Willing

by Scott Spencer

  Piedmont wondered who was walking directly behind him—perhaps he felt my eyes upon him—and because it was not easy for him to look over his shoulder, he stopped walking altogether and turned around to face me.

  His face lit up with a pleased smile, as if he and I were old friends and what a nice surprise it was to bump into me in Norway, of all places. There was something genuine and compelling in that smile, a kind of human warmth I had perceived in many successful people. Even corporate thieves like Scrushy or Lay, men accused of ruining thousands of lives, bankrupting municipalities, triggering suicides, were apparently quite likable when you were with them. After they were brought to justice, some of the jurors remarked that they had never in their lives met men so genuinely warm and amiable. It might have been an act, a lie, but it was a lie that shared a border with truth. The rich and successful men I had interviewed in the course of hacking out a living had one surprising thing in common: they seemed to genuinely like other people. Even men who were known as ruthless had a kind of animal comfort around other human beings. In fact, the successful people I had met were not only friendly but seductive. You wanted to be on their team; you wanted to go where they were going. The snarlers, the screamers, the pouters, the injustice collectors, the curators of their own little museum of slights and snubs—in my experience, these were the men who had never made it, or who were slipping; these were the failures, like my father number three, vicious, vindictive Norman Blake, who hated you because he was quite certain that all you and he really held in common was a low opinion of him.

  Piedmont fell into step next to me, and held on to my forearm for balance and support. What a terrible plane, he said. Next time we’ll take one of mine. I’ve got a brand-new Gulfstream just gathering dust. You do? Piedmont snorted out a laugh and shook my arm. Come on, friend, he said, you know I do, and you know who I am. I saw it in your eyes back in New York. There was no point in denying it, though I was disappointed to learn that my initial recognition of Piedmont had been noticed—I wondered if my studying the men, my note-taking, and my occasional dictations into my recorder were not half so discreet as I had imagined. And by the way, Piedmont continued, Lincoln told me you’re some kind of a writer and you’re probably here taking notes and plan to write this whole thing up. That’s really not true, I said, with such great conviction I almost believed it. I think it’s hilarious that people even write books anymore, Piedmont said. Since my return—I assume you know about my time in jail—I do lectures, seminars, audiotapes, video, and I’m going to do a book, too. But how many people are going to download a book? Too much work. I’ve got a cousin who’s a big-time New York writer. Maybe you know her. Chandra Colt? I shook my head no. Well, she’s a terrific girl, bright, motivated, and she’s written six books. Mainly fiction books. Anyhow, she sat down and did the math and figured out that over the course of twelve years of writing, if she added up everything she earned, she was making under fifty cents an hour. I said Chandra, if you’re willing to work for that, then I suggest you get a job in one of the Nike plants down in Indonesia or somewhere. The weather’s better, the cost of living is a lot less, and with your brains you could be in a management position within a couple of years.

  I mean, what is a book? Piedmont asked, stopping a few dozen feet before the terminal door. If you put it in relation to where information technology is in general? It’s antique, to say the least. It has its roots in a world that doesn’t even exist; it’s like an ear trumpet or cure by leeches. I wrote a piece about that, I said. It’s coming back, cure by leeches. No, it’s not, Piedmont said. Maybe a couple idiot doctors here or there are bleeding people, and they get their face on TV, and someone like you writes an article about them because it’s different, but trust me it’s not coming back. We’ve progressed and old things get left behind.

  How about what we’re doing? I said. The world’s oldest profession hasn’t been outmoded. Piedmont looked at me quizzically. This is all about progress, too. If the women back home were a bit more on the old-fashioned side, a lot of us would be happy running after them. But women today are in a transitional phase, somewhere between what they once were and what they will be, and it makes them difficult to deal with. They’re touchy like teenagers, but I always say if you’re going to act like a teenager then for crying out loud look like one.

  We cleared immigration in moments. The immigration officer barely glanced at me, didn’t even ask to see my passport, just waved me through. When we got into the main terminal, several liveried drivers were holding small hand-lettered signs saying FLEMING TOORS.

  Want to share a car? Piedmont asked. You’re a good conversationalist. I nodded yes, understanding that what Piedmont meant was I like the look in your eyes when you listen to me. Castle was standing with the chauffeurs, assigning people to the various cars, but Piedmont ignored him and summoned one of the drivers—a sour-looking middle-aged man who should have been driving a hearse. Piedmont’s weight might have announced to the world that he was helpless in some ways, but he was used to people doing what he asked, and his assumption of authority and primacy communicated itself to the driver, who made a curt little bow in our direction and then said in English that we should wait for him near the exit door while he fetched the car. Fetch? I said to Piedmont, as soon as the man was gone. But Piedmont wasn’t interested in words.

  We waited for the car beneath the overhang. It was dark blue late in the evening, and there wasn’t much traffic. A fine mist fell past the streetlights. I looked out at the twinkling red lights of a distant radio tower and thought to myself Ah, Norway. But beyond that my mind might as well have been buried alive.

  WE CONVENED in the lobby of the Hotel Christofer, a decent enough place, though perhaps a few years past its prime. The dark mahogany lobby was a little too dark, and the carpeting was on its way to becoming threadbare. The night manager was a solid-looking woman in a lavender pantsuit and high heels. A bellman, tall and sepulchral, approached me and asked, in that overly pronounced English-as-a-second-language way, if I would care to have a little bit of help perhaps with my luggage. He had the smell of medicine on his breath.

  I had had four hours sleep in the past three days.

  Before long, the men on the tour were in the lobby, even our pilots. Stephanie was on hand, too, holding a clipboard and talking with the night manager about room assignments, while she clicked her ballpoint pen rapidly. Castle came in, leaning heavily on Gabrielle. It seemed he had twisted his ankle or hurt his knee. He was alternately wincing with pain and smiling bravely. Gabrielle steered him to the front desk. He leaned back on it and mopped the perspiration off his face. Gentlemen, a word please, he called out. When we were finally quiet enough for him to be heard, he announced Because of the lateness of the hour, we’ve taken the liberty of ordering room service for each of you. When you go to your rooms, your meal will be waiting for you. We trust it will be to your liking. Our choices were made based on your own stated dietary preferences. But tomorrow, Gabrielle broke in, you will be offered a full buffet with many, many choices.

  Stephanie gave me the electronic key to Room 420. Here you go, she said, with chilling impersonality. Is this a good room? I asked, not that I expected an answer, but I just couldn’t let her move on as if there had never been a moment’s friendship between us. They’re all good rooms, Stephanie said. You did upgrade to Platinum, didn’t you? I shook my head no, and she shrugged and then quickly turned away, lest I attempt to further engage her.

  I took the elevator up to the fourth floor with Jordan and Dr. Gordon. Jordan’s high spirits in Iceland were still coursing through him. Yet whatever satisfactions Dr. Gordon had derived from giving his son a chance to exercise the privileges of his class and gender had by now been dissipated by the inevitable tedium of travel, though something may have occurred back in Reykjavik to depress him, some failure of personal hydraulics or some sad absence of desire. Dr. Gordon looked old and ragged, and his eyes, usually communicators of irony and di
sdain, were full of melancholy. The skin on his face hung loosely. His shoulders were slumped and he massaged the heel of his right hand, as if he had just signed a thousand checks. How you doing there, Jordan? I said. I’m sad about leaving Iceland, he said. I know my girl turned out to be sort of a loser, but the new one they found me after was fantastic, and, actually, I liked the first one, too, until the thing at the Blue Lagoon, which I’m not sure was even her fault. I’ve never been so happy to leave somewhere in my entire life, Dr. Gordon said. It’s a perfectly ridiculous country with all the charm of a Wal-Mart. Come on, Dad, Jordan said. Let’s enjoy this. I am enjoying it, Dr. Gordon said, in a voice so glum I laughed aloud, at which point they both looked at me, and I was forced to say Sorry, I was thinking of something.

  On the fourth floor, I walked toward my room, without saying goodbye. As I made my way down the stolid, stately corridor—green carpeting, cream walls, old oil paintings in gilded frames depicting adventures at sea—I heard Jordan saying, No, stop it, you can’t come in. I want to talk to her, Dr. Gordon said in his peeved, insistent way, but Jordan, fresh off the erotic high of Reykjavik and ready for whatever Oslo had in store, held his ground. It’s fine, Dad, he said. There’s nothing to worry about. That’s nonsense! Dr. Gordon cried. Dad, Dad, come on. Jordan’s voice was soothing. This is what we wanted—remember? This is what we hoped for, except it’s even better.

  I remained in front of Room 420, listening, stalling. On the other side of that door, I assumed, was a Norwegian girl who had already been paid to keep me company. I took a deep, steadying breath, engaged the card in the slot, it clicked, and I waited for the little emerald light to come on, and then I opened the door. Honey, I’m home!

  A man, an Olav, an Alf—who knows what his name was?—was in my room, wearing nothing but a blue silk tank top and doing push-ups next to the bed, poised on his fingertips and his splayed, stiffened toes. He looked up at me and smiled. His dark hair was wet with perspiration, as was his square, heavy-jawed face. His stout member hung loosely, swinging back and forth. Oops, I said, and closed the door, and stood out in the hall holding on to the door handle, my heart racing, and my mind questioning itself—had I really just seen that? I put my ear to the door, but all I could hear was the rhythm of my own blood.

  I went down to the lobby to find Castle, and, as luck would have it, I found him right away, sitting with Gabrielle in the rustic little lounge off to the side of the main desk. They had a huge photo album between them—one of those dopey little numbers with a padded cover and the word Memories written in wedding invitation script. Avery! Castle said, as if I were a pleasant surprise. Sit down and join us. He slammed the book shut, placed it on his lap. There’s a man in my room, I said. A man? Gabrielle said. Yes, a man, in my room. Doing push-ups. And please don’t talk to me about Platinum upgrades. Castle and Gabrielle exchanged looks, trying to decide if I were insane, or if this was actually something that needed their attention. What room did you go to? Castle wanted to know, and when I told him, Gabrielle checked that against her room assignment sheet and she made a brief Gallic nod in Castle’s direction, and he said Let’s go up and see what’s going on, okay? Nina was meant to be in your room, not a man.

  Castle and I rode the elevator together. Are you sure it was a man? he asked me as we rose. I said I doubt it was a woman with short hair, broad shoulders, and a reddish penis. Well, Castle said, either way it’s unacceptable. A lot seems to go wrong on this tour, I said. Castle’s faint eyebrows shot up, his cheeks puffed out. Tell me about it—and this is one of the more uneventful trips. The thing about this business, you’re dealing with a lot of variables, and the thing about variables is that they vary. You just never know. Your buddy Sean? He’s on his way back to the airport—he’s going back to LA. Really? What happened? Castle shrugged. He said it was a business thing. That’s why I tell you guys, try to stay off your cells and your e-mail, but does anyone listen? Castle shook his head and answered his own question. No one listens. He’s going back to LA in the middle of the night? I said. I wouldn’t think there’d be any flights. Castle smiled, patted my shoulder. You’re very detail oriented, aren’t you. You should have been a woman.

  I looked up at the security mirror perched on the upper-left-hand corner of the elevator car. I could see ghostly, ravaged me—added to the general filth of traveling, my hair was thick with the mineral deposits of Sigrid’s shower and time spent underwater at the Blue Lagoon. Castle had already moved toward the back of the car, somehow out of range of the mirror’s fisheye. Stand next to me for a second, I wanted to say.

  We walked in silence to my room. Castle extended his open hand, and I gave him my key card. Click. The door opened. The curtains were open to the featureless dark blue night. The TV set was on, without the sound: a BBC reporter stood in front of a pile of smoking rubble. A wicker basket with a pyramid of oranges was on the sleek cherrywood dresser. The bed was expansive, untouched. The phone’s message light was throbbing like a firefly.

  Nina? Castle’s voice filled the empty room. He stepped in, waved me along. We stood side by side. Nina? Are you here? The bathroom door opened and Nina emerged. She had wrapped a white towel around her waist; otherwise she was bare, having recently stepped out of the shower. She looked startlingly like Deirdre, the same skin tone, a kind of dense whiteness like the inside of an apple. Her breasts were frank, utilitarian, no more erotic than her freckled collarbone, her powerful cleft chin, possibly because she didn’t bother to cover them. Like Deirdre, she had long, wavy rust-colored hair, but Deirdre’s eyes were brown and Nina’s were so icy and blue they almost seemed white. Sorry, she said, in a slightly begrudging way, as if we were the ones who ought to apologize. She grabbed a travel bag from the foot of the bed and disappeared back into the bathroom. Two minutes please, she called out through the closed door.

  Well, it looks like you’re all set, Castle said, handing the key card back to me and turning to leave. Wait a second. I put a hand on his arm to stop him. There was a guy in this room, right there, on the floor, doing push-ups. What can I tell you, Avery? He gestured, taking in the room. There’s two men here, me and you. And then there’s Nina, who I should tell you I would only normally give to a Platinum member, but seeing as you’re Ezra’s boy. Look, Lincoln, there was a guy here. I know what I saw. Castle breathed out a long, weary sigh. Are you trying to tell me that you want a guy, because if that’s it, there’s nothing I can do, that’s a different tour. I don’t want a guy. Are you sure? Because it sounds like maybe you do. Luckily, Nina emerged from the bathroom, and Castle said All right then, I’ll leave you two little lovebirds alone.

  As soon as the door clicked closed, Nina catapulted herself at me, as if (a) she knew me, (b) she was fantastically glad to see me, and (c) she was smaller than me. I strongly suspected that this enthusiastic greeting was part of her professional repertoire, as much a tool of the trade as the Singapore Grip or theatrical cries of pleasure, but mainly I was concerned with not landing on the floor. She hit me like a sandbag, with her arms around my neck and her knees gripping my sides, but she was expert enough to steer my fall toward the bed, which I hit with a thud of relief, only to be turned rather forcefully onto my back, at which point she began kissing my face with a fervency that bordered on the comic—in fact, it would have been hilarious if it hadn’t been a bit frightening. Oh baby baby baby, she said, her voice husky and insistent. I turned my face this way and that, as if she might try to cut off my air supply. She put her hand between my legs. Still kissing me—or, really, making kissing motions and sounds on various parts of my face and head—she undid my fly, maneuvered her hand into my underwear. As unnerving as all this was, I nevertheless was as erect as a sailor on deck for inspection.

  Nina suddenly stopped aggressing me with her pugnacious smooches, and we were still for a moment, simply two creatures in a nice Norwegian hotel, both of whom had recently been checked and cleared for sexually transmitted diseases. One of us was going to walk awa
y with a few thousand dollars in her purse, and one of us wanted the temporary solace of touching a woman, and nothing more was in question but who would do what next. I raised myself up on my left elbow, cupped Nina’s cheek with my right hand, and kissed her on her busy lips. You’re very beautiful, I said, to which she answered Thank you very much, kind man. A few moments later we were out of our clothes. She had removed all of her pubic hair, which I found somewhat upsetting and far less erotic than it’s meant to be, but, after all, it’s not the end of the world. Deirdre once asked me if I wanted her to shave herself bare; she even said we could shave her together, it might be fun, she’d always wanted to try it; but I objected, somewhat vehemently. That reddish, wiry thatch was very alluring to me, and, in general, the sight of pubic hair was one of my limbic system’s visual clues; it meant something special was going to happen. As to Nina—her pubic hair was her business. Literally. It was a little chilly in the room and we kicked our way under the covers. She petted me expertly. It was as if she had five hands. Her little fuchsia cosmetics bag was open. I saw condoms, lubricant, a tiny little vibrator. By the way, I said. Just to let you know? If there is a knock on the door, I am not going to answer it.