uncannily fresh. Daisy, please!”

  “What time is it?”

  “The question, of all questions, that I loathe the most. Ten to seven.”

  “God, what will Julia think?”

  “It’ll depend on what you tell her.”

  “We should get going. I don’t want to.”

  “If you like, I can ask if we can keep the room for another hour.”

  “In an hour it’ll be the same. I still won’t want to go.”

  “So now we’re just like all the other foreigners in Lisbon. Where we have to stay, we don’t want to be. Where we want to be, we can’t stay.”