Strange Hotel

by Eimear McBride

  Oh, not that again.

  She should marshal beyond it.

  She usually can.

  These little things that drag you down – what you would, if you could, amputate.

  Cut.

  She takes off her scarf. She even hangs it up. She wishes the hotelier’s fondness for light sources had not been quite so profligate. She’s come a long way, after all. She’d like to look unimpeded, from the window and, most specifically, past her own gloom. In truth she knows she easily can. Just walk to where she’s long clocked the control dial. She can simply dim the lights down or even switch them off. It’s an elementary solution which requires no convincing herself of. So, she does. She can. She does just that. Steps forward onto the fine firm unflinching floor. Grips tight, then turns the button. Sees the glare definitively go and her own unwelcome outline fade. But in the spotlights’ stead, the remnants of her body are now invaded by the avid lighting out in the street. How bright it is, big city New Zealand. Precisely how big she does not yet know. But at the flick of a switch it has become a great deal more prominent and she has receded again. Now pierced red in hand, in head and breast. A wrong-sexed St Sebastian skewered beside a dormant volcano. No one will be making any art films about her.

  Look further though.

  She does.

  But, in the untraversable glass, what she sees is the city become part of herself although she is not part of it. Her entire image shot through by its very least effort. She bridles with aggravation at the rank unfairness. For, whatever the tricks of this lighting and however banal this thought, this moment sits lucidly inside her now – meaning a specific recollection of it has been made. A grand memory of isolation, randomly illuminated, then screwed into the vegetal bolts of her brain. So now, at any arbitrary time, she will be compelled to bear its resurfacing. Despite not wanting to, she will know again the many ways she is displaced from where she once unthinkingly dwelled. Some might think that cruel. Others, that’s life. She: how to cannily arm oneself against it, as well as its backhand inducement to wanting again, or not? She has no firm opinion yet. And, really, it’s too little a matter to inspire such vehement distaste. After all, it will be just another memory of another place in which she is still just her. Only the ‘unmanageability of want’ might be of concern, if she could raise the necessary ire. She already knows she will not. Want is a place she now very rarely inhabits, beyond habitually. And rousing ire requires so much effort that expending it tends to leave her embarrassed. Who cares about her ire anyway?

  Or about her anyway?

  Or anyway generally?

  Who cares?

  Go on, say it!

  Nihilist!

  Yeah …

  What she would like is to lie down and go to sleep. Perhaps later order room service and watch TV. Then feel her body give in to the bed. Allow her brain to succumb to the jetlag as though she’ll never have to get up. She should have a shower. She knows that but, taking comfort in the seal of her post-travel grime, is unwilling to let it go. It will keep her in nowhere and on the right side of choice. She will think about making one but will not because, before anything, she should wash and if she hasn’t done that … then what can she possibly do?

  It is a way to keep hold.

  It is a method of crowd control.

  A sleight of hand.

  A diversion.

  Even a moat.

  An informal abdication from the corporeal world.

  One of many ways not to exist.

  Also, easier to backtrack from than putting on weight, although that too has had its time and use.

  You see, there are a great many doors to which she has applied her knuckles.

  Because.

  Sometimes she does not know what to do … or how to do better than that.

  Anyway.

  It’s fine.

  There really is no need for this fuss.

  Well, you’re the only one here, so …

  I know … give it up.

  Remember where you are and look out!

  It’s a city!

  Look!

  Remember when you were young? Remember your rapacity before him, or any of them, when all you wanted to do was see? And you never thought you wouldn’t be free? And you still don’t really think you’re not. You have just become … not that bothered. Because you apparently think you’ve had enough. Not in any terminal way. More in the way in which … you have arrived at this remotest place and are mostly interested in decoding oblique directives from your feet or lying on that preposterously upholstered bed eating chips? That’s not very good. Is it even true? Look out the window. Properly. Rouse yourself to it. Know how very far away you are.

  I do know.

  I know how far.

  And?

  It’s not that. It’s where I’ve reached.

  But she does look out the window properly.

  Now go close up.

  This, she also does.

  A sharp spur of anxiety runs up her leg. She dismisses it. She knows it is all in her head. If only she could get a good look outside, she might better locate herself in relation to the volcano. To the city. This island. Or – dramatically – to the world. But, bathos aside, she still can’t – see very clearly, that is. She’ll have to wait. What’s the time now? And what’s the time difference anyhow? There’s no way she can smoke in here.

  The spur again. Now coming on strong. It might just be stress. Most probably brought on by hours of breathing recycled air. She really wouldn’t mind having it a bit fresher in here. She pushes on the window. It won’t budge. She searches its frame for a means to unlock but … there is no option for it. This idea is going nowhere. Shift away from this. Shift away.

  Before she can she’d like a plausible cause for the foot thing, to put it to bed. Maybe it’s the glass itself, inciting some preconscious desire for flight? Or a rare physical manifestation of that common dream from childhood? No, she remains unconvinced by this take. And besides, for God’s sake, when has she ever been the earthbound type? Even the span of her vertigo was brief or – more accurately – quite a long time ago. She has always been in love with concrete, and daffodils be damned. She doesn’t care anymore when her feet aren’t on solid ground. And if she doesn’t particularly like those hours in the air? Well, she’s flown enough to know that being Schrödinger’s traveller, especially over vast distances, can wreak havoc on good sense. Without doubt too, the dying-off sound of strange birds outside doesn’t particularly help. It’s like they’re torturing dinosaurs out there. If she went out into it what would happen to her?

  Nothing.

  Because nothing is going to happen to her.

  Besides …

  She is not going to go out.

  There have been enough thresholds crossed today. More would be making a meal out of it. No, at best, she will stay in this room worrying that something is really wrong but paralysing her every impulse to action with arguments she can neither win nor lose. Apparently, she likes circles. She hopes she does because she’s been living within them for ages now. Chasing her mind and body around in a herculean effort to undermine every gasp for oxygen. Something of a platitude but also true. Nowadays it’s all back to the wall and eye on the door, or window – more accurately – as of fifteen minutes ago. But she requires of herself that she will make peace with this room. She may even order up some wine to rub the edges off her self-diagnosing. Unusual sensations in the feet can prove to be a serious symptom of … She knows. She will not look it up. That way lies madness and she is already sufficiently conversant with driving herself out of her mind. Besides, her feet are fine. Fine is the floor. Fine her fine miser’s brain as it flips over its haul of all the fine things that might make fine things more fine.

  For instance: the room number of the man with whom she shared the car in. How, at the front desk, he’d repeated it, pretending it was not for her benefit. How he’d mentioned that around eight he’d probably head down to the bar
. Have a Scotch or two, to help him unwind. And what his not saying ‘whiskey’ implied. You see? There it is. But why is she remembering it like this? Like clues instead of how, on stepping into the lift, he’d pleasantly asked if, perhaps later, he could buy her a drink? Or if she’d rather, maybe grab something to eat? He allowed that everyone’s remedy for jetlag is different but they’re both here in this far-flung hotel for the duration … so … why not?

  And then the lift doors shut.

  And she gazed at the woman opposite vigorously making up.

  And at the yellow light on his face.

  And into the thought of the night.

  And how much younger he seemed now than in the cab.

  And how age doesn’t matter.

  And who cares about the gap?

  And herself in the mirror.

  And herself reflecting back.

  And the secret paralytic of the whole event, what lay hidden behind everything else: Tomorrow I will be older than you, for the first time. I am about to pass you by. After all these years, and how it always was, the time where that shape kept its shape has almost run out. You will stay behind now and become younger than me. And I have come so far to escape this but the hours are quickly catching up. They must be halfway across the world by now so there is no more time. There is only the edge and this little while is all our old balance has left. If I could just look back and look back and never change, would I choose that for myself?

  And then the man in the lift reiterates: so why not?

  And she cannot think.

  She can’t decide.

  I might see you down there later, she smiles.

  Then does not think of it again because the doors slide apart and she finds her feet are unwilling to go forward.

  She makes them though.

  And makes herself.

  And hears the doors close behind.

  And knows he goes upwards.

  And feels her body want to open, and not.

  And now she is here.

  So.

  Time is all there is.

  And knowing which part she would rather play, she looks at the impervious window, yawns, and asks herself if she really has the energy for this? Hasn’t she already decided she’s tired of herself and pretty much of everyone else? But it’s her birthday tomorrow so, perhaps, she should just lighten up? Get in the shower. Have a good wash. Recognise the world’s end isn’t over the horizon. Stop pretending there’s anything wrong with her feet.

  Or the fucking floor.

  She should …

  She should … by now … she should know what to do.

  And then she does.

  She will look out that window in the morning. She will orientate herself. She will admire the volcano or whatever of it is left. And then she will watch boats sail back in from the farthest-off point of the sea. She will bite down. She will continue on, willingly. Willingly. It’s annoying because she has created this version already. She just occasionally lets it slip.

  Sydney x

  Brisbane

  Melbourne

  Canberra

  Dublin

  Bath

  Bristol

  Charleston

  Oxford

  Cheltenham

  Liverpool

  Manchester

  Vancouver

  Washington DC

  New York

  Portland OR

  Austin x

  She opens the door. He says, ‘Can I come in?’ She closes the door again. He manages a ‘Hold on!’ before it shuts but she, weightless in the width of shock, replaces the chain and turns the lock then listens for his footfalls away. Upon hearing none, she admits harbouring some doubt that she would. So now, although she cannot be certain, she may reasonably deduce he is devising an alternative approach. She already knows she’s miscalculated the outcome of this and, given her natural antipathy towards inconclusiveness, is irritated by having gotten it wrong. Also, and almost worse, where is the unrufflable demeanour she’s so painstakingly constructed? She’d appreciate it reasserting itself now.

  This angst is pointless though, and wasteful too.

  Take a breath.

  Wait a beat.

  Self-reproach is a luxury for which she, manifestly, does not have the time.

  She really ought to be getting on with spreading the logic around.

  An untender resolve now is, obviously, all. Settle on the parameters of the decision then make the choice. Even the wrong one would be preferable to this stalled botch. And if the scale of it appears unmanageable, just start small. Compartmentalise. She is already accomplished in this department after all and may rely on it to stand her in good stead.

  So.

  Should she spy through the spyhole? She has little stomach for that: the queasy fish-eyed reflection of her own anxious perspective. Also, she thinks she recalls a mention of his fondness for chess – not ostentatiously announced but in reference to something else – so any such hackneyed move will have been anticipated, unquestionably. Perhaps he even banks on it? She can’t really imagine why, although he has certainly gone very quiet out there. In fact, now the only sounds filtering through seem to issue from the housekeeping staff, beyond in the hall. Trolleys trundling, for instance. Distant discreet raps upon doors. Apologies in various Latin accents of whose particular origin she remains unsure. Why didn’t she study Spanish in school? Well … because there was only French and even the French teacher had appeared unenthusiastic about imparting it. Never mind. It was the tenses she could never quite get. Never mind. And numbers above sixty, who can keep track of all that? Never mind. The education system isn’t on trial. Never mind. It doesn’t matter. She’s here now so … think. What is the reaction he might not expect? Well, and she realises this is weak but in her graceless desperation it’s something at least and in this way a decision gets made.

  So.

  To thwart whatever advantage he imagines he’s gained by his intemperate, unwarranted, over-zealous display, she definitively turns her back on the spyhole and presses her spine to the wood. She is aware, as a countermove, this isn’t much use but in light of the previous paralysis its impact is enormous. She can finally approve breathing out. And does. And looks around. Not a great deal of this room rejoins her to calm. She persists however until a quiet confidence arrives that she might – if only at some obtuse angle – have regained the upper hand. And if he doesn’t realise she has? Well, surely that’s just greater proof? Take your triumphs where you find them, she thinks, especially when the thick of battle appears to be your only alternative. A little melodramatic perhaps but she gets her own point and therefore lets the time slow down. Sheathes the panic back under her skin. Becomes a little more of herself again and lets the room be what it is.

  Cool the wood behind her, though it stifles in here. She should switch the air conditioning on but if she moves from this area, this exact spot … actually, what will occur? Hardly all hell break loose – that’s merely the impression she seems most comfortable with. And if she knows herself, as she thinks she does, she must admit the reasoning carries no weight. So, she really should turn it on. She can barely breathe and, in any event, the free flow of air is unlikely to impede her ability to think, or capacity to rationalise her way right out of this. Therefore, she marshals herself and mentally charts the course. The dial is over there, just around the corner. She pictures its approximate location in this blue L-shaped room. Yesterday it was the very first thing she had attended to – once she’d tossed her card key on the faux mahogany desk. It’s on the wall somewhere … above her unpacked case … beneath the sealed PVC window. She need only take a few steps to make it to the other side of the bed. What could possibly be simpler than that? It’s so easily accomplished. Of course, she can do this. She goes now to take the vital step but … oh … all her tendons are disinclined. Useless body! She’ll hazard this is happening because it retains half an idea that he is still there, loitering in the corridor. It
knows that just because she can’t hear him out there, doesn’t mean he’s not patiently listening for her. Waiting for her to … what? Open the door? That mistake has already been made. Very obviously so. It is, in fact, what ensured her hopes of a seamless segue into being alone became absolutely kaput. God, she wishes she’d been more alert to his having had an ulterior motive but … what were the signs she missed? Too late, too late will be the cry, except she can’t access enough moisture to dampen an eye, never mind allow tears to fall. This is insufferable, she thinks – in a bid to staunch the recriminatory eye-wincing – and Oh please come the afternoon.

  Instead the air visibly heats beyond the glass as if the day is arming itself. She can’t believe she turned the air conditioning off in the first place. It’s not as though she’s ever found this city cold. She’s practically lived off its assuagements when she’s been here before. When exactly was the last trip? A while ago. A year ago? She can’t quite remember so tells herself that amid this chaos – but really, is it? – she can’t trust herself to remember anything.

  Although that’s neither strictly nor loosely true.

  The last time was a year and a half ago.

  But since when is wishful thinking a crime?

  And why should she remember?

  Last time was just like this time.

  Up until the point it was not.

  Not this hotel but one like this. Hi and thanks and gone to bed and thanks and bye. In all ways consistent. She thinks he was American. She cannot be sure. Not from Texas, definitely. This accent she would remember. So, from somewhere else. And the tide mark of sweat on his shirt where he’d come in from the heat. Yes, she remembers it. American, in a white American shirt. Very pleasant too. Entrance and exit, all passing off by the book. A perfect example, shining example of … what? How to live. She doesn’t imagine she’ll ever find herself recommending it but ‘How to live’ is accurate enough, as long as no further clarifications are sought. That particular enquiry desk is closed. You’ll just have to make up your mind for yourself. Mine has already been made. Mind or bed? Oh, aren’t you a screaming riot, the bloody black box in the head.